Crescendo (Beautiful Monsters Book 1)

by Lana Sky

  And, any other time, I would have. “I want this over,” I admit through clenched teeth. I know without even having to turn and see for myself that Darcy and the woman followed me inside. I raise my fist and force it to open to jab my thumb toward the bar. “Sit.”

  I don’t expect her to comply so easily, but she shuffles past me with her head down and takes the stool as far away from Mack as physically possible. If I’m surprised by the obedient little show, Mack isn’t. He merely watches, taking another sip of water; it’s the perfect display of captor and captive.

  Once he swallows, however, he rubs at his chin. “I’ve been thinking...”

  My eyes cut over to him, and I feel my stance automatically open up. “About what?”

  “Now now, Kitty, don’t look so grumpy. I won’t renege on our bargain. But if she’s really willing to play dirty, then I need to see it for myself.” He fishes into the pocket of his jeans and pulls out a cell phone. “Call him,” he says to her, shoving the phone in her direction. “If you’re so willing to turn on your master, then I want to see it—and hear it—for myself.” He looks at me, and his expression isn’t mocking for once. “After all, it’s easy to claim that you’d bite at your own leash, but a bit harder to put into practice. You know that better than anyone, eh Kitty?”

  I don’t answer. Instead, I mull over the request. It makes sense in theory—but Mack doesn’t do shit without some other motive. Not that I really give a damn. The itch to just get this over with is too irritating to resist. “How do we know that he can’t fucking trace the call?”

  Mack actually seems pissed off by the question. “As if I’d be that fucking stupid. Sammy programmed this baby himself. It’s a burner. Jesus fucking Christ wouldn’t be able to trace it.”

  “Okay then—” my eyes hone in on the girl. “Do it.”

  She keeps her face blank when she reaches for the cell phone—though I’m sure I’m the only one who notices how her fingers shake, and now it makes fucking sense. Mack wants to see her break. He wants to see how she holds up when forced to confront Stacatto directly. Hell, maybe I do too.

  Things rarely end well when a wild dog confronts its owner while off its leash. One or the other has to assert their dominance: either the leash is wrapped back around the dog’s neck, or the owner gets bitten. Stacatto’s girl wrestles with her choice, her eyes wide, her soul hovering on the edge of flying away or staying to face her old master.

  Before she can decide, I take a step toward her, coming just within the line of her peripheral vision. “Do it,” I grunt. “Call him.”

  Her fingers tremble even more, but she curls them into fists. Just when I think she’ll refuse, she finally lets her thumb strike the call button on the contact Mack had already pulled up.

  The phone must be rigged to automatically turn on the speaker because the sound of the dial tone echoes throughout the room and she doesn’t even need to lift the receiver to her ear. When a man’s gruff voice finally answers, he sounds crystal clear.

  “Hello?”

  The woman inhales. “G-Gino.” There’s a smattering of static from the other end as if the person holding the phone adjusted it. “Can...Can I talk to Vinny?” Her voice wavers slightly, but there’s a hardness to her expression. She doesn’t let it flicker, not even when the man, Gino, replies.

  “Just one moment, Ms. Manzano.”

  All noise from the other end suddenly cuts off as if someone had placed their hand over the receiver, right before they go to fetch the recipient of the call. Stacatto’s woman waits patiently, her hands neatly folded. Only her feet give her away; they aren’t primly crossed at the ankles now. She grinds her toes into the bottom rung of her stool, balancing on the edge of control and terror.

  “Lynn.” The newer voice carries an edge that makes even Arno and Mack sit straighter.

  “Vinny,” the woman says softly.

  “I’ve missed you...” Possession. It all but drips through the speakers and forms a noose around the woman’s neck, tightening with every octave the voice lowers. “Tell me that this call means that those...monsters will let you come home.” He’s taunting her; the fucker knows damn well who the real monster is.

  “No.” Hazel eyes hone in on mine and never look away. I know that expression. As long as she can’t picture his face, she’s fine—the same tactic a child uses to ignore the monster under the bed. “I don’t think I’ll be coming back anytime soon, Vinny.”

  Stacatto chuckles into the phone. “I received your present, Lynn.” The bittersweet tone suddenly gives way to a harsher growl. “That was my mother’s ring.”

  The woman swallows hard, and her feet leave the rung of the stool to kick at the air. “I...I just gave you what you wanted, Vinny,” she croaks. “My humiliation. Isn’t that right?”

  He barks another harsh bit of laughter, but it’s colder than before. “I’ve only ever wanted your loyalty, Lynn. Your respect. Your fidelity. But do not fear... One day I will earn those things from you.”

  “Never,” she says and just like for the camera, the woman flips her switch. Her eyes still won’t leave mine, but I don’t recognize the creature staring out from them anymore. “I’m never coming back. You will never own me again. Never.”

  “Is that so?” Stacatto seems to mull her declaration over the same way one might a silly request from a naughty child who didn’t know any better. “I’ve sent you a present of my own,” he adds, changing the subject. “Have they given it to you yet?”

  I glance over at Mack who shrugs.

  “They haven’t,” Stacatto murmurs and if his voice held anything resembling a human emotion, it might have been...glee. “Show it to her, you motherfuckers. I know you’re listening in. And Lynn...” The sound from the other end changes. He’s holding the receiver closer. I wouldn’t be surprised if his fingers were stroking the back of it, imagining them caressing the fragile line of her throat. “I love you, Mi Bella. This has changed nothing between us, and when I find you...I will make you understand.”

  He cuts off his end, and the sound makes the woman slump against the counter. Her face never changes though. Her mask remains firmly in place, but it’s cracking at the edges. When she looks at Mack, I can already see the dread she struggles to hide underneath it. “What did he send?”

  Mack rubs his chin thoughtfully. If his opinion of her changed after the little telephone conference, he doesn’t reveal it. “A rather entertaining video,” he says. “But it’s not exactly...suitable for a lady.”

  “Show me it.” Her haughty tone cracks like a whip, but Mack doesn’t seem to mind the sting. He grins, licking his lips. Then he stands and crosses over to her, reaching for the phone.

  “I’m merely obeying the lady’s request, Dante,” he snaps, his shoulders tensing just enough to warn anyone stupid enough to creep up on him that he’s ready to fight. Only then do I realize that I’m already standing in between him and the girl, forcing him to reach around me to fiddle with the phone’s screen. I don’t look back at her, but I can sense her stiffen, uneasy by how close I am. The little bitch can only tolerate me when she’s being fucked, I guess.

  “It’s in rather poor taste,” Mack admits as he slides the phone in her direction again and steps back. “I would have chosen better lighting.”

  My eyes travel to the screen at the same time she sits forward, her bound hair falling over one shoulder. The grainy display of a video appears. As Mack said, the lighting sucked. Through the shadows of what appears to be a small room, it’s only possible to make out a woman braced against a floor on her hands and knees. Red hair spills down her shoulders, but the rest of her face is too dark to make out.

  “Say your name.” The commanding voice contains the same accent as Vincent Stacatto’s. He must be the one positioning the camera because the lens begins to focus in on the woman—just enough to see the tears streaming down her face and the outline of a small nose. “M-Maria,” she whispers. When I hear the woman seated beside me ga
sp, I know that she recognizes her.

  “Open your mouth,” Stacatto commands the girl on camera. The shot is too tight to show his face, but I suspect his hand is the one that appears, holding a glinting diamond ring. The woman inhales sharply, but hell, even I recognize it. He must have fished it from Arno’s place before he set it on fire.

  Maria starts to sob. “P-Please—” Her plea is silenced when he shoves the ring through the part in her lips, sealing her mouth shut with his palm.

  “You will watch this, Lynn,” Stacatto murmurs toward the camera. “All of it.”

  The lens pans out, just enough to reveal the woman choking on a 14 karat ring while a larger man shoves her down and starts to tear at her clothes. “You will watch...”

  “No!” Mack’s phone goes flying off the bar and lands on the floor, batted away by a pale hand. The fall isn’t enough to cut off the video, however. Shrill screams erupt from the speaker but are drowned out by the sound of a stool toppling over and rolling across the floor. A streak of black hair is my only warning to lunge, seizing a handful of white cotton—but I don’t expect the ferocity she fights me off with, clawing at my fingers until they let go.

  “I’ve got it,” I grit out to Mack and Arno before they can even move as Stacatto’s woman barrels through the doors of the bar. She’s faster than I would have thought for someone so damn poised. She runs wild. Reckless. Fuck, she seems about ready to jump the fence when I finally catch up to her near the perimeter. My hand flies out, but I don’t have to touch her.

  She stops in her tracks just as I come within reach. For nearly a minute she just stands there, her back to me, her shoulders heaving...and then she screams.

  The piercing sound travels through me like a bullet, ripping apart flesh and bone. It’s the primal howl of a wounded animal. Still screaming, she falls to her knees, clenching her fingers in the dirt until her voice starts to break. When it does, her hands form fists and hammer at the ground with the same rage that I attacked the trees with. She shrieks and hits, and I don’t know if I mean to stop her when my hand falls over her shoulder or if I simply want to feel her breaking. If that’s the case, I’m not fucking disappointed. Cracking into pieces beneath porcelain skin, she whirls on me with a shout.

  Whatever she calls me isn’t in English, but she accompanies the insult with a clumsy punch to my jaw. When I grab her by the wrist, she slaps me with her free hand. Then she hits me again, forcing me to take a step back. Growling, she strikes again, her nails raking my skin this time, but I don’t try to stop her.

  On the tenth swing at me, she finally misses and, as if someone suddenly cut the strings holding her together, she breaks. Before I can move out of range, her arms go around my shoulders. She’s sobbing wordlessly into my chest, her tears seeping through the cotton of my shirt. I feel the fight drain from her. The loss of it weakens her knees, and she nearly pulls me down with her. I have to stagger forward and brace both hands against the top of the fence while her fingers paw at my hips and her face connects with my left knee. When she finally speaks, her voice is a whisper that somehow has no trouble rising above the distant sound of barking dogs.

  “He...he killed my entire family.” She sounds so detached she could be talking about the rain. It pelts us in scattered drops that glance off my body before they can reach her, but I don’t feel the need to move. Yet. I grit my teeth and eye the row of trees in front of me instead. “I know he did,” she insists. “My parents...they knew that all I wanted in the world was to be able to play the Violoncelo.” Whatever language she natively speaks seeps into her words, tainting some of them. In fact, I wonder if he’s part of the reason for how she struggles to hide her accent; it’s only when she’s angry that it creeps out in full force. “They let me practice whenever I wanted, and even though I couldn’t afford one of my own, my father made deals with the theater he worked at to let me use their instruments as long as he cleaned... It was my dream to play in a symphony when I graduated. I wanted so badly to get into a performance school...but I knew that we couldn’t afford it.” She breaks off, and I can hear the violent click of her teeth clenching together. She doesn’t want to go this far, and I tell myself that my impatient grunt isn’t what makes her keep talking in the end.

  “When I was seventeen they surprised me with a bus ticket upstate so that I could audition for a scholarship... My father worked hours of overtime. My mother gave up her weekends for extra shifts. They sacrificed so much. I...It was the happiest day of my life. They...they even rented a cello for me to play at home. I got there early. I practiced until my fingers ached. I played...and I made it to the final round of auditions.” Two tears slip from her eyes and roll down her cheeks, the only sign of life behind her fractured mask. “My parents were so proud of me. My brother even helped me practice, tapping out the beat with his pencils.” I stiffen when her palms flatten against my lower back, but for some reason, I don’t shove her off.

  “I hadn’t thought to tell Vinny until the night before the final auditions,” she says. “I’ve never seen him so angry. ‘You’re leaving me,’ he said. ‘You think music is more fucking important than loyalty? I love you, Mi Bella.’” She gives the words Stacatto’s guttural pronunciation, and her nails bite even deeper into my flesh. “My father tried to warn me. He didn’t like how possessive such an older man had become of his daughter. Vinny intimidated the other boys my age. He interfered when I tried to date. My father said he was too jealous. Brincando com fogo, he used to say. His temper is like playing with fire...but he was my friend.” Her eyes shut against the word, and more tears fall down her cheeks. “He knew how important music was to me. He knew how much I’d staked my future on joining an orchestra. He knew. He knew...and later that night he invited me out to dinner to apologize. We went to his favorite place, owned by his boss. Capellas. He ordered the chicken marinara and even bought enough for my entire family.” Her voice starts to lose its coldness—pain makes it shake, and the words crack, straining against her tongue.

  “I-I felt so s-sleepy when I got home. I went straight to bed. Vinny had to walk me inside, I could barely see straight.” She swallows hard. Her eyes open again and her hands slide down my hips, landing on either side of her in the mud. “When I woke up...everything was so quiet. Mamãe wasn’t humming in the kitchen as she cooked breakfast. My father wasn’t cursing at the news. Christoph wasn’t ramming his toy trucks against my door. So f-fucking quiet. I thought that...that maybe they were planning a surprise.” She giggles, her gaze wide and unsteady. “It...it was my birthday, after all. But when I went into the living room...all I saw was Vinny.”

  “‘It was an accident,’ he told me. ‘A terrible accident, Mi Bella.’ Someone had tried to rob us, apparently. They took my mother’s golden bracelet. My father’s watch. They ransacked the house, and they slit my parents’ throats while they slept. They never woke up, not even as they drew their last breath. It was so strange...they hadn’t even changed yet. My father had even taken a plate of food to bed, so excited to try Italian cuisine. My brother, however...” She inhales sharply and shakes her head as if her protest alone can keep the memory at bay—but fate’s a cruel fucker, and I know that when her eyes widen, she’s seeing every single detail, etched into her brain forever.

  “They...they found him in the hall. He had woken up when the attacker crept into his room. He tried to fight him off, and t-they had to stab him fifteen times. He’d been heading toward my room. His eyes were on my d-door. I know he was screaming for me. I still hear him.” She’s silent, and the storm begins to build in earnest as if feeding off the morbid picture her words paint. “Vinny had a detective there. Sosa—” she spits out the name. “He corroborated his story despite the fact that there was no sign of forced entry. Burglars did it. My parents were lucky to be asleep while they were butchered. And...I almost believed it. I almost let myself fall for his lies...” She frowns as if wondering whether or not that would have been easier to swallow than the truth. “B
ut Christoph didn’t like saucy foods. He didn’t touch the meal Vinny brought. He was awake when my best friend and protector returned in the middle of the night with a knife. Christoph fought back. That’s why Vinny made him suffer.”

  I don’t say anything. I steel my shoulders against the rain, and I squash the fucking emotion that flickers through my chest too quickly to name. When I finally start to move, she touches my knee.

  “I want him dead.”

  I have to glance down just to make sure the icy voice had come from her, but she’s already looking up, staring dead into my eyes without flinching. “I want Vinny dead,” she insists, and there’s a hint of wonder in her tone as if she finally had the nerve to voice some deep, dark secret out loud. Her eyes flicker—a part of her doesn’t like giving in to the violence, but she blinks, and it’s gone. “I want...I want to watch him burn.” When she tilts her head back, her forehead leaves the shelter of my chest and raindrops slide down to her lips. She licks at them, tasting Stacatto’s blood in the rain. The flavor must be her own potent narcotic because for just a brief second her body goes limp. “I want...I want to set the fire myself.”

  I don’t know what the hell she finds in my eyes that makes her tug one of her sleeves down to her wrist, revealing the bloody gash in her palm. I don’t know what the hell makes her raise that hand toward me while thunder rumbles in the distance. I don’t know what gives her the fucking nerve to make a demand out loud. “Promise me?”

  And I don’t know why the fuck I take her bloodied hand with one of my own, sealing yet another oath in blood.

  Vinny preferred to discuss murder during mealtimes. He’d sip glasses of Chardonnay and tally up the bodies of rivals he wanted killed that week. The men themselves typically received the usual treatment: a bullet or two to the brain. Bada bing. The real fun for him came when their families and loved ones were thrown into the mix.

  How many ways can you make a bastard suffer? Vinny liked to ponder that question aloud while he cut into his steak and dabbed the blood from his lips.