Beast: A Hate Story, The Beginning

Twisting the remote in his hand, he thought about her resolve. Her strength had shocked him. The night before, he’d watched her through his cameras, watched what she would do. He’d left the door open for her, but she refused to go through it, proving she was a quick study. For four hours he’d stared at his monitor. He had work to do, shit to get done, but he couldn’t help staring at the girl.

Mostly she sat in the corner, head in her lap, conserving her warmth. He wasn’t worried about the cold. The human body is hardy and it would take much more than a window for her to die. Mostly, it would be uncomfortable. But then she’d taken off her dress and lain down, and he’d sat up straighter in his chair. For an hour she’d been stone and unmoving. Another hour had passed and he’d watched as snow settled on her naked skin.

Then he’d had to intercede, which was a burgeoning pattern with her. Beast would formulate a plan and in some way or another, she’d ruin it. He needed to get her out of his life, but for the first time, he wasn’t sure he was in control of that decision. It was as if he was watching his hand pick up a ball when his mind said to pick up a bat.

With an exhale, Beast closed his fist over the remote and sat down at his desk. He looked out at the room; the office looked very different than the first time he’d been there.

But it hadn’t always been his office, just like the Beast hadn’t always been a beast—or at least, it hadn’t always been so obvious.

He was once Anteros Drago, an orphan that slept on the streets of Venice. It was coincidence, or maybe fate, that brought him to the feet of the infamous Lucio Pavoni. Lucio had long since immigrated to the States and was operating the business from there when their paths collided.

Lucio Pavoni was a name of legend in Italy. Anteros grew up hearing the stories so much that Lucio was a myth, and myths never appeared in reality. Also, in all of the stories, Lucio stayed in the boot of Italy, in Sicily. He’d never visit Venice, everyone said.

Then one hazy yellow day, Anteros picked the wrong pocket. Anteros wasn’t afraid to pick the pockets of the elite; in fact, they were his favorite targets. While other urchins went for the obvious—tourists with their maps out and heads buried—Anteros cast his line for the biggest fish.

That fateful day, Lucio Pavoni wore a bespoke three-piece suit and shoes that reflected brighter than the sun, but it was the way he held himself that drew Anteros to him. He radiated power. He reflected reverence. That day Anteros wanted to pick something more than money.

Anteros followed him through the streets, keeping a distance, waiting for the right moment. He was just a boy then, and his youth and the ability to avoid any real consequences had made him foolhardy. When he grasped Lucio’s wallet, all of that changed.

It had been more than two decades since Anteros picked Lucio’s pocket. Now the man was dying and Anteros was only weeks away from staking a final, irrevocable claim of power. Anteros spun in his chair and looked out to the iron blue water of the Hudson River. He could be sure this was not the future Lucio had intended when he took Anteros with him that day—him lying sick and dying in a bed while Anteros sat in his warehouse moving around chess pieces to maintain his tenuous grasp on power.

Those in the Family used to wonder why Lucio would rescue an orphan, and the conclusion was that Anteros was the shoddy replacement for the two sons Lucio had lost. Anteros knew the truth. Lucio had always treated Anteros with less dignity than the other soldiers. As he grew, other soldiers—worse soldiers—got promoted ahead of him. The most Lucio saw in Anteros was a ghost of what could have been, and that made him bitter.

Staring out the top-floor window to the docks on the river, Anteros remembered back to when Lucio was actually running things, not just in name. The window was a testament to that time, the glass old and blurry, having not been replaced during the renovations.

Anteros had spoken to Lucio in the very room he stood in now, though then it had been just a derelict warehouse. There had been no furniture, the lights were just bulbs swinging from strings. The room had been quiet, cold as there was no heat, the only sound was a faint creaking as the wind wove its way through the wood.

He’d hoped to get approval, hoped to get promoted. Anteros had been a soldier much longer than the others and was starting to wonder when he would advance—if he would advance.

“Listen to me, boy,” Lucio had growled. “I’ve been running this longer than you’ve been alive. I could snap my fingers”—he did so—“and have you killed. You’re nothing but what I make you.” Anteros had nod

ded deferentially and left.

That day Anteros stopped relying on anyone but himself. Lucio had given him passage to America, but that was all he would give him. Lucio preached about brotherhood and rising far in the Family, but like most preachers, his tongue was simply coated in honey. A few months later a job would bring Anteros and the Wolves together, cementing his conclusion: if he wanted power, he would have to take it.

Anteros turned from the old glass to his office. Placing his hands atop his desk, he curled them into fists. Inside one palm he could feel a protrusion—the remote he’d brought with him. Despite his early intervention with Frankie, the punishment had had the desired effect: that morning Frankie obeyed his commands. Still, he saw the disobedience in her eyes. Occasionally she slipped, her tongue betraying her thoughts and revealing the iron soul beneath, the iron soul he felt compelled to bend.

He thought about her back at his home. He’d put her in his bed again after punishing her, needing to have her in his sheets. It should bother him, he should be wondering why he was doing it, but all he could think about was her in his bed.

Waiting for something she didn’t know was coming.

Just as his finger pressed on the remote, there was a knock at the door. He closed his palm, pulling the remote into his lap, and called out, “Come in.”

Rhys entered the office, Emilio trailing with bored interest behind him. Stopping before Anteros, Rhys held his arms behind his back, ever the respectful subordinate, and quickly launched into what Anteros missed the night before at the meeting with the Wolves.

“I’ve spoken with Senator Hatch,” Rhys stated. “Half-way through the cycle, he’ll drop out.” Emilio sat down and slouched comfortably on the couch. He had at least dressed properly, Anteros noted as Emilio crossed a bespoke suit-clad leg.

“I assume he has no choice,” Anteros said, shifting his gaze from Emilio’s shined shoe and back to Rhys. Rhys nodded succinctly. “And if our connection leaks?” Anteros asked.

“We’re not worried,” Rhys said. Bringing his arms from behind his back, Rhys folded them with authority. “The people we hired to spin Emilio could make rape sound like a day at the park,” he continued.

Emilio barked a laugh. “Too bad the senator didn’t hire her.” While Rhys and Emilio spoke, Anteros’s gaze flicked down to the remote in his palm. Earlier that morning before he’d left her, Frankie ate breakfast in his bed. He hadn’t thought long about why he’d put her in his room again. It wasn’t like he needed the space, he spent the night working in his home office.

In the morning when he’d opened his door, he’d found her swallowing down eggs in his bed, a look of distaste on her face. She hadn’t complained, though. Those hours in the freezing storage room had quelled her urge to whine about food, yet when he’d beckoned her to his side, she’d stayed put and said, “You don’t own me.” It was quiet and under her breath, but he’d heard it all the same.

It had been a long, long time since Anteros had anyone question him. Frankie wasn’t just fiery; the burn inside her caught like wildfire on pollen, igniting something inside of him. He’d paused, looking at the way she stared at her eggs, watching the war wage inside of her. She appeared so innocent, so sweet, but he saw beyond that to the darkness within.

There were depths to her and he wondered if even she was aware of them. It was beyond mesmerizing; it was beguiling.