Crescendo (Beautiful Monsters Book 1)

by Lana Sky

  I’m yours.

  Mine. Fire burns white-hot, scalding my spine and reducing my body to ash. I can only cling to him and scream as an orgasm rips me into pieces. Lucifer is careless with the ruined parts of me. He fucks his release into me and then goes limp with the final thrust, pinning me to the wall with his weight alone.

  I don’t know how long we stay like that. Minutes? Hours? The only thing I’m aware of when he finally withdraws from me is an agony that cuts me deeper than any pain I’ve ever experienced before and has me sinking down to my knees. It has nothing to do with the throbbing in my bleeding, abused core or the callous way that Lucifer shoves himself off of me and then staggers in search of his pants.

  One single realization obliterates what’s left of my heart, leaving scorch marks on my soul: as long as Vinny is alive, none of this fucking matters.

  Not one damn bit.

  There’s too much of her blood to just wipe off on the sides of my jeans. I need a shower. I need to scour the bitch from my skin. I need...I need to fucking kill her. Now.

  I find her slumped against the floor, her eyes vacant and distant. No one’s home. She doesn’t even react when I pick her knife up from the floor and come toward her with it drawn. The little bitch has flown off again, terrified by whatever she saw even as she rode out her climax and drenched my cock in her release. She looked at me...and she saw his face.

  I don’t know whether to strangle her or let her fucking suffer. Let her see the fucking bastard who truly owns her. Let her get high off the fact that he can’t touch her here. Let her fuck her way through the rest of her life trying to pretend that he doesn’t haunt her every step.

  Or maybe I should put the little bitch out of her misery now? I am an animal after all... Baring my teeth, I trail my gaze over the rest of her, ignoring the way my cock lurches, still fucking semi-hard. I reach for her with one hand while adjusting the knife on the palm of the other. I don’t think before I cut. One hard jerk of my wrist...and there is no blood. No screaming. No death. There’s only just a lock of ebony hair in my fingers, still warm with the heat of her. It even fucking smells like her. Growling at the realization, I tuck the shit into my pocket and aim for her again. This time, it’s her arm I grab, but for some reason, I don’t cut. I drag her upright instead, watching her head loll against the wall and her vacant body grasp for anything within reach to help her find her balance.

  I consider dropping her when the little bitch starts to clutch at my forearm. Her nails scrape my skin and every little pin-prick sensation bolts down directly to my cock. She turns my entire body into her little plaything, stoking a lust I had learned since childhood to suppress and control. Lust made men stupid. It made them fucking weak.

  Fucking her made me weak.

  My hand drops the knife, and the fingers find her throat. Those hazel eyes watch me, flickering with only a hint of life, as I press hard, sealing off her windpipe. Five minutes, I decide. She’d likely be dead in one, but five would make it slower. Five would make her suffer. For five fucking minutes—her very last—she’ll see my face instead of his. I press harder, and the pain makes her fly back into her body. Slowly, her eyes register me, and she realizes what I’m doing. How I’ll do it. That her death will be drawn out painfully over every last fucking second. She understands it...and if she could, she’d fucking sigh.

  It’s about damn time.

  I let her go to gasp and wheeze on the air, and while she sways, I throw her over one shoulder. When I reach the bedroom, I pitch her onto the mattress and leave again. In the narrow bathroom, I find a washcloth and I wet it beneath the sink. The creature glowering into the mirror is a stranger. Some sick, stupid fuck with some bitch’s name carved into his chest. He doesn’t even have the nerve to seem ashamed by it. Hell...I think the son of a bitch even got off on the pain of those five little letters being etched into his skin. Thirteen years ago, Dino had tattooed my “new” name on me himself. Kitten, the scared little fuck who one day grew claws.

  “You don’t just let any bastard with a needle touch your skin,” he told me. “I’d rather let a bastard kill me than ever ink me without my goddamn permission. This—” He’d pointed to his throat where his own name inked the flesh. “This is your armor. Whatever you put on it should adorn your fucking soul. Those dumbasses who get pussies or birdies tattooed on their arms? Deep down, that’s all they really are. Cartoons and fucking scared little birdies. Every scar and mark you wear with fucking pride, or you don’t let the shit touch you at all.”

  I let that little bitch cut me. I let her draw her mark onto my skin. I let her.

  Damn her if she thinks I’ll let her get off that fucking easily. When I return to the bedroom, she’s lying limp in the center of the mattress. She doesn’t react when I grab her by the ankle and drag her closer. With one knee propped against the end of the bed, I lean over and drag the rag between her legs. She’s bleeding, but it’s just a streak across the end of the rag. My seed drips from her more steadily than anything else.

  The more of her I touch with the rag, the more of her that creeps back into those eyes, watching me warily. She doesn’t like being cleaned. She doesn’t like when the monster of the story wipes his mess from her skin. She likes it even less when that same beast goes to grab a bottle of vodka from the kitchen and carefully pours it onto the brand he made on her skin.

  She tries to fight me off, then. “No...no.”

  I fight back, pinning her down by her arm until she whines. My name will leave a nasty scar. She’ll never be able to erase it. And him...he’d have to cut out her fucking shoulder to override my claim. The little bitch is mine, for however long I say so.

  Vincent Stacatto can go fuck himself; he won’t ever fuck her.

  “Look at me.”

  She does, still trying to bat my hand away. I set the vodka aside without even drinking from it, which would be the smart thing to do—erasing the lust that flares up when she looks up at me with fire in her eyes. Danny...the little bitch who sold her soul to a man who never really had one of his own. Does the thought of that frighten her? Something has her spooked because she tries to stare beyond me. She tries to fly off, but the moment I seal my mouth over hers, she’s trapped. She’s still fighting though, even as she slams her tongue against mine. The cloth in my hand is a whip, and she flinches with every inch of her that I claim with it, bathing the blood from her skin. She’s a rebellious little bitch—she fights me harder than I know she ever did against him, but it’s no use.

  With a groan, she surrenders, her hands fisting in my hair and her hip arching into my touch.

  For the next five minutes, she’ll forget about him and die in another way—with every kiss I take and the climax I’ll wring out of her with my fingers. For the next five minutes, she’s mine alone. I’ll make sure of that.

  I’ll crush the bastard from her skull if I have to.

  Mack’s waiting by the mouth of the Kennel for me when I finally leave the garage just after sunset with the taste of blood in my mouth and cunt on my tongue. Three of his men surround him, keeping just enough distance to show that Mack isn’t afraid to face me alone—he just wants to reinforce just how much power he has here. All hail the fucking king.

  “Enjoying the guest house?” he wonders, cocking an eyebrow once I come within a yard of him. “You must have broken in the bed, at least. I can smell her on you.”

  I say nothing, giving him no ounce of emotion to bite into. I simply stare the bastard down until he remembers the business at hand.

  “Tonight,” he grunts out, crossing his arms over his chest. “We do this quickly. Do you have the addresses?”

  I jerk my head toward the garage. “She has them.”

  Mack chuckles. “Well, then it’s a good thing that I’ve made sure she attends this little party...”

  Something in his tone makes me glance over my shoulder just in time to catch a man leaving the garage with a slender woman in tow.

  Red. It pa
ints everything beneath a roar so deafening my ears pop. Even knowing Mack is watching can’t stop me from taking a step toward them. My fingers are on fire in a way I have never felt, not even in the cage.

  The fucker doesn’t dare touch her, at least. He makes her walk in front of him instead, her head held high, her chin pointed to the sky, those haughty eyes on fire. However, there’s a noticeable limp that she can’t hide. Her ravaged cunt aches with my possession—she won’t feel right again for a week, at least.

  “Relax, Dante,” Mack croons from behind me. “I made sure that she’s in safe hands.”

  It’s only then that the hair of the man herding her forward catches a flicker of light—copper.

  “I’ll have her stay with Arno during our little adventure,” Mack clarifies. “Safe and sound.”

  Arno watches me as they come closer. He makes sure to keep enough distance from her, and he doesn’t reach for her, even when she staggers over the uneven ground. He stares me dead in the eye the entire fucking time.

  “Now,” Mack starts and I drag my gaze back to him. “Give me the addresses, and we can get this little party started.”

  “No.” I clip the word, so it’s clear enough for the bastard to understand. “I handle the girls on my own with Arno’s boys. You take the drug ring.”

  Mack chuckles, shaking his head. “Now that wouldn’t be very fun, now would it, Dante?” His expression hardens, and I know without a doubt that he’s already formulated his own plan. “We split up. You take half of Arno’s men, half of mine, and I’ll do the same. You hit the enclaves first. When and only when you give me the signal that you’re all clear, I’ll move on the drug ring—but you play this your way, Dante. You bust open the enclaves without backup, and you get out of there on your own. Any losses you take are on your fucking head, understood?”

  I force myself to nod, once. The rules were simple: no holds barred, no easy outs—the same ones we played by whenever we fought in the cage. “I got it.”

  “What about me?” Arno pipes up, his voice gruff.

  Mack shrugs. “You and the girl will stay out of sight. I’ll tag a few of my men along, of course...but we can’t have her falling into the wrong hands. Yet.”

  I don’t like it. I don’t like Mack’s cocky fucking smirk or the way he glances from me to the girl, putting the pieces together with the awkward way she stands and the blood on my shirt.

  “Fine. But when this is over, you take Stacatto’s money, and we get the girls. Understood?”

  Mack nods, his eyes narrowed. “A fucking waste, but understood.”

  “Good,” I toss back. “When do we go?”

  Mack smiles. “Now.”

  Mack may be an asshole, but he keeps good men in his pocket. They don’t make a damn sound as they spread out beside me across the roof of a warehouse overlooking the one containing Stacatto’s women. It’s back too far to launch an assault from, but it gives us the best vantage point to make a plan. Though tucked behind the docks on the city’s Lower side, the first enclave is as shitty a place as it is secure for a king to stash his merchandise.

  Rats scurry out in the open, and the stench blowing off the bay makes the air reek. In the distance, you can hear the ships bellowing as they enter and leave the harbor, just like the girl’s maid claimed. That being said, most people wouldn’t have their trash stored here—let alone women worth a few grand ahead.

  Then again, Stacatto did seem to get creative when designing his prisons. According to the addresses the girl stole, there are nine other safe houses, positioned relatively close, all along the waterfront. While the area seems unguarded at first, any man with fucking eyes in his head could catch the telltale signs of professionals patrolling in unmarked vans.

  Mack was right. Taking on even one of them alone would be pure suicide. It’s a good fucking thing that I have a plan B.

  “Give me your cell phone,” I tell the man crouched closest to me, and he obeys without question, slapping a silver phone onto my outstretched palm.

  When I call 911, a tired voice answers. “What’s your emergency?”

  “Send a car around the edge of the Forrester docks,” I say and hang up without waiting for a response. Then I dial a different number, but the person who picks up on the other end is a bit warier than the operator.

  “Either this is Vialle, or the bastard gave my number to a telemarketer, in which case...I suggest you lose it.”

  “You have ten minutes to catch the fireworks show, detective,” I tell him. “Don’t be late.”

  I can fucking hear the man scowl. “Where?”

  I give him the address. “Now here comes the fun part,” I add. “If you don’t want to get your hands dirty yourself then pick a man—someone you trust with your life, detective. If you can’t think of anyone, then we’re both shit out of luck.” I wait, but Van Hallen says nothing. I take that as a good sign; the bastard is listening. “Whoever he is, tell him to go to the chief directly—no subordinates. A trusted informant has just warned him of a group of women being held against their will. A girl. Calls herself Danny. Suggest that he send out a patrol.”

  Van Hallen exhales, and I sense him shift the receiver against his ear. “Pardon me, Vialle, but I thought that’s what I was doing by sending my men there in the first place?”

  I chuckle. “Oh, detective. You’ll just be catching the show. The real fireworks will come when your chief tips off Stacatto.”

  I hang up, and then I wait. Exactly ten minutes later, on the dot, a crew of men burst from the enclave. In their wake, scurry at least ten women who the men herd with guns into a nearby van.

  “Bingo.”

  I shift out of a crouch and rise to my feet, drawing the pistol in my pocket while the men wait for my signal. Never one to disappoint, it comes in the form of a pre-written text message that is delivered the moment I hit send.

  “It’s show time.”

  The movies like to make the battles in a so-called “gang war” seem violent. Messy. Men shoot each other to death at point blank range, right there in front of terrified pedestrians. There was no finesse. No stealth involved. Just gunfire and blood.

  In reality—like in any true war—the fighting was done mostly from the shadows. Each side moved their men around the board like the pieces in a game of chess. The first fucker to outmaneuver the other won checkmate. As for the loser...

  Most of the games I’d ever played employed a “take no prisoners” approach.

  “Get into position,” I tell the others before leading the way myself.

  A rickety fire escape is the only way off the roof, and it opens onto an alley merely a few yards shy of the enclave entrance. Curses muttered in Russian and Italian echo off the brick walls as Stacatto’s men try to get the van loaded. Once again, Mack’s men manage to impress as they follow me in silence around the block to where Arno’s men wait in their own van. Once they see me, they jump out, their weapons already drawn.

  If Dino were alive, he’d flash a rare smile—hell, the fucker might have even shown teeth. He’d place bets on which man could draw the most blood just to “make things interesting.” This current match-up would have had him salivating. Which men would be more lethal? Arno’s men still hunger for revenge, but Mack’s are just eager for a good fucking time. It makes for an interesting batch when we circle around to confront Stacatto’s men before they can drive off. Cats and dogs. Mutts and purebred bulldogs born and raised in the pit.

  Professional or not, Stacatto’s pricks don’t even know what hit them when the first round of bullets fly. I let Arno’s men take the lead while I head for the van. The driver already has a cell phone to his ear, shouting something in Italian—but he’s brutally interrupted when a bullet flies through the windshield and strikes him right between the eyes.

  “Clear this place out,” I hiss to the man standing beside me, his pistol drawn. “Only the girls leave alive.”

  “Got it.”

  By the time we finally re
ach the van, another thug is dispatched with a bullet to the chest, and the only figures we find inside the vehicle itself are the women, curled up on the seats.

  “One down,” I hear myself say. “Nine more to go.”

  They herd me into the back of a van with Arno and a man who smells like cigarettes and liquor. There are no seats. We crouch on the bare flooring and brace our backs against whatever surface is in reach—I choose the ice-cold siding of the vehicle itself, pressing both hands flat against it for leverage.

  Save for the glow of a cell phone the other man holds in his fist, it’s dark. I can just make out a black duffle resting beside him, and I entertain a morbid curiosity as to what might be inside it—at least, I do during the few precious seconds when I’m not dreading what might happen if this entire plan fails.

  Lucifer demanded my faith once, but it’s harder than I would have thought to deny it to him now. Who could doubt that cold, predatory calculation of his; he bites with his teeth fully drawn and saves any thoughts of failure for later, after he’s done feasting on the belly of his conquest. Years of living on the streets and fighting in the cage have left him immune to fear.

  I’m not so lucky. Vinny’s possession drips into my sweat. His voice is a constant presence at the back of my head, and I know that as long as he’s alive, I’ll never be able to silence him...

  I own you, Mi Bella.

  “You’re jumpy.” I jolt back to the present as Arno makes that assessment while watching me from the other end of the van, his green eyes sharp even in the darkness. “You’re worried your precious fiancé will get you back tonight.” He jerks his chin at my throat as if he can see Vinny’s possession wrapped around my neck. When I flinch, he laughs. “You don’t know Dante. I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Like how?”

  “The same way he looked at the men he wanted to tear apart in the cage,” Arno admits. “Like he can’t wait to put his fist through your skull, and no one better get in his fucking way...come to think of it, he’s looked at you like that for a while now. But you’re still alive.” He frowns and rubs his chin as if trying to figure out why. “Either way, he won’t let you go until he decides you can go—whether or not this stupid plan works. Mark my words on that.”