Crescendo (Beautiful Monsters Book 1)

by Lana Sky

  There she goes, commanding again. Her princess nose juts high into the air, her eyes seeking mine. The haughty act is almost enough to counter the shocking truth in her words. She’s that damn sure the bastard will be willing to trade for her.

  “I don’t make promises,” I grunt.

  “Make this one.” She sits forward, her hair draping her like a cape. Her hand flies out, the fingers aimed like an arrow for my chest.

  I stare at it, and slowly she brings it back down. Her face is dazed. “Vinny does handshakes...” She sounds horrified that she’s driven to use the same tactics as him. Then she shakes her head, clearing it. “You have to promise me.”

  The next few seconds hang between us, a silent draw. I don’t tear my eyes from hers, and she doesn’t so much as flinch. The bitch has honed her poker face. How many times has the bastard hurt her while she struggled to keep her face blank? How many horrors has she watched be committed right under her nose without batting so much as an eyelash? Something catches in my chest and makes me grit my teeth before I can help it. Holy fuck, I think I’m impressed.

  “I...” My fingertips burn at the subtle hesitation. Dante Vialle never fucking hesitates. “I’ll strangle you myself,” I tell her, curling my hands into fists.

  “Thank you.” She exhales sharply, her eyes closing in relief. The emotion deflates her, and she falls back against the headrest of the couch. “Thank you...thank you.”

  Her gratitude stings. I’ve signed up to be her murderer, and she looks ready to kiss my fucking feet. “It’ll be my pleasure.” I put as much fucking violence and hate that I can into the words; they become a cutting whip that glances off her skin with barely a nick to show for it.

  “Thank you.”

  “Make a list of what you need,” I tell her, turning to face the door.

  “N-Need?”

  “Make sure you add condoms.” I leave her there and enter the bathroom. I piss, gritting my teeth as irritation seeps into my veins. There’s a buzzing at the back of my skull, harder and harder to ignore the longer I breathe the same air as Stacatto’s whore. I stand before the toilet for minutes. When I wash my hands, a fucking stranger glares at me from the mirror’s surface—some bastard who promised to murder a woman in exchange for a sex tape. Parish will be avenged, all right. I hiss and flick my wet hands in the air, watching drops of water distort my reflection.

  When I return to the living room, the bitch is still on the couch.

  “I’ll need new un-underwear, I guess,” she says softly. “And c-condoms. And...” She recites her list blankly while her eyes focus on the far wall. “I’ll need...video.” She licks her lips as if the word is too dirty to leave there. “Tapes. S-So I c-can...”

  Oh. I nod sharply. She wants to study a porno in action and see what it takes. Again, I don’t know whether to be impressed by the cold, calculating way she’s planned her fiancé’s humiliation, or just...disgusted. The man sure did a number on her. The princess knows what’s expected to make her show look real. She’s unafraid. I can see the determination in her gaze from here. It burns like fire, smoldering and quiet.

  “And,” she starts, meeting my gaze. “The man...he’ll...I’m a virgin.”

  I feel myself frown, and I turn away before she can discern the shock I’m too fucking stupid to hide. A virgin. My eyes find her again and seek out that ring. Vincent’s Stacatto’s virginal little fiancé is willing to dance with the wolves just to keep some part of her out of his reach. It’s sick. It’s twisted.

  It’ll make for a good fucking show.

  Lucifer doesn’t talk much. He leaves me again but returns before I can really notice the silence his absence creates. Under one arm he carries a laptop; the same one that displayed the video of that girl.

  He places it down on the coffee table and lifts the lid. There’s a crack jutting through the center of the screen, but the man plugs it in anyway, and it comes on without difficulty. When he circles around to place his hands on the laptop’s keys, I shift over, making room on the couch, but he remains standing. I can’t see what he does or what icons he clicks, but when he steps back to stand beside the couch, there is a website dominating the screen. Girls! Girls! Girls! proclaims the blazing headline that flashes across the header. A small video window floats amid a sea of obscene pictures of nude women in various poses. When Lucifer hits play, the scene opens with a shot of a busty blonde watering the lawn. Spotting the handsome gardener across the yard, she decides to take her skimpy bottoms off. Then...

  God. I grit my teeth and dig my nails into my palms. I don’t look away—I won’t. I shut off a part of myself, and then I take notes. I observe every obscene gesture. Every position and every forced moan. It all seems so fake. The two “leads” spend more time staring at the camera than they do each other. One would think that I wouldn’t need the extra research after all of the “performances” Vinny’s put on for me, but at least these women aren’t writhing in pain and biting their palms to silence their cries. They smile widely. They “ooh” and “aah.” They don’t flinch when the man slaps them on the ass and tells them to take it like a “good, dirty slut.” They manhandle him right back, palming his cock until he winces before attempting to shove it down their throats.

  I don’t find any joy in it. No pleasure. When the video ends, Lucifer steps forward to hunt for another, and I find myself watching him more than I do the screen—a selection entitled, The Laddie and the Sexy Tramp.

  Does this arouse him, Lucifer? His posture reveals nothing. He stands straight. He doesn’t flex his hips when he’s erect the way Vinny does—if he even is...

  After that video ends, he finds another. And yet another. By the tenth clip, my mind swims with vulgar phrases. I’ve seen a cock go into more places on the human body than I’m comfortable with. Silly, nonsensical questions form before I can help it. Anal or vaginal? Missionary or doggy style? Which one would piss Vinny off more?

  I’m so caught up on the logistics that I don’t even notice when the laptop screen finally goes black. Lucifer’s been watching me, though I’m not sure for how long. His expression is almost easy to read for once. He thinks I’m disgusted.

  I’m determined. “When will it happen?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “When—”

  There’s a knock on the door. I jump at the sound, but Lucifer’s already across the room. “Who is it?” he demands in a tone that makes something inside me quake.

  “Arno.”

  The door opens revealing the red-haired man. “I do have a key for this fucking place, you know,” he says, but his playful smile dissipates the moment his eyes leave Lucifer and focus on me. “It’s show time, princess,” he snarls while he throws something at me from over Lucifer’s shoulder: a box that bounces across the floor and lands at my feet. It’s black, with Trojan written across the sides in gleaming silver script. ‘Ribbed for her pleasure’ proclaims the tagline. “We do this now,” Arno says.

  Now. I blink and only then do I seem to realize how dark it is. The laptop’s screen casts a bluish light that paints everything in a morbid glow. It reflects off Lucifer’s back, emphasizing the muscle straining the cotton of a shirt nearly identical to the one that hangs on me.

  “Take her across the hall,” Arno tells Lucifer who seems to stiffen at the request disguised as an order. There’s an uneasy truce between these two men, I sense. Lucifer isn’t one of his lap dogs, and yet helps him out of a reason other than fear. Loyalty? It’s such a strange contrast to the way Vinny interacts with his goons. They are loyal to his money but obey him solely out of fear.

  Lucifer sighs a violent sound. Then he cuts his gaze to me and jerks his head toward the doorway. “Come on.”

  I scuttle from the couch and bend down to grab the box of condoms. They weigh me down as I enter what appears to be another hallway, lined with several closed doors. Only one is open now, displaying what appears to be another apartment, but the layout is different from Lucifer’s. I swallow hard as I
creep up behind him and toe the edge of the doorway.

  In the space meant to serve as the living room, someone placed a bed. Black sheets hang from the walls, obscuring the windows. Perched on a tripod in the far corner is a camera, its lens centered on the mattress.

  “Change.” The red-haired man, Arno, shoves another object in my direction. It’s a bag. Victoria’s Secret is written along the side. My fingers shake when I take it. Then I force myself to step over the apartment’s threshold. It smells different than Lucifer’s. There’s the lingering scent of cigarette smoke and the faint odor of the men who most likely set up this little showroom.

  I don’t let myself picture which of those men might be chosen as my co-star. I’ll survive. I’ll live long enough to at least make a dent in the shackles Vinny has enslaved me in for so long. I will...

  But my traitorous body isn’t as easy to reassure. It tenses as I creep across the room and find a narrow bathroom nearly identical to the one in Lucifer’s apartment. I strip his shirt and then fish my “costume” from the depths of the shopping bag. It looks like something the women in those videos might wear: a black bra that seems to contain more bits of revealing lace than it does fabric. My nipples show through it, and Vinny’s brand is a blazing reminder of the man and his rules. The panties are lace as well. Just a triangular strip and then a slender line of string that I guess is meant to separate my legs. I pull them on woodenly, observing my reflection with a frown.

  Lynn is a disjointed mess. Her bruised face serves as a harsh reminder of the duress she’s under. I’ll have to do my best to pretend...no, to act. I want this.

  “You want this,” I tell myself, though my trembling voice has trouble even reaching my own eardrums—let alone Lucifer’s. He’s waiting on the other side of the door when I come out. His face is expressionless, though a part of me shivers with the grim knowledge that he heard what I said.

  “Are you the one—”

  “No,” he says coldly, and I can’t smother a relieved sigh. Some nameless, faceless man who smells...I can handle. Not Lucifer. His eyes see too much. His body is too big—too much like Vinny’s. My act won’t hold up around him. It’s a good thing, if...

  I shake my head. “Who then?”

  He focuses his gaze down the hall, toward the main room, as if wondering that very thing himself. “Wait here.”

  “So, who is it?” I demand of Arno.

  He’s seated on the bed. Both hands are braced on his knees, and for the first time since Parish...I see a hint of the old dog peeking through the haze of grief. “Why?” he snaps. “You want her?”

  “Cut the shit,” I snap. I picture the girl—I can’t help it. Wearing the shit Arno bought for her she looked like a child hooker. I know that she has to be legal if she’s legally engaged to Stacatto, but still... There’s something inherently creepy about seeing her tits bound by a push-up bra, her eyes wide and empty in porcelain sockets.

  “I know the perfect man for the job,” Arno insists.

  “Who?”

  He holds my gaze for a second, his eyes narrowed. Then all at once his shoulders slump, weighed down by exhaustion. He looks ten years older, and something tells me that, despite that promise to sleep, he hasn’t laid off the drink since this morning. “You,” he says.

  I whirl on him. “The hell I am—”

  “Please, Dante.” He stands and starts to pace. He moves his hands through the air as if to illustrate the fucking insanity his mind must be entertaining if he thinks I’ll agree. “I’ve been thinking,” he starts. “You’re right. If we play our cards...Stacatto will be willing to negotiate for her. And fuck, I want...I need to make the fucker squirm.” His eyes glow with an unsteady gleam. Stacatto will pay all right—and dearly—if Arno has any say in it. “But this shit has to go down properly. I can’t trust one of those other fuckers to do it right. To let her...I would ask Francisco, but he’s gay.” He breaks off suddenly, his eyebrow raised. “Unless you’re...”

  I roll my eyes and bunch my hands into fists, trying to ignore the infernal itching. It creeps up again, inching toward the first knuckle of every single finger. “I’m not.”

  “You’ve just...I’ve never seen you take a girl,” Arno says quickly. “And even if you were gay, that would change nothing between us.” I don’t know whether to be irritated or honored by the fact that he seems to mean it. “But if you aren’t...”

  “No.”

  “It’s free ass, Dante.”

  “No.”

  “I’d do it myself, but I’ll kill her.” His eyes are desperate. He can’t seem to stop flexing his fingers as if already wrapping them around the girl’s slender throat. “I can’t...I can’t. Please.”

  I grit my teeth and turn to face the wall. My hands shake fully. The familiar buzzing eats away at the back of my skull. The only way to silence it is to punch the wall so hard that I feel the impact in my fucking bones. With my throbbing knuckles still pressed against the dented plaster, I force out, “Why me?”

  “It has to look good. The bitch needs to be willing or whatever the fuck she wants. I know you loved Rish, but you don’t...”

  “I don’t what?” The words come out riding a growl. The beast is nibbling away at his cage, hungry and restless; it takes more effort to rein him in. I blink and my vision’s red. Blink again and the wall is white.

  “You don’t get...emotional,” Arno says as if it’s as simple as that. Emotional. I laugh, only the sound trickles out of me, more like a wolf’s jagged snarl. “You don’t,” he insists. “You don’t let shit get to your head. You can think clearly when all I want to do is...”

  Kill. Bite. Fight. Fucking rip. Tear. Destroy. I swallow hard. Ruby-colored light seeps across the room. The buzzing surges into a deafening hum.

  “Do this for me,” Arno says, sounding miles away, “and I’ll get Espi to talk to you.”

  “What?” I turn, shaking my head to clear it. Arno flashes from normal to scarlet and back again.

  “Espi,” he says, drawing out the name. “I’ll talk to him. I’ll get him to at least listen to you. He won’t be happy about it, but if you do this for me...I’ll make it happen.”

  My jaw clenches around another refusal. My eyes narrow, but I swallow hard and push it down—just like Arno knew I would. “I’ve been looking for him,” I say coldly.

  “I know.”

  “Then why do you fucking wait until now—”

  “Because he doesn’t want to talk to you,” Arno says quickly. “He made that very, very clear.” He rubs at his jaw as if the kid punched him there. Fuck, maybe the little shit had. “But I know of a way to make him. Though like I said, it won’t be pretty.”

  I inhale, squeezing my eyes shut. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. My fingers are on fire, aching to punch something. Or maybe gouge—starting with Arno’s fucking eyes. I don’t need a middleman to talk to Espi. It could take time, but I know the kid will come around on his own. Blood is thicker than water and shit. I cycle through my options. When I open my eyes again, the walls are a pale off-white. Arno’s the same albino asshole he’s always been, and the buzzing has gone silent.

  “You get me a talk with Espi, and—”

  “I’ll bend over backward in a little pink skirt if you do this for me. Brother?” He takes a step forward, his hand outstretched. The jagged scar we made as teenagers seems to lurch against the dusky skin of his palm, and I feel my own hand twinge in answer.

  I don’t say a damn word when I slap my palm against his. I don’t say a damn word when he gives me a brief rundown of how to work the camera before racing from the room as if that might keep me from changing my mind.

  Standing there, while the girl finally creeps out down the hall...I don’t say a damn word.

  I expect to find my co-star when I finally gather up the nerve to enter the “bedroom” again. Not Lucifer. He stands tall, silhouetted against the backdrop of black sheets like his fallen, angelic namesake. He’s angry. His body ripples with tension, and
something in mine tightens in response. When his eyes finally focus on me, I’m unprepared for the venom I find spilling out of them.

  “Come here.” He crooks a finger—such an unusual gesture coming from him that I find myself inching forward. His hands are heavy when they fall over my shoulders. He uses the grip to marshal me toward the end of the bed. Then he manually steers me around to face the camera. He makes sure I’m still watching when he crosses over to it and hits a button that I assume turns it on.

  “Show us what you’ve got, sweetheart.” His voice is a cold, mocking parody of its usual, emotionless baritone. His eyes are dark coals. There’s no shred of lust in his posture—it’s too tense.

  My heart starts to race. My palms are slippery. Words race up my throat, but only a few trickle out. “I thought...you said...”

  “Well, I fucking lied,” he snarls, taking a step toward me. I flinch back. His hands are shaped like manacles, and his expression...it’s so much like Vinny’s. I can’t breathe. The room is too small. The floor buckles underneath me, and I somehow wind up perched on the edge of the mattress, clinging to the black sheets for balance.

  “N-No...” I don’t know if I’m talking to him or myself. No, you can’t waste this chance. No, it can’t be him. No. No. No.

  Lucifer hisses out a laugh and staggers toward the wall. His fist strikes it, once—hard enough to make the entire surface tremble. “The fuck if I even want to.”

  Something in his voice shakes me awake from the fear. There’s no lust in it. No desire. No sadistic need to intimidate. He doesn’t want me. Somehow, knowing that fact is enough to give me the strength to stand. My knees tremble. Once again, my body goes against my mind’s conviction. I can do this...

  “The...the camera is still on.” My voice scratches at the silence, fighting with the mechanical whirl of the machine in question.

  Lucifer stiffens. He flattens his fist against the wall, his shoulders hunched away from me. I have to grit my teeth and fight to maintain my resolve when he finally turns to face me. His eyes are an unsteady shade of indigo. Blue fire—that color at the base of the flame. They watch me coldly while one of his hands drifts down to the buckle of his jeans. “Don’t sound so eager,” he scolds, his voice an acidic taunt. But there’s something inside his gaze so unexpected it makes my heart stop. I’m panting when my pulse catches up again. My eyes blink rapidly, but there’s no mistaking it.