Beast: A Hate Story, The Beginning

“Do you know who did this?” Anteros asked.

“No one has come forward, exactly…” Big O said.

“Was it the Russians?” Anteros asked, brow furrowed. He had mostly destroyed the Bratva, the Russian mafia, years ago, but you never know—they were like weeds.

“It could be The Institute…” Pretty Boy said, eyes flicking away so he didn’t have to make eye contact. Anteros scowled. The Institute was known for getting pissed, but they often gave warning first. Plus, the way Pretty Boy spoke belied that he thought it was something else.

“Am I playing twenty questions?” Anteros asked with a growl. “How many guesses do I have left?

“We have reason to believe the Pavoni Princess is behind the attack,” Big O started.

Beast stood from his chair. “What? She’s alive?” He thought to Frankie, sitting downstairs in the warehouse, dressed like a queen.

Little O shook his head and sat up a little bit in the chair. “No. Dumbass means the rumor is behind the attack. We know there have always been radicals within the Pavoni family…” Little O trailed off, probably thinking about the rumor. “We think the rumor has given them strength.”

“Apparently there’s a rumor that you have a girl who may be the princess,” Pretty Boy said. Anteros sat back down and reached across his desk. Grabbing a loose piece of paper, he crushed it in his hand. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell them he already had Nikolai looking into that rumor and whether there was any merit to it.

Instead he said, “That’s bullshit, and you know it. She’s my fucking slave, the daughter of some loser in Jersey.” Even as Anteros said the words he didn’t quite believe them.

“After today’s attacks,” Rhys said, stepping forward. “The veracity doesn’t matter.”

“You know what you have to do,” Pretty Boy said.

Anteros exhaled. “I know.”

“Your position was untenable before,” Rhys said. “Now it is…”

“Now everyone thinks you have a pretty little Princess Peach,” Little O started.

“And you have to kill her before a-Mario comes looking,” Big O finished, tacking on an exaggerated Italian accent.

“I said I know,” Anteros growled. Standing up, he gestured to the door. “Leave. With all the shit that went down at the funeral, I’ve got a fuckton of work.” He sat back down, not bothering to watch them leave. It wasn’t so much work that drove Anteros to send his men away. The idea of killing Frankie was fucking impossible and he was not eager to have them see his weakness.

Focusing on his clenched fist, Anteros thought about business. In the few weeks Frankie had been in his life, he’d made more mistakes, cost himself more money, and made more senseless decisions than in his entire life. He knew his men were right; Frankie needed to be terminated. With an exhale, Anteros stood, but when he looked up, Rhys was still there.

“This may not be the best time,” Rhys said, shifting slightly.

“Spit it out.”

“It’s Gabriella,” Rhys continued. “She must be remarried, right? She still hasn’t born any children.” Anteros headed to the door. He hadn’t taken off his coat, which was still dusted with snow and dirt from the funeral.

“I said as much to the official council,” he replied. “I assume you have a person in mind?” That was how he’d procured Gabriella’s life. Gabriella was a broodmare who hadn’t bred, he’d reminded them. To kill her now was a complete waste.

“This would be an excellent time to move into Africa,” Rhys said, following him.

Anteros nodded. “Make the arrangement.” Anteros remembered the look on Frankie's face when she thought The Council had believed her story. She’d tried so hard to hide her joy. Like a child told not to guess at what presents lie beneath the wrapping paper, she shook the box anyway to try to figure it out. He hadn’t corrected her assumption.

Together he and Rhys left the office, and Anteros walked down the stairs to where Frankie waited. He imagined the look on her face when she discovered Gabriella would be sold and sent away. The Council would also be unhappy that Ekwensi wouldn’t take the De Luca name…but all he could picture was Frankie’s face.

When the car pulled up to the penthouse, Frankie was asleep. Her head rested against the juncture of between the seat and the window in what looked to be an uncomfortable position, but she was completely

out. Anteros assumed she was not used to staying up for days like he was. He leaned forward to wake her, but stopped short, hand midair.

She looked so peaceful. Her lashes fell against smooth honey cheeks and she breathed even, steady breaths. Her lips were slightly parted. The tone of her skin was paler, almost feverish, and Anteros assumed that was due to lack of sleep or the day’s events.

Nikolai opened the car door, breaking the spell and ushering in the light from the garage. Anteros stepped out and without thought, immediately walked to the other side—her side—and opened the door. He pulled her out from her car door into his arms. She stirred a little but then situated herself against him, head on his chest.

There was something right about holding her.