Crescendo (Beautiful Monsters Book 1)

by Lana Sky

  Just then, the van comes to a stop, and the man Mack sent—a brute with black hair and mean brown eyes—shifts out of his crouch, settling down on his knees. “Can we cut the fucking chitchat?” he grunts while an overhead light cuts on, which he uses as his cue to tug on the zipper of his duffle.

  It’s full of weapons: two guns and a roll of black canvas. The man sets the guns on either side of him and unfurls the roll against the floor of the van, revealing three knives sheathed in leather holsters. Freeing one of the blades, he tucks it into the pocket of his pants and inclines his chin to Arno. “You want?”

  Arno accepts a blade in silence, but I don’t miss the telltale bulge of his own weapons hidden beneath his battered leather jacket. Unsurprisingly, no one offers me a weapon, and the next few moments pass in tense silence while my mind refocuses on unease again. Mack gave Dante an hour. An hour to get into position. An hour to crack Vinny’s most cherished organization.

  An hour to live.

  The seconds gnaw at me, though Arno doesn’t seem worried. He’s...bored. The fingers of his right hand keep twitching, and I try to picture that “look” he claimed the devil reserves only for me. I think Arno wears a similar expression now, longing for the violence of bloodshed to sink into.

  And despite what Mack seems to think, I’m not stupid. Arno doesn’t defer to Dante any more than the latter does to him. If Arno came along to babysit Dante’s “little bitch” then it was for a reason. Anticipation to learn exactly why spurs on my pulse until I can almost hear it counting down the minutes.

  Five.

  Four.

  Three.

  Two...

  “Any sign?” Arno finally asks, jerking his chin toward the still-silent phone.

  “Not yet.”

  “I need to get some fucking air.” Shifting toward the end of the van, Arno wrenches open the door and climbs out. I get only a glimpse of what I assume is an alley before it slams shut again, and the tinted windows don’t reveal much.

  I can’t tell how far we are from the enclaves or even from the hotel. It’s a strange sort of blindness. For five years, this part of the city has been my prison, but somehow this feels worse. I don’t know what to prepare for. Vinny? Dante?

  I copy Arno by watching the phone in the other man’s grip, waiting for a noise or a sound—any sign as to what might be happening, but when he catches me staring, his eyes narrow.

  “See something you like?”

  His tone sends prickles of alarm shooting through my chest. “N-No.” I turn away to stare at the opposite corner, but I see him moving from the corner of my eye. He rises as much as he can, crouching beneath the roof of the van. In three steps he’s beside me, his repulsive scent filling my nostrils. Without permission, he rakes a meaty hand through my hair, twisting a lock of it between his fingers.

  “You’re a pretty bitch,” he admits as if it’s something I should be proud of, but when he reaches for my shoulder, three words spill from my throat.

  “Don’t touch me.”

  Vinny would be pleased, I think. His precious Lynn was finally protecting his investment...but, for once, he’s not the one I see. His scent doesn’t overpower me, even here. His claim isn’t burning through my skin.

  “Now don’t be shy,” the man snarls, muscling in closer. “Word has it that you’re hungry for any cock that doesn’t belong to Stacatto...”

  Run! My muscles barely start to tense before he shoves me down.

  The man uses his weight like a battering ram to position himself above me, grunting with the effort. I kick and dig at his face with my nails, but he’s too strong and easily parries my attempts. In fact, I think he enjoys my resistance more than anything else. With every failed hit, the excitement in his eyes burns hotter.

  “I said don’t be shy,” he croons against my ear. “Let’s see what Stacatto’s little bitch has to offer...”

  He gets one of his hands beneath my sweatshirt and yanks, revealing everything but the very tops of my breasts. He stiffens when he sees Vinny’s mark, and I use the shock to land a kick on his chest that shoves him off me.

  There’s no use screaming for help—not here. My knife is in my pocket, but when I get it free, the man is already on me again, knocking it out of my hand. It skitters across the floor of the van just as he plants what feels like a knee against the small of my back, causing my chin to smack off the floor. Stars explode through my vision. My head is left spinning as a guttural voice rumbles through my ears.

  “Feisty little bitch.” Fear drags me back into my body when a rough hand plunges inside my pants, groping at flesh the devil has already left sore and throbbing. “I figure we have an hour to kill, so let’s play,” he tells me while his fingers cup my ass so hard the nails dig in. “Now settle down and be a good girl and I can make it go quickly.”

  Quick. Something about that word paralyzes me, and I don’t fight when he peels my sweatpants down to the tops of my thighs. I obey when he nudges me onto my knees. I look at him when he snags my chin in hands that smell like vinegar and wrenches my head around to face him—but every ounce of focus I have left is fixated on an object that I startle him by lunging for.

  The moment my fingers curl around the object, I yank it closer while twisting onto my back. The man doesn’t even seem to notice when he comes for me, still tugging at the latch of his jeans. It’s only when I lurch up, and the knife bites into him that he tries to push me back, slamming his hand against my shoulder.

  It’s in vain. His blade is sharp, unlike mine. It turns the own man’s momentum against him and sinks deep into his chest. Too deep. I can’t lessen the pressure before he grits out something that could be a curse even as his eyes glaze over. Warm, red liquid trickles from his mouth and coats my fingers while he goes limp, crushing me with his full body weight.

  Vinny put on enough gruesome shows for me to recognize death when I see it. Back in those days, I would cling to my cello in order to escape the bloodshed, but it’s ironic how now I can’t stop staring into his eyes. I can’t let go of the knife. I can’t stop hearing the devil’s voice inside my head. Being a fighter was a different world from being bait. It was darker. Colder. You looked at a man, and you trained yourself to see him as only a piece of meat, nothing more. You sized up his weaknesses in two seconds, and you bet your life that you made the correct assessment.

  I fucking loved it...

  My lungs are on fire. Pain seeps into my bones, but I can’t move. Not until the barrel of a gun is pressed against the dead man’s head and a man’s voice coldly warns him to “Get the fuck off her before I blow your goddamn head off.”

  I don’t think Arno realizes until the man doesn’t move or say anything in return that he’s already dead. “Son of a bitch!”

  I wheeze for air as the pressure on my chest is suddenly lifted. The man falls sideways, and a thick hand is thrust before my face to help me up.

  “Jesus Christ.” Arno glances over to the dead man lying a few feet away. I don’t know if it’s fear or admiration I see in his eyes when he looks at me again. Maybe it’s a bit of both.

  He says nothing while I wrestle my sweatpants into place, and for a moment we just linger there, panting in the tiny enclosed space while blood forms a puddle on the floor.

  In the end, Arno surveys the dead man with a grunt and runs a hand through his red hair. “I guess Dante’s not the only one used to fighting his way out of a cage.”

  “You...you were going to help me,” I say, my voice rasping. Not only that but he wasn’t throwing me down, eager to try and “kill an hour” for himself. My fingers tense over the unfamiliar hilt of the knife just in case he changes his mind and a part of me cackles at the motion. Anyone should have been easier to bear than Vinny—only a few days ago, I’d sworn that to myself. Was I really willing to fight my way through another man—and possibly even more—just to preserve what little tarnished “virtue” I had left?

  One twitch of my hip—which triggered a pai
nful throb in my core—and I know the answer. To protect the deal I had made with the devil, I just might...

  Rather than make a move for me, Arno grits his teeth. “Yeah,” he admits. “But not for you. If I let that fucker touch you, Dante would kill me—and I’m not being funny when I say that. If I let that man touch you, Dante would kill me.” He spits out each word so that I don’t miss the bitter undertone of truth. “A skinny bit of ass isn’t worth my life.”

  I have to agree with him as I finally let the knife fall.

  I wasn’t worth anyone’s life, and when my eyes fall over the dead man again, I feel pity instead of guilt. What a stupid way to die.

  A rap on the partition separating the back of the van from the front is the only warning before it starts moving again, and I’m not exactly sure which emotion churns my stomach as I scramble to get my bearings. Am I sick with fear? Sick with anticipation? Sick with pain?

  All three have their merits, and I’m trembling when the van finally comes to a stop right before the door is opened from the outside.

  “Get back.” Arno all but shoves me behind him to reach the exit first, and his voice reaches back to me on a low whisper. “We have a problem.”

  Faint light spills in as Arno climbs out—but I can’t make out the figure standing on the other end. Mack is my first guess, but when my vision clears I make out two piercing blue eyes...

  The devil waits until I creep closer before he plunges a hand through the doorway of the van and clasps the one I stick out to meet him, pulling me out onto a narrow street. Relief is such a powerful emotion outside of Vinny’s cage. It weighs me down until I can only stand there, observing every inch of my devil. He’s not dead, at least, and I don’t make out any fresh bruises or cuts forming over his body. But there’s a look in his eye... It’s familiar for a reason that drenches me in dread. His eyes seem more dead than those of the man I just killed. Speaking of which, I’m jostled aside as an unfamiliar man peeks into the shadow of the van.

  “Kayden?” he calls out. When he doesn’t get an answer, he climbs in, and I assume the startled curse he utters next means that he noticed the body lying in the corner.

  “Kayden? He’s dead! What the fuck?” Before the man even fully leaves the van, three men standing behind Dante start to draw their weapons—though they quickly change their minds when Arno pulls his out first. Two other men automatically step toward him, and invisible lines of loyalty are drawn in the sand.

  “Your friend had a little ‘accident,’” Arno says coldly. “Had to learn the hard way that ‘no’ means ‘no.’”

  “You?” The man who drew the gun demands, his weapon still trained in our direction.

  Arno scoffs. “Who else?” My hands flex, still wet with warm, sticky blood—but no one even looks at me, and Arno wears the suspicion with pride. “You wanna end up like him?”

  “We’ll settle this later,” Dante snaps, drawing the attention to himself. “At the moment, we have about five minutes before the cops hone in. I don’t know about you fucks, but I’d rather not spend the night in jail.”

  The men grunt in agreement and follow as Lucifer turns down a narrow alley that smells like fish and into a small, enclosed parking lot currently inhabited by three large vans. I don’t understand why we’re here until one of the vehicles opens and women—all in various stages of dress—climb out.

  Just like that, I stop thinking about murder and death. I forget all about Vinny. The only thing that matters is the emotion shooting through my chest, which robs me of everything, even the will to breathe.

  Relief? Triumph? Fear?

  The devil came through for me yet again. Because of him, at least one of Vinny’s precious businesses has taken a hit. Whatever happens after this moment, there can be no going back—and it’s an incredible, paralyzing sort of freedom to know that somewhere...Vinny is seething because of me.

  I’m still paralyzed by the shock, even as Dante explains to Arno how the plan went. “Police on the way...tipped off...”

  I can only start to move when my eyes finally connect with the kohl-lined gaze of one of the women. She’s terrified, her pupils massive and her breathing heavy.

  “What the fuck do we do now?” I hear someone ask as I start forward.

  I make the choice for them, reaching out to trail my bloody hand down the arm of a pale, frightened girl wearing an outfit similar to the one I wore in my video. She flinches, cringing back.

  “You’re free,” I tell her—all of them. “You’re free.”

  “Not so fast.” I turn around just as the devil approaches. He takes his time, his gaze flicking from woman to woman, and I’m not stupid enough not to understand that he’s tallying up their worth. Hundreds? Thousands? What will Lucifer find more lucrative? His promise to me, or the profit even a handful of these women could net him?

  I’m not sure what he decides when he reaches into his pocket and withdraws a wad of money that he slaps against my palm. “We found this inside one of the hideouts.”

  I nod, my throat thick, and the devil says nothing as I turn to the nearest woman and press a handful of bills into her trembling hands.

  “Take it,” I tell her, raising my voice so that they all can hear me. “Take it and run.”

  “Spread out,” Lucifer adds, coming to stand beside me—my fallen angel lording over the souls he’s just saved. “No more than three at a time. Go anywhere—just get out of the city. Run. Hide. None of us will come looking for you. But...” he dangles the word like a juicy piece of bait held over starving dogs, newly freed from a life in a cage. “If you want to get back at the bastards that did this to you, then memorize this number. Once you’re safe—and only then—call it. A man named Van Hallen will answer it. Tell him Dante Vialle told him to take fucking notes, and then you spill whatever you remember.”

  If anyone answers him, they do so quietly, in murmurs and suppressed whimpers. They’re still asleep, I think. Still locked in the throes of the nightmares their lives have become. I doubt that they fully start to wake up until I shove the first girl toward the mouth of the alley where up ahead two men make sure the coast is clear. She staggers, her eyes uncertain while her body pitches sideways. My hand on her arm stops her from falling, but Dante’s voice is what finally snaps her awake.

  “You all have five minutes,” he says. “If you want your freedom, then I suggest you fucking take it.”

  Just like that, the girl runs, her hair flying out behind her. Then it’s a mad dash to shove countless dollars into pale, trembling, grabbing hands before each woman follows suit, obeying the devil’s instructions to the letter.

  Their faces blur, fearful, young, sometimes with battered features. It’s only when one of them presses her cool hand against mine that familiarity freezes me in place. Her blue eyes are more haunted than when I saw them last, caked in mascara that runs in rivulets down her cheeks. Matted blonde hair hangs limp and lifeless down her shoulders, attempting to shield more of her skin than the skimpy black dress she wears does.

  Olga says nothing when I press the cash into her palm. Or when I throw one arm around her shoulders in the semblance of something that could have been a hug in a different life. She merely nods when I draw back, and for a second we are bonded by our scars left by Vincent Stacatto. When I tell her to run she does so without question, disappearing through the alley like smoke. I only have a few bills left, which I divide evenly between the final few women, and they disappear as well.

  I watch them go until the moment Lucifer’s hand descends over my shoulder, steering me around to face him.

  “We need to go,” he says, and I can only nod.

  Part of Vinny’s empire has just been set on fire, and only God knows what might come out of the ashes.

  We reach Mack’s compound in silence—a strange show of victory for a returning army. Anger licks at the air as the comrades of the dead man toy with what matters to them more: revenge or their lives? They hold off on making a decision
until Lucifer drags me out of the van, at least.

  “Mack’s inside,” someone says, jerking their chin toward the building that houses the bar. Lucifer doesn’t respond, but I sense the tension coiling in his body as he starts forward, pulling me along. Arno falls into step behind us, and the rest of the men trail in our wake while Dante takes the lead, entering the bar first.

  “Well done, Kitty,” Mack drawls from a stool at the bar counter. At least forty men pack the room full, watching as the devil hauls me inside. Arno takes up a position near the door, his hands at his sides, open and ready. “Your plan worked out,” Mack admits, though his tone falls flat. He isn’t pleased. Not really.

  Forty newly freed women are running loose around the city now—each worth at least a grand. Mack doesn’t like having his pretty bones snatched away. He snarls in anger even as he counts the money stacked on the counter before him.

  “Nabbing the drugs wasn’t as easy as you made it seem,” he adds, “but we managed to make a dent. Everyone’s happy—” he forces a smile that seems like a gruesome mockery of the real thing. “Or, almost everyone.” His eyes hone in on Arno. “A man named Kayden, to be exact, isn’t very happy now is he, Arnold? A man who is...was...my friend.”

  Arno doesn’t flinch beneath the hostility directed his way. In fact...I think he feeds off it. With a wicked grin, he draws himself up to his full height, but there’s nothing but ice in his tone when he speaks. “The bastard crossed a line.”

  “I don’t really give a shit,” Mack says, his lips still stuck in that impression of a smile. “He could have pinned the little bitch down and forced her to suck him off in the middle of traffic. Unless...you have a problem with that?” His eyes are on Arno, but the question is directed solely at the man tethering me to his side. “Don’t tell me that you have a hard-on for Stacatto’s whore...”