Page 50 of Refrain (Beautiful Monsters #2)

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

ESPI

Jose’s warehouse is on the south side, near the river. Arno doesn’t take any chances, placing at least a dozen men around the perimeter while we wait in the shadows.

Three hours pass before he realizes it’s asetup,when none of the Cartel show.

“Fucking Jose,” he snarls before forming a fist and slamming it against the wall of the alley. The thud resonates likea gunshot, but if any men are lying in wait for an ambush, they seem to be deaf as well as invisible. “Where is that motherfucker?”

He doesn’t have to wonder long. Sirens wail in the distance. Fire trucks. I cock my head, pinpointing the sound as coming from the west end of the city.Apparently,the party got started without us.

“Shit.” Arno reaches into his pocket for a cell phone and snarls into the receiver the moment someone answers the other end. “You fucking son of a bitch—”

“Relax, amigo ,” Jose says, his voice drifting from the speaker. “Our deal is still good. Your piece-of-shitbar will stand another day. I just needed you out of the way…”

Arno glances at me, his jaw clenched. “For what? ”

“The fireworks,” Jose replies. “Thanks for babysitting, but I’ll let you in on the secret.”

Arno hisses between clenched teeth. “Son of a bitch. You gave me the wrong spot.”

“For insurance,” Jose says. “I know you run with the Russians, but something tells me that you won’t be too sad to learn that one of their strongholds was hit instead of mine.”

“By who?” Arno demands. “You fucking owe me that much.”

“Do I?” Jose chuckles. “Relax, Papi . I think you’re well aware of who’s behind this little bonfire. I’ll give you a hint. He looks a bit like littleEspisido. Adiós .”

“The fuck?” Arno tosses the phone against the pavement when Jose hangs up. “That goddamn son of a bitch—”

“The Russians,” I echo. Namely the Petrovs. “I need to go.”

“Espi? What the hell?”

I’m already halfway down an alley before Arno catches up.

“Slow the fuck down!” He tugs on my shoulder, stopping me in my tracks. “The first fucking thing we need to do is make sure that Dante…”

It’s like flipping a switch. Dante. If Jose gave Arno the wrong location, then his “ambush” might be lying in wait somewhere else. If Dante really is behind all of this shit, then he’ll be caught in the crossfire.

“I know where the Russians had their main headquarters,” Arno says, jerking his chin toward that very direction, I assume. “A hoteldowntown. We need to go.”

I follow him without asking questions. We take one of his trucks while the others head back to the club in case Jose decides not to keep his promise.

I don’t know what to feel as Arno cuts through alleys, running through several stoplights, in order to reach the part of town where the Petrovs reign with an iron fist.

In the span of just a few hours, someone set their kingdom on fire .

“Holy shit.” Arno has to park at least ten blocks back from the building that I assume is the hotel. What used to be one, anyway. A plume of flames paints the sky orange, streaked with hints of red and splotches of yellow.

It’s more than the typical blaze. It’s a fucking calling card.

First, Moe’s.Now,this. Someone’s starting a goddamn war.

“You take the left,” Arno tells me. “I’ll take the right. Find out what you can. We meet up in the center.”

There isn’t much to find. The cops barricaded the area closest to the hotel, fishing outstragglerswho manage to escape the flames. There aren’t many.

Someone wanted revenge—that much is fucking clear. There are no signs of sabotage, and something tells me that any money, drugs, or other shit Piotr had tucked away inside the place has been lost to the blaze. This wasn’t about dominating.

This was obliteration.

Who’s next? The question crosses my mind just as I see him.

A man lurks far back from the crowd, in an alley, his face partially covered by a hood and shadow.

I can’t make out any definitive features from this distance, but I know that it’s him.

The same way I know, deep down, he won’t wait for me to catch up.

I’m already shoving my way through the crowd anyway. Past police. Past civilians choking on the smoke-laced air.

He sees me. I know he does. A flashing siren illuminates his face in red for a split second. I see his eyes.

“Dante!”

He turns, disappearing into the alley before I can bolt across the street. By the time I pass an overflowing dumpster, he’s already gone.

I can’t even muster up the energy to feel pissed or angry. I don’t feel like hunting him down tonight, the way I have for months now, either.

I’m too damn tired .

I watch him go. I find Arno, and when he asks me what I found…

I tell him nothing.

Within minutes, Arno has the pub resembling Fort Knox. Men are patrolling every inch of the block, guns in hand. There isn’t a fucking beer in sight.

“You know what this means,” he tells me the moment I walk through the door. His jaw is clenched, his eyes searing; he’s still sober. “You know what this means.”

I don’t say a damn thing. It’s a packed house tonight, but one person is missing. One face. One Russian.

“I’ve got to go.”

It feels like déjà vu when I race out onto the street and head for my place. Turns out, there’s no point in running. The house is empty. She’s not here.

I tear it the fuck apart anyway, ripping through the cheap, mismatched furniture. Throwing everything out of my damn closet. Flipping the mattress over. With every hole I make in the wall with my fist, I don’t find her.

Or Dante.

Like always. Chasing after people is what I do best, after all.

I don’t even have a goddamn cigarette to chase theself-pity away. I wind up staring at a pool of my own blood as it drips from my fingers instead, desperate for relief. My kit might hold the answer. Half a vial. A full hit. One push of the syringe and I wouldn’t have to feel a damn thing anymore.

Maybe I’ll do it. Maybe I could.

I already have the needle in my hand when I smell her. Smoke, blood, death, and fire. A perfect mixture of fucking yellow. She strides through the chaos of the kitchen, her gaze hunting, searching. It finds me, and the next minute, she’s in my arms, holding me. Crushing me.

“Are you okay?”

I’m too fucking tiredto play nice; I kiss her. Hard. Brutal. She can slap me if she wants to. Maybe I’ll feel guilty tomorrow.

She kisses me back instead. Harder. More. I already have my hands down the front of her shirt when she pulls back.

“Wait—”

When I let her go, she’s halfway across the room before I can grit out a half-assed apology.

A part of me has to laugh. Go fucking figure, I have to go and repel her too. “I’m sorry…”

Tears run down her face. I try to catch one with my finger, and it winds up dripping wet. Her pain fuels me like nothing else. Nicotine in the purest goddamn form.

“What’s wrong?”

“I need to leave the city,” she says in a rush. “My sister… She’s alive.” Her eyes gleam gold at the thought, shining with hope and pain and fear. “But I have to get her out now. But…”

She digs her nails in so deep that she draws blood.

“I wanted to say goodbye first.” Her voice cracks on that one word. Bye.

Ironically, that’s a word I’m not used to hearing. Few people take the time to tell me they’re leaving to my face—even Dante couldn’t do much. Maybe this icy burn in my chest is gratitude. Relief. I got my wish at least. I don’t have to chase after her.

She’ll cut out while I’m still high on her. It’s more than lust. Breathing her in feels like a necessary evil. The way I need a cigarette. The way Arno needs liquor. The way I’ve developed a certain fondness for the damn color yellow. I need to be used.

And I can’t leave. I have Arno to babysit. Dante to chase. I have a life tied to this damn city. Good old Espi still has to do his part and play his supporting role .

He can’t leave. Not until the fat lady sings and the fun and games are all over. It’s his fuckingfate. I’ve told myself that for so long. But maybe I’m the only fucking one who ever really believed it.

“Where?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know. We just have to go tonight.”

It’s like I’m in her head, seeing what she can’t admit out loud. Her soul. My name is written on it in gold—her new addiction. Her way to cope. She smokes me up like heroin, and I take her in hits and lines like fucking cocaine.

But the high’s gotta wear off sometime. I bail on him now, and Arno would hate me. Dante wouldn’t give a fucking shit.

She leaves? I’ll wind up like Parish. The way she would have even had she not been a casualty of her brother’s war. A speck on the sidelines. A forgotten side note.

“I’m coming with you.” I never knew that those four words could be so fucking hard to say.

And whether it’s thedimming lightbulbin the ceiling that casts a golden glow over herskinor my own imagination, my entire world is yellow.

It’s not darkness or light. It’s something in between. And, for some reason, it’s easier to stomach than anything else.