Beast: A Hate Story, The Beginning

by Mary Catherine Gebhard

  When he finished, he let go of me. I slumped to the floor, messy and crying.

  Violated.

  Satisfied. So, so satisfied.

  Before I had wondered if I was in heaven or hell.

  What a stupid question that was.

  Two

  She was wearing the Pavoni pendant.

  Beast would have to kill the person who put it in there. He’d said to put in some extra jewels, shit they had lying around, stuff that was either too hot to sell or too worthless.

  Not the goddamn Pavoni pendant.

  The sun was rising over the city now, indicating that Beast hadn’t slept since the moment he’d taken the girl. It streamed into his home office as he fingered the diamond, light refracting in waves on his Brazilian rosewood desk. He hadn’t laid eyes on it in years, not since Lucio entrusted it to him. He’d put it safely into storage and forgotten about it. The rules Lucio made were clear: it was for safe keeping.

  Not to sell.

  Not to give to his wife, as is customary for the patriarch.

  A knock sounded and Beast closed his palm, crushing the pendant. The ridges of the elegantly cut diamond sliced into his skin.

  "Come in,” Beast said, looking up from his palm and to the door. A young man who appeared no older than eighteen, with a mess of curly golden hair, popped his head in cautiously. Nikolai, the Beast’s driver and everyman, was a bit like a personal assistant. He ran most of the Beast’s errands and organized most of his schedule, but the job parallels fell flat when it came to negotiating calls with a sex trafficker.

  “Shall I make arrangements for Francesca Notte’s delivery?” Nikolai asked.

  Only my friends call me Frankie.

  Francesca was a beautiful name to match a beautiful woman. With luscious chocolate hair that fell next to her crystalline eyes, she was the rarest thing he’d ever seen. Beast hadn’t planned to call her Frankie—hadn’t given much thought to calling her anything—then she’d goaded him by ordering him to call her Francesca. He’d taken the challenge and a bonus had been seeing how much it pissed her off. Her cheeks had flushed with anger, her honey skin turning a beautiful shade of rose.

  In that moment he remembered thinking how determined he was to call her Frankie, just to see her skin turn that color.

  “No.” The Beast tightened his grip. “That will not be necessary.” Nikolai bowed his head and was nearly out the door when Beast added, “Have another driver prepared. You are to stay here with Frankie.” There was a slight, nearly imperceptible widening of Nikolai’s eyes, but all he did was nod. A jagged scar ran beneath the boy’s light green eye, serving as a reminder to him that there was a finite amount of patience the Beast had. Bowing again, Nikolai stepped out of the office.

  Beast watched the door close with a quiet snick, locking back into place. The way to pay off the sizable debt Notte managed to accrue—and it was sizable—would have been to sell Frankie to The Institute. A beauty like her would have broken them even and then some. Dr. Wyatt had confirmed his suspicions: she was a virgin—or at least, had been a virgin.

  Fuck.

  Beast ran a hand through the thick black waves of his hair. The previous night had been an anomaly in every sense of the word. From the minute he’d seen her at Notte’s, he’d known she was going to be something different. She had a fiery nature. It wasn’t just the way she met his stare eye for eye, she demanded her own space in the room. She even called him an asshole, for fuck’s sake. She had a soul of steel, something he had yet only encountered among fighters, those grown up swaddled in blood instead of blankets. It wasn’t his job to break her, though, there were those at The Institute for that. He’d planned to get Dr. Wyatt’s confirmation and send her off.

  Instead…

  Fuck.

  Not only would her rare beauty have brought in a high price, but virgins went for millions. The minute he’d slid into the town car, The Institute had had a contract ready to go for her. They were chomping at the bit, multiple buyers ready to bid. She would have been sold, out of his life, and living with whatever psychopath paid the highest amount.

  So why had he fucked it up so badly?

  Nikolai’s seemingly innocuous question sounded like a bell that couldn’t be unrung in the Beast’s skull. As he uncurled his palm and stared into the face of the now bloodied diamond rose, Beast couldn’t ignore the fact that she was in his bedroom, and not on her way to being sold. As she should be.

  After Nikolai prepared the other driver, Beast left dressed in the same suit he’d worn the night before. When he’d taken her. Now in the sitting room of Lucio Pavoni’s Upper East Side townhouse, he was wrinkled, unkempt, and chewing Frankie around in his mind like a dog with a bone.

  It was a mistake, taking her like he did.

  He should never have brought her to his home in the first place.

  While Frankie had been getting ready, he’d nearly come to his senses. He’d realized what a terrible idea dinner was. Even now, he couldn’t fathom what came over him to suggest it. He’d sold plenty of women to The Institute. None of those transactions involved his fucking house. He’d never devalued an asset, never messed up a trade so badly.

  Never.

  It was is as if seeing her against the muted backdrop of city lights had thrown him into a state of chaos. The fact that she was nothing more than goods vanished. She’d been a virgin; taking her had seriously fucked up her value. Before dinner, The Institute had buyers lined up for her—on the condition of her virginity.

  That was fucked now.

  The Institute didn’t renegotiate contracts. He could sell her to someone else, but the money was already lost. None of that had mattered in the moment though. His mind had gone into tumult. He’d meant to simply tear the necklace from her neck and send her back to her room but when his finger touched the silken wings of her collarbone things had…gotten out of hand.

  Before he’d had her, she’d been just a thing, an object—a beautiful, intriguing thing, but just that, a thing. Now, after taking her, after feeling her hot and wet, after plunging inside her and feeling her tighten around him…

  He shook his head, putting his face between his palms.

  It was nothing.

  She was nothing.

  He’d never been one to take an unwilling woman. It was not an unusual thing in his world to take women unwillingly, in fact, he was the unusual one. He just preferred his women to come to him. There was something about Frankie that twisted his insides, called forth things like lust and rage as if she were a snake charmer. He’d been at the precipice last night, so close to taking her without her want.

  What was it that had transformed him? And why did he care? She was his slave now. She mattered no more than what collected on the bottom of his shoe.

  Maybe it was just that he was the Beast, so that was what he did. He raped women and plundered homes. One didn’t climb the ranks and ascend the role of blooded patriarch when one wasn’t blood without getting drenched in it. The little orphan boy Lucio had found years ago may as well have been dead.

  “He’s sundowning.” Beast snapped his head up to see a woman with mousy brown hair rubbing her neck. When she spoke next, her voice got lost in a whisper. “It would be better if you came back tomorrow…” she trailed off, obviously uncomfortable. She was Lucio’s nurse and she was supposed to offer advice and instruction for how to care for Lucio, but that was a bit difficult when the men she worked for did not like being told what to do, when they responded to defiance in blood.

  “I will see him now.” The Beast rose from an antique cherry-wood couch and brushed past her. The entire penthouse was opulent, decorated in rich woods, golds, and reds. It was everything one would expect of the head of the biggest crime family in the world.

  You wouldn’t, however, expect IV fluids against the rich draperies, or beeping machinery on top of the Aubusson rugs. Nor would you expect the thick satin duvet to be pulled up to the chin of a once fearsome man to prevent
chill, even though the thermostat was set to boiling.

  Months ago, when the Beast first entered Lucio’s bedroom and was surrounded by sickly instruments, medication, and the smells of death, he’d made a promise to himself: die before death came. Go out as people saw him, go out before this, before his infamous dark locks turned gray, before his deep bluegreen eyes drowned in their own depths.

  Lucio’s guard stood watch next to his bed and Beast told the man he would see him alone. The guard’s eyes widened, unsure what to say. He was not to leave Lucio alone, but the Beast’s reputation superseded him.

  “Why would I bother when death has already done the job for me?” Beast asked. Brows furrowed and looking uncomfortable, the guard shuffled like he wanted to leave, but stayed. Growing impatient, Beast countered the look in the guard’s eyes with one of his own. He reminded the guard with a cool look that Lucio was dying but still alive—the guard could be dead that night. Easily.

  The guard quickly left the room.

  As the Beast sat down, taking Lucio’s frail hand, he couldn’t help but wonder if Lucio wished the same thing. The man Lucio had been was not unlike the Beast. He was cold, calculating, and the reason the Pavonis were known worldwide.

  “Alessio?” Lucio turned, calling Beast by the name of his deceased son. Though he spoke clearly, his eyes were fogged and distant. “Alessio, this war has waged for too long.” Most days Lucio’s mind was stuck years in the past, during the war that had essentially ended the entire family, a war Lucio himself had started.

  “I’ve taken a woman,” Beast responded, talking as if Lucio was present and coherent. “I’m not sure why.” Since Lucio became sick, Beast found himself talking to the man more candidly, using him as an ear he never could have been in health. Lucio’s light blue eyes searched the Beast’s face, seeing something that wasn’t there. Some said Lucio’s sickness started early, years ago even, when he first found the Beast and put him in the Family. If the Beast had feelings, they might have been hurt at that insinuation.

  Eventually Lucio nodded. “It’s about time. Stop fooling around with the De Luca woman. You know your brother Emilio has feelings for her. Is no good, Alessio, will only bring trouble.” Beast patted the man’s hand. Lucio always saw him as his deceased son Alessio. Beast was aware that with the onset of dementia, Lucio mixed people up, but Lucio was always transfixed on Alessio.

  It was probably the most infamous story in the Pavoni world. Twin brothers Alessio and Emilio Pavoni fell in love with the infamously promiscuous and notable temptress, Sofia De Luca, wife of Dario De Luca. The brothers eventually killed each other over it. As recompense, Sofia De Luca was killed and her newborn child was named Emilio Alessio in remembrance.

  “He’s getting worse.” Beast dropped Lucio’s hand and turned to see none other than Emilio Alessio De Luca leaning against the door.

  “I can see that,” Beast said, standing up. “Most days he doesn’t even recognize his own reflection.”

  Emilio pushed himself off the frame by the rubber sole of his shoe. “Rhys is waiting for you down at the docks.” Light stubble dusted over a golden skinned-jaw that was sharp like his icy blue eyes. His thick, dark locks were curling even at the short length he kept it. The only thing Emilio shared with his brown-eyed, blonde-haired sister and father was a name, which was why most opted to call him a bastard.

  Just not to his face.

  “What have you heard about Sicily?” Beast asked. Though the Pavoni family originated in Sicily, just about everyone had immigrated years ago. Everyone important lived in America—everyone important, that is, except Lucia Pavoni, Lucio’s older sister. Technically, Lucia was Donna, the matriarch. Really, she’d been removed from the business for years, left behind during the great immigration, all but forgotten. Still, Beast knew with Lucio’s waning health and no heirs, the Family was growing restless. Those who previously dismissed her were starting to view her as their last hope, the only thing that could save them from him—an outsider.

  “The only thing that comes out of Sicily are rumors of a princess,” Emilio replied with a laugh.

  “Francesca?” Lucio gasped. “Francesca is that you?”

  “What did you say?” The Beast spun around.

  “Ignore it. He’s lost his mind,” Emilio muttered. “Everything in there is unrelated. He was talking about Lucia as though she were his wife the other day.” Emilio laughed.

  Beast narrowed his eyes. He did not find it funny. Since the Blood War that nearly decimated the entire Pavoni family, there had always been rumors of a Pavoni Princess. As Lucio had no heirs, the princess would come save the Family from ruination.

  It was a fairytale and it often got mixed up or rehashed the way fairytales did. To the soldiers, she was a Cinderella figure. The Pavoni Princess would fall in love with them, marry them, and they would become the boss. In the more traditional telling, the Pavoni Princess was a woman who was sent away at birth and did not know she was a Pavoni. She would come back and breed many heirs, thus saving the Family from extinction.

  Lately, however, the Pavoni Princess had taken on a pretty different role. She was a warrior and a person capable of destroying the estraneo, or the outsider. The princess fairytale never mentioned the estraneo before, but it didn’t take much to deduce why it was changing and whom it was talking about.

  It was no secret to Beast there were those inside the Pavoni family who wished to see him ousted, which was why he was going to have to cement his power. Rubbing the heel of his palm to his forehead, Beast sighed and turned to Emilio. He was wearing a t-shirt with the name of some local band on it, torn up jeans, and sneakers.

  “Did we not talk about this?” Beast gestured to the outfit Emilio was wearing. “You can’t continue to dress like that.”

  “Chill out. When we start actually doing stuff, I’ll look real nice. I’ll wear suits and shit.”

  With a deep breath, Beast brushed out his wool pea coat. When his coat was a nice, matte black, he snapped his left arm forward, grabbing Emilio by the collar of his moth-eaten shirt. “We are doing stuff,” he hissed. Beast released Emilio and he staggered back, throwing his arms and shoulders forward in an attempt to regain composure.

  “Isn’t the whole point of this that we’re paying the governor?” Emilio said, giving Beast a bruised look. “Why can’t I just dress how I want?”

  Beast glanced at his watch. “I don’t have time to go over this with you again. Meet me at the docks and be wearing one of the suits Nikolai had made for you.”

  Emilio rubbed his ear. “It’s a lot happening really fast. Father’s asking me what I’ve been doing and I’ve had to lie and I just don’t know if I’m up for this.” Emilio Alessio de Luca was the son of a Pavoni councilman. That fact alone should have afforded him a high rank in the Family and he should have been able to do and wear whatever the fuck he wanted. There was just one tiny thing though: his mother. The circumstances of his birth were ugly and his name was a constant testament to it.

  Emilio Alessio was a bad omen. After the end of the Blood War there should have been two full-blooded and virile Pavoni men ready to continue the bloodline, but instead everyone got one De Luca baby.

  No one wanted to work with Emilio. He’d spent an entire life in organized crime watching from the sidelines.

  Until Beast.

  “Then go,” Beast replied evenly. “I will replace you.” With a disappointed sigh, Beast left the room. It would mean finding someone to kill Emilio, and that would be difficult. Killing someone in the Family had to be done quietly and without leaving a signature. Emilio knew far too much about Beast’s dealings, though, so he had to die. At least he had time to find someone to replace him.

  Beast was out of the townhouse, walking down the cool stone steps, when Emilio’s voice stopped him.

  “Wait!” Beast turned to see the young man running down the steps to catch him. “I’ll meet you at the docks. I’ll change into a suit.”

  Outside of
a warehouse, along the frozen Hudson River, Beast met with Rhys and Emilio. It was where he’d been coming since he was just a soldier, the place he’d turned into his point of operation when he’d risen in the ranks. It was also where he held extravagant underground parties. Unlike The Council, who preferred swanky high-rises in the Financial District for doing business, Beast liked the warehouse.

  Emilio changed his clothing, at least. In a bespoke blue pinstripe suit with red tie, he was starting to look the part Beast was molding him to play.

  “Africa is all but untouchable,” Rhys said in a clipped British accent. “No vulnerabilities to exploit, no one willing to do business.” With a shaved head that made him all the more intimidating and a goatee outlining firm lips on skin like burnt charcoal, Rhys Potters was the kind of man you wouldn’t want to meet alone in a dark alley. On paper, Rhys was a lawyer, an academic, and a businessman. He held an upper position in the International Monetary Fund, and when Beast first met him, he’d expected him to cower as those before him had. Instead, when Beast approached him, he’d pulled out his gun, surprising Beast with his courage.

  Still, Beast tore the gun away and cornered him, ready to pull the trigger of Potter’s own gun, when he’d offered him one last deal instead: he’d let Rhys live if he started informing for him at the IMF. Beast had given the same deal to the man before Rhys, and the man before that, and the man before that.

  “I’d rather die a man than live a coward,” Potters had replied, then stepped forward to press the gun to his head. Beast handed Rhys his gun back and offered him a different job. Beast had been looking for the right man to help bring his plans to fruition, plans he’d been sketching since he was just a soldier, and Potters fit the bill. Too many people in Beast’s employ grew up in the life. He needed someone to bridge the gap between worlds.

  Potters had declined immediately, but it had taken only a week for him to change his mind. Rhys had gone back to the IMF, but it was like going from black and white to color. He’d seen the men who’d taken Beast’s deal. He’d seen the corruption. He’d seen that his job was no different than the one the Beast offered.