Beauty, a Hate Story the End

“This cunt,” Anteros groaned. “Don’t you ever fucking take this away from me again.”

“Never,” I gasped.

“No more lies,” he growled. “I promise you.” He sucked my neck, deliriously working his lips and tongue on the skin, but his words stilled me. No more lies—I had to fucking tell him about my sickness. With all the strength I could muster, I pushed him off me.

I needed to get it out quickly, but I was still so scared. After everything we’d gone through, it was stupid to be afraid, but I fiddled with my dress all the same. My entire life people had left me for being sick. I didn’t want to add Anteros to the list.

“Anteros I have to tell you—” I stopped. He waited patiently, eyes drawn in that concerned, narrow way unique to him. Shadow and flame hardened and softened him all at once. He was so breathtaking and unfair in his beauty. I looked down, focusing on the silver fabric of my dress juxtaposed against my dirty, bloody fingers.

With a deep sigh, I met his stare. “I’m sick, I’m still sick. I’ll always be sick.”

The crease in his eyebrow deepened. “What are you telling me?”

“I’ll always be sick,” I whispered. “I just spent yesterday unable to leave my bed. Sometimes it’s longer. It happens occasionally and there’s no fixing it. I’m not going to die or anything, but I’ll be sick for the rest of my life.” With a sound low in his throat, he pushed me hard against the wall. His eyes were raging, bluegreen pits of undecipherable emotion.

I fucking knew it.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I should have told you. I know this changes things.” I tried to disentangle myself, but he pinned me, flattening his palms on the wall on either side of my face.

“Foolish girl,” he said, planting his lips on mine for a harsh kiss. “Still thinking that anything you do or say could affect how I feel about you. If only you would stay the fuck still and let me love you.” He pressed his body deep into mine, heating up all the cold parts of me.

“What?” My breath hitched when he put his face into my neck.

“You were alone. Alone,” he growled against the curve where my neck and shoulder met. “No one was there to help you. Stop running from me and let me take care of you.”

“I—”

“Don’t you ever fucking do that again,” he interrupted.

“Don’t you ever fucking lie to me again,” I countered. Our eyes locked. I wouldn’t back down from this, no matter how furious he was.

He exhaled. “Never.”

“I can’t go through that again,” I whispered.

“You won’t have to,” he said. When I didn’t lessen my glare, his eyes narrowed and he asked, “Do you believe me?”

“I don’t know,” I whispered truthfully. “I don’t know how I can trust you again.” Anteros gripped my skull, turquoise depths swirling as he searched my eyes. They were hard like stone, but beneath the guard he put up, he was raw. With another exhale, Anteros pushed off me and turned away, running a hand through his dark hair.

“There is only one thing you don’t know about me,” he said. “And then there will be no secrets left between us.”

Nineteen

There was only one skeleton Anteros hadn’t revealed to Frankie. With Crazy A dead, he could have kept it buried, but Anteros wanted Frankie to trust him completely. He wanted to be so bared that their souls became tangled nerves. Live. Open. Unable to mask pain or passion.

“This is something no one knows.” He turned to Frankie. “Not the Wolves, not Lucio. With Crazy A dead, I thought I would take it to my grave.” Frankie straightened, eyes wide as the candlelight flickered across her glowing honey skin. Grasping her hand, he brought her to a barstool and made her take a seat. Frankie had said she would always be sick and Anteros was determined to take care of her, starting in this warehouse. She shifted on the leather stool until her legs dangled through the shredded bottom of her dress. When Anteros was sure she was comfortable, he walked away, needing space to tell the story.

“Crazy A was the last in our group to get a nickname,” Anteros began. “Unlike the rest of us, Crazy A came from a good family. He was born Alcide Scarsi, but every male in his family had become a De Luca by marriage. Alcide was betrothed to a high-ranking De Luca woman from birth, his father hoping to make his son the councilman he’d never been.”

“Wow,” Frankie said. “I never would have imagined him as a De Luca. He was so…” Frankie didn’t need to finish the sentence; Anteros knew what she was thinking, but Crazy A hadn’t always been the way he was, and that was what Anteros was going to tell her.

How he’d been the one to make him crazy.

“The Pavonis love to exploit anything and anyone that falls outside the umbrella of the law,” he explained. “Back when homosexuality was illegal, they operated some of the only openly gay clubs at the time.”

“Well, that’s not so bad,” Frankie said. “I mean, for the mafia.”

“The Pavoni Family is horribly homophobic. They have no religion besides the worship of their business and Boss, but that didn’t stop the thorny vine of prejudice and hate that weaves itself into all other religions. If you were in the Family, you couldn’t even think about dating someone of the same sex. It was one thing to make money off them, another thing entirely to accept it. This thought process persisted well past the day homosexuality was made legal.”