At first Anteros thought Frankie was a ghost. The way her hair caught the moonlight and her eyes pierced the darkness made him sure of it. She was just something sprung from a month of wanting. Nothing more than twenty-four hours a day, thirty-one days of constant, aching need manifested.

But then she moved.

And he knew.

“You still have a piece of me with you,” Anteros said, tightening his grip on the diamond pendant. She was still so willful, standing on her tiptoes until she was about to fall over, refusing to give him an inch. With one final tug on the silver chain she stumbled and fell into him, small fingers making indents on his chest, hot breath seeping into his tank.

Fuck, he’d missed her.

“Only because I had to leave before I could tear off the part I really wanted to take.” She looked at his hard cock pointedly. Though it sounded like a threat, her voice wavered, and she latched onto his shoulders.

“I love it when you talk dirty to me, mio cuore.” He pulled her close and pressed his lips against the skin of her throat, raking his teeth along the cords of muscle. Her breath stuttered, a sharp inhalation that went straight to his cock. He fought the urge to bury his face into her skin, to crush her to him entirely, and fuck her right then and there—the fact that they would be caught be dammed.

Anteros made a knot in her hair, feeling the silky strands that had been gone from his life for a month, and gripped tight so he could slide his gaze down her body. She was wearing jeans, a faded v-neck and a simple jacket, the same type of clothing she’d worn just before she left. The jeans fit her perfectly, molding to her curves, showing off her ass. He wanted to rip open the shirt and expose her petite breasts.

Somehow she matched him more this way than she ever had in all the designer shit.

“I’m not your heart,” she said, voice almost quieter than the breeze, and Anteros nearly missed it.

He raised a brow, surprised she’d figured out the meaning of his pet name, then tugged her hair, tilting her neck so he could see into her crystal blue depths. “Yet here you are.”

“I haven’t come back to you,” she whispered. “I’m not the same girl.” Her eyes flashed to Big O, to the blood reflecting black in the night, and to the discarded knife. She closed her eyes, pained, guilty lines marring her forehead. He knew he should feel rage, sadness—something. Yet as he stared into Big O’s lifeless eyes, the need pounding against his chest grew stronger. He’d suspected there was a darkness in Frankie, had sensed something deep underneath, but there was still so much untapped. Knowing she’d begun to break the surface made him go fucking crazy.

“I’m well aware, Francesca,” he said. “You’ve been busy.” Her eyes popped open when he used her full name then slackened when he thumbed her lower lip. Once upon a time Frankie had insisted he call her Francesca and he’d denied her that respect. He’d denied her many respects, and he wouldn’t make those mistakes again.

Anteros pulled his thumb from her lip and Frankie’s eyes widened, horrified to find Big O’s blood colored the skin. But, as he wordlessly slid the pad along his tongue, licking the blood from it, Frankie’s lids drooped and her tongue darted out, sliding across her lower lip in sync with it. Then, as if she’d sensed her own involuntary reaction, she jerked away from him and backed up until she hit a tree.

“That’s, that’s—” she stuttered. “That’s not what I meant. I didn’t mean to do this.” Anteros was on Frankie in one fierce stride, pinning her against the bark. He quickly ran the length of her body, needing to feel every inch in seconds. The curve of her neck, the slope of her breasts, the little dip of her waist—fuck she’d been gone too goddamn long. She arched for his touch yet still clutched the tree for dear life. He tightened his grip at her waist, yanking her to him.

Anteros sucked her neck, bruised the flesh with his lips, forcing her to take his embrace until she melted and stopped gripping the bark, latching onto him. Her sighs transformed into moans and he covered her mouth with his hand, lips getting the skin of his palm wet as she panted. They were too close to his club, could easily be found. Big O wasn’t the only man out patrolling.

“No,” she gasped, pushing his hand from her mouth. “This was an accident. I didn’t mean to do this.” There was fervent fear in her eyes—not of him, but herself. She struggled in his hold, trying to break free from him and his kisses, but that only made him push her harder against the tree.

“An accident?” he asked. “How did you find me?”

Her eyebrows scrunched and she pulled her lips together, as if holding in a secret. Anteros’s eyes slimmed, and he grasped both her arms with one hand and held them above her head.

“How did you find me, Frankie?” he repeated, lips hovering below her ear.

“Your map,” she breathed. “I found the map you left me.”

Anteros smiled wickedly. “That doesn’t sound very accidental.” He released her hands and they fell to his shoulders. He lavished kisses along her neck, her collarbone, pausing at the swell of her breast to rumble his next words. “Now that you’ve had a taste you won’t stop. Your eyes are open. You’ve seen how dazzling the darkness can be.”

She whimpered, eyelids fluttering like butterfly wings. Anteros laughed lowly when Frankie gnawed her lower lip, fighting the urges within her. The heat of her skin rose up to meet his lips, her nails dug deep into his flesh, and he knew he would crack her soon enough, expose her for the slave she would always be.

Frankie swayed closer, curving to his touch, eyes closed and sighs music in his ear. For a moment, Anteros thought they would make a symphony, but then she shoved her elbow against his gut. The surprise of it made him stumble back and she spit on his cheek.

She walked backward, past where Big O’s blood had wet the cement, making bloody footprints. She looked down, eyebrows caving. Weak light stole into the copse of trees, casting half her face in light and the other in shadow.

“Don’t you…” Her breath released from her nose in a dragon’s fury. “Don’t you dare do this right now.” Her glare was hard and angry, but beneath that he saw the truth. “Not here. Not with, with…” she stuttered again, eyes dropping to Big O’s slack and lifeless face. He grinned crookedly and slowly advanced toward her. She eyed him warily but didn’t move, making small fists as if fighting something within herself.

“Don’t lie to me.” He slid his palm around the small of her back, pulling her to him, and whispered beneath her earlobe at the base of her skull. “This gets you wet.” Eyes locked, Frankie swayed toward him as if in a carnal trance, bringing her hands to a rest on his pectorals. A hot sigh left her parted lips, white steam in the night. She inched closer until her breath was hot and hazy on his lips, and Anteros thought she would finally give in. Then suddenly the trance shattered, and her tiny fists, elbows—anything she could use—pushed at him. This time he was ready and didn’t let her go.

“The blood,” he said, drawing her tighter. “The death.” She pounded harder while her body swayed closer. “The power.” He dove his hand into her jeans, groping the bare skin. All at once Frankie ceased struggling, fists becoming open palms on his pectorals, mouth parting.

“It gets you fucking hot,” he continued. “Lie with your mouth all you want, the truth is between your legs.” Anteros thrust two fingers into her and nearly groaned; it was so easy to slide inside. “You’re so fucking hot for this, you’re dripping down my hand.” Frankie grasped his tank and turned her head to the side, muzzling her breathless cry against his bicep. “Do you like pretending to be a normal girl? A good girl?”

She moaned and, fuck, that sound—it was almost as devastating as her screams. If he could bottle her moan and save it, he’d be the most powerful man in the world. It was so telling, too. She loved the bruises. She loved the danger. She was afraid so she pretended to hate everything Anteros did, but he could tell by the wetness pooling between her legs and the breath leaving her parted lips that she loved every minute of it. She wanted to see what the other side held and Anteros was the key to the door.

“You can be my good girl, Frankie,” he rumbled. “Just say you fucking need this.” A few beats passed before she spoke, and then the words were muffled against his skin. “I can’t hear you.” Anteros thumbed Frankie’s clit, hard enough to have pleasure throbbing through her body, but soft enough to have her craving more.

She gripped his tank and pulled him closer, hips moving a tormenting circle on his fingers. Placing his lips where her shoulder met her neck, he bit. She screamed and he lifted his head, crushing his lips against hers to stifle the noise. She hungrily took him, moaning into his mouth, grinding her pussy on his fingers while gripping his shoulders, skin rubbing against skin. Anteros growled and pushed her harder into the tree, plunging deeper. When Frankie was like this, it was fucking maddening, almost enough to forget that she still hadn’t said what he’d told her to say.

Reluctantly, Anteros slid his fingers from her body. Frankie made a small noise in the back of her throat, but she still didn’t admit her need. With his free hand, he grabbed her own and shoved it in her jeans, forcing her to feel the wetness. The heat. The blatant need.

“Say it.”

“Okay,” she hissed, lidded gaze slowly transforming into a glare. “I like it.” The ire in her tone dissipated and her glare dropped to the ground. A ghost of a smile came to his face, but he worked it out with his jaw before she could see it.

“Close, but not quite.” Before she could respond, he dropped her hand and pulled her into a kiss.

He devoured her.

Ate her.

Consumed her until there was nothing left. Anteros had been aching to kiss Frankie for a month and now that his lips were on her, he was punching himself for not doing it the first fucking moment he’d laid eyes on her. Held between his palms, he made sure to keep her still until he was done feasting. Her tongue found his, tangled with it and waged war, but she surrendered. Arching her back, she sighed and capitulated.

Fuck.

She was made for him. Her saliva got him drunk. Breaking the kiss, he lavished her jaw, her throat, then sucked on the veins. He held her face so she had to stay still and take his attack, her breath uneven in the night. When he went back to her swollen lips, he bit the lower one until her breaths disappeared inside a thready cry. Then he thrust his tongue inside to silence her scream, the coppery taste of her blood sharp in his mouth.

She was still hot on his tongue when he noticed Frankie had been touching herself the entire time. Anteros stifled a groan at the realization. His forehead was to hers, light only a sliver through the space between their faces.

“I need this,” she whispered. Just as their lips were about to touch, the crunching of twigs sounded; someone was in the woods with them.

Their heads broke apart and snapped to the sound.

“Is that you, Boss?” called the unmistakable voice of Little O. “You okay?”

Frankie tore from his embrace but before she could run, Anteros snatched her elbow. Terror dripped down her face like wet paint and she tugged furiously on the grip.

“Stay,” Anteros said. “Don’t go back.”

“And be what? Your permanent slave?” Her eyes darted to where Little O’s voice had been heard. Anteros pulled her and she spun as if they were dancing. Her back hit his chest and he locked her in with one arm.

“Only if you beg,” he said in a low growl. Truthfully, if she came back, it would have to be as a prisoner. He’d been working the problem in his head over and over like a vulture with a carcass. That night at the hotel, something had become inviolable: they would be together. Somehow, he would have her at his side. He just hadn’t figured out how yet.

“Let me go,” she said, raking nails along his wrist. As painful as it was to release her, he wasn’t going to take her without consent. He needed Frankie to want him, fully and without hesitation. With a frustrated groan, he pushed her off him. She stumbled forward, throwing her hands out to keep from falling over.

She ran toward the cluster of abandoned buildings and half-finished developments beyond the trees. Just before the copse ended, Frankie turned back, cornflower eyes locking with his. The air stilled.

Half engulfed in shadows, Frankie watched him. She was too damn radiant, destroying the shadows around her like the sun does night. Watching her in the trees, Anteros realized he didn’t know when he would see her again. It was like someone had put cinderblocks on his chest. He’d gone a month without her, he didn’t think he could go another. Frankie’s mouth parted and her eyebrows caved, as if sharing the same thought. A crunch of more twigs snapping sounded as Little O got closer and Frankie turned, running toward the concrete and steel ruins of unfinished New York City developments.

Anteros bent over and picked up her knife—his knife—watching her get sucked into the syrupy black night. The blade was fresh with Big O’s blood. When he stuck it into his boot, it stained his flesh.

“Boss?” Little O came through the trees, pushing small branches out of his face. “What are you doing out—” He stopped completely when he saw Big O. As Little O steadied himself on a tree, Anteros couldn’t stop staring at the spot where Frankie had disappeared. A month he’d gone without her, and in the end, she’d sought him out.

* * *

“And you didn’t see anything?” Pretty Boy asked. Anteros thrummed his fingers on the table, deciding how to respond. Two days had passed since Frankie had come for him and Anteros was losing his fucking mind. As much as he wanted to force Frankie to come back with him and say fuck it all, she still wasn’t ready. She had the darkness but she feared it—feared him—and he wasn’t going to take her captive again. When she came to him, it would be willingly.

I found your map.

Anteros looked at his fingers against the shiny table, thinking back to the way they had just recently felt inside Frankie. Wet and hot, always constricting for him, even when she pretended to hate him. He’d left a clue for her, and in the end, it had brought her back.

They’d all but decided Lucia was behind Big O’s assassination, a fact Anteros didn’t dispute as it meant the Wolves had a place to direct their ire. The knife used to kill Big O was still in Anteros’s boot, blood long dried, the same one she’d used to carve him. He’d stared at the missing spot in his knife holder for weeks, would never mistake it.

It was an essential piece of intel, one that would have given Frankie and himself away, and thus had to be hidden—at least that was what Anteros told himself. The reason he carried it in his boot all the time was less clear.

“That’s not what I said.” Anteros stopped thrumming and looked up. “I said I didn’t see his face.” Pretty Boy scrunched his eyebrows, but Anteros knew he didn’t question his loyalty. He would never think it was Frankie. The truth had died that day in the hotel. As far as the Wolves were concerned, he hated the Pavoni Princess as much as the next soldier fighting this war.

They were in the back office of his club, the same club Anteros had gone to the night he’d found a Pavoni Princess Lives flyer on his balcony, the night he’d given too much of himself to Frankie. It was more underground than his mainstream clubs and easier to police with just the one entrance. With inky black walls and Victorian chandeliers, gauzy jewel-toned curtains reminiscent of Arabian nights, cigarette girls, and a false speakeasy door, the club was a melting pot of decadence and iniquity.

“We need more security here,” Pretty Boy said as he looked out a two-way mirror designed like a giant painting, complete with an elegant gold frame that allowed them to see the main floor. “After Rhys and now…” Pretty Boy trailed off, eyes traveling to a forlorn Little O in the corner as if he couldn’t believe it.

“Big O,” Little O finished for him, voice croaky. “And now Big O.” Little O didn’t look at Pretty Boy as he spoke; he hadn’t looked at anyone since the news broke, hadn’t even slept since that night. He kept his head in his hands, unwashed hair falling over them.

Anteros looked to Crazy A, the only one who might have an inkling of his true feelings. Slouched in a quilted, satin wingback chair, Crazy A eyed him silently, arms folded. Anteros wasn’t fucking stupid. The punishment he’d given Crazy A for his insubordination the month Frankie had been a slave hadn’t made him fall back in line. It had only made him quieter.

“Rhys is dead because of his own greed and stupidity,” Anteros pointed out. Technically Rhys had been one of the first casualties of the war, the Second Blood War as it was being called, but in reality he could never let the Africa deal go. As he’d been attempting to kidnap a De Luca girl to trade with Ekwensi, one of Lucia’s men had caught and killed him. Anteros would have killed him anyway, so he wasn’t mourning the loss.

“Fuck this,” Little O said loudly. “After Big O we need to move. We can’t keep operating in the open like this, like we aren’t at fucking war.” Little O rubbed the back of his neck nervously. Everything had always been certain for the Wolves since Anteros had brought them together, but now their footing was off.

Anteros and Lucia were neck and neck; it was what he’d been waiting for his entire life, the time to be Boss of the Pavoni mafia. He should have been concerned about security, but only Anteros knew that it was Frankie who’d killed Big O. It wasn’t Lucia or her men doing careful, pointed attacks—it was Frankie. Beautiful, scared of her own darkness, Frankie. They didn’t know any of that, just like they didn’t know he’d gotten her off to Big O’s death.

He still remembered the way her lips felt against his when she admitted she loved the blood, the death, the power. The admission had thrummed through him, vibrating inside his body.

When she’d been atop him in the hotel, he should have been angry then as well. She’d deceived him, carved him, and escaped. It had been the opposite, though. When her hand had been on the blade, cutting into him, it had only cemented what he’d suspected: there was darkness in her that craved the darkness in him.

If loving her was playing with fire, then it was wildfire, and he wanted to let it rage because nothing felt better than being licked by her flames.

“We still need to figure out how the slave escaped in the first place,” Crazy A spoke up, emerging from the shadows as he leaned forward on his elbows. “That will lead us to the leak.” His eyes zeroed in on Anteros. At least on that charge, Anteros was innocent. He still had no idea how Frankie had escaped.

“We know—Lucia,” Little O said.

“No shit Sherlock,” Pretty Boy said. “There’s a leak working for Lucia.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Little O snapped. Control was slipping, fear like pollution in the air. Even Pretty Boy was undone, his usually perfectly coiffed locks frizzy.

“Calm the fuck down. You’re starting to sound scared—”Anteros growled, getting to his feet, but he was cut off by a knock at the door.

“Sorry, Boss.” Nikolai came in, pushing the door all the way open. “But distro is here.”

* * *

It was night by the time Anteros was done with the Beauty distributor and he needed a shower and a change of clothes, but first he needed a fucking drink. Music from the club was like a heartbeat getting faster and faster at his back, just another reminder that a war might wage, but he still had a goddamn empire to run.

Anteros turned to face the mirror that looked out to the club while he poured cognac into a crystal glass. A nude woman swiveled in front of it, the painting tattooed across her body. Hair in 1920s finger curls and a feathered headband, she carried a polished cigarette tray, a vacant smile on her face. A man approached her and picked an item off her tray—a rope. All the cigarette girls were prostitutes with the same tray and offer: pick up an item and choose your fantasy. He set down the rope and picked up a silver hand mirror. All the girls all also sold Beauty, Beast’s designer drug. If you picked up the mirror, you bought Beauty, a drug like if ecstasy and heroin had a baby.

During the war, Anteros had managed to stay profitable, but the margins were slim. The longer the war continued, the slimmer they got. Anteros watched the man disappear with the cigarette girl and a cat o’ nine tails, lifting the drink to his lips. The minute the liquid burned his throat, though, there was a pounding at the door. He turned just in time to see Nikolai coming through the hidden entrance. Light from the club filtered into the room in ripples of color, like an underwater rainbow.

“There was a break-in,” Nikolai practically gasped, mopping blond hair off his forehead.

“Did you capture him?” Anteros hedged, keeping his voice and demeanor level even though his chest was constricting. Had Frankie come back?

“No, not even on camera,” Nikolai responded. “Somehow the person knew the blindspots.”

Slowly Anteros set his drink down behind him. “Then how do you know?”

“Something was left.” Anteros’s eyebrows pulled together in thought. Left? What the fuck could have been left? A second later, Nikolai filled in the blank. “A book.”

“A book?” Anteros replied, unable to hide his surprise. “Are you sure?”

Nikolai nodded. “I put it in your room.” Anteros reached back, grabbed his drink, and folded his arms in thought. Why would someone leave a fucking book? Swallowing his drink in one finish, Anteros set the glass down and headed for his room, Nikolai trailing after.

Technically it wasn’t a bedroom, as technically he wasn’t living there. The penthouse had better security, but in the penthouse Frankie had been like a phantom haunting him. He saw her reading in the library, felt her weight next to him in bed. So he’d started sleeping at the club, but even still, she haunted him. There was no way to run from that.

Anteros kept a few bespoke suits and shoes around in case he had a meeting with distro, but he’d all but hung up those clothes. He liked it Spartan. Street. Real. They didn’t warn you that when you changed how you dressed, it changed who you were. Anteros used to admire Lucio’s suits—they were the reason he’d picked Lucio’s pocket—because he’d assumed they meant power. Really those suits softened him, were the reason Anteros could take Lucio’s crown. Fancy clothes and fancy things didn’t belong in this world. This world was blood and fire and bone.

When Anteros got to the room he’d been crashing in, he saw the book on the couch. It was his book, from his library.

“Odd,” Anteros said, keeping his face still. Everything inside him wanted to tear into it and find the purpose for it being left. Instead he acted as if it meant nothing. “Have you informed anyone else of this?”

“Just you,” Nikolai answered and Anteros nodded, walking over to the mirror he’d had brought in.

“Good,” Anteros responded. “Keep it that way.”

“Should I destroy it, just in case?” Nikolai asked. Anteros paused, fingers at the bottom of his tank, and stared into Nikolai’s questioning celery eyes through the mirror.

“No.” Anteros ripped the tank off, throwing it to the ground. The F Frankie had carved had healed, but a scar remained, raised and rippled on his left pectoral, near the center of his chest, right where his heart would be.

Nikolai was the only one who knew the secret beating beneath his shirt. It was Nikolai who’d found Anteros on New Years, and to this day Anteros was thankful. He couldn’t imagine what would have happened had anyone else found him tied up, fucking branded by Frankie. He never would have been able to rein in Crazy A. Things would have been irreparably damaged with his Wolves, his reputation tarnished.

Nikolai had untied him, got him a tank, and spoke nothing of what had happened. They’d concocted the lie that Frankie drugged him and escaped, and that was all that was said. Anteros paused, touching the raised edges of the F. If he could go shirtless, he would. He opted for undershirts and muscle shirts because it was the closest to being shirtless.

“Where was it found?” Anteros asked, throwing on a new shirt and heading back toward the couch.

“It was left in front of the door.”

Anteros nodded then said over his shoulder, “Leave.” Without another word, Nikolai withdrew. Anteros heard the door open and, he thought, close. Then, he picked up the book.

Paradise Lost.

It was the first book he’d caught Frankie reading. That was not a coincidence. The leather was worn, cracking, but still soft. He could still envision her reading it. Curled up on the wingback, face scrunched in concentration, wearing the ugliest clothes she could find but that did nothing to hide her beauty. The day was tattooed in his blood, because that day he’d given her rules.

Rules she would break.

Always fucking break.

He opened the book farther, finding one page had been dog-eared and some words underlined. Next to the underlined sentence, she’d written a message. As Anteros was reading, the floorboards groaned. He snapped the book shut and turned around.

Crazy A leaned against the wall, watching him with interest.

“What’s that?” He nodded his chin at the book.

“A book,” Anteros replied easily. “Come to take a reading break?”

Crazy A clenched his jaw but only said, “The substance found inside the needle in the hotel Bible is proving difficult to analyze. It’s unfortunate the slave wasn’t killed on time, then none of this would be happening.”

This was the game they’d played since Anteros had punished him. Crazy A didn’t question him outright, but he made sure Anteros knew his intent. A month ago, Anteros wouldn’t have thought twice about killing him over his fucking attitude, but now Frankie was fucking with his head.

There were two stories to how Crazy A became “crazy”: the truth and the lie. For years the lie hadn’t bothered Anteros, but now when Anteros looked into Crazy A’s eyes, he saw a craziness that matched his own. A madness at being without his other half.

With a deep exhale, Anteros walked over to Crazy A, calmly lifted him, and threw him against the wall.

“Keep questioning me and I’ll take a tongue instead of some fucking fingers.” His eyes shifted to the nubs on the end of Crazy A’s hand where a thumb and pointer used to be. Crazy A tried to respond and Anteros pushed his elbow into his neck until he sputtered breaths.

“I didn’t catch that.” Anteros pressed deeper until Crazy A’s face purpled, then all at once stepped off. “Get the fuck out.”

Crazy A coughed, gasping for air. His face was crimson, eyes taut in a fierce glare, but he wordlessly walked back the way he’d come. Anteros waited until he was down the hall to lock the door and open the book.

* * *

The message Frankie had written set fire to his blood. Before Anteros knew it, he’d thrown on a leather jacket and slipped out of the club.

He’d started driving his own cars and bikes again—no more fucking town cars. So, after hopping on his Ducati, Anteros was in the heart of Manhattan in no time. One foot on the street, engine still running, he stared at a nameless beige building made of perfectly symmetrical stone bricks.

Lucia Pavoni’s club.

Although so much other shit went down inside you could hardly just call it a club. It was more like all the circles of hell shoved into one tight dress.

“We know where she is,” Little O had pressed right after his twin’s death. “Let me go. Let me fucking take her out.” Anteros had ignored him because “taking Lucia out” was easier said than done; he realized that now. He’d grown up being told Lucia was a frail old woman stuck in Venice with nothing better to do than gossip. He would be swallowing that mistake for a while.

Lucia was a Pavoni.

He was a fucking fool for ever doubting her.

Anteros turned off the engine after a few minutes but watched the building for over an hour. People went in and out, mostly ones he didn’t know, but a few he did, like De Lucas he wasn’t surprised were loyal to Lucia. One person caught his attention, though not his surprise.

Governor Dubois, the fucking spineless prick who hadn’t been responding to any of their messages, entered the building. Anteros stared at the faceless black door Dubois had disappeared through as the wind kicked up, leather jacket stretching over his muscles as he flexed and relaxed his folded arms. He wondered how long Lucia had been in correspondence with the asshole, wondered if they’d been working together throughout their entire liaison.

Curtains rustled on a second-floor window, catching his attention. Just half a face appeared next to the filmy fabric, but it was unmistakable. Skin like sunlight, eyes bright and blue. Frankie. Their stares collided, then she quickly shut the curtains and disappeared.

That more than anything fucking enraged him. How dare she show up after a month away, give him a taste of what he’d been missing, then just fucking vanish? Goddamn tease. Even the curtains’ flutter after she’d gone was a fucking tease.

She knew exactly what she was doing giving him that book, writing that message—and if she didn’t, he’d show her.

Anteros tore out into the street. As much as he wanted to scale the wall and climb into Frankie’s room, it was too damn risky. One hour of recon wasn’t enough to know what else was in there.

Back at the club, the first thing Anteros did was find the Wolves. In the VIP section, they reclined on a sateen couch and smoked hookah. Puffs of sweet-smelling smoke wafted into the curtained off area, making it hazy and foggy. Pretty Boy’s arms were lazy over the back of the couch and Little O sucked on the uncoiled hose, blowing a big puff. Their eyes were red and glazed. Crazy A didn’t participate.

“Get the fuck up,” Anteros said.

“We’re taking a vacation,” Little O responded, blowing another puff of smoke. “You don’t give us enough vacation days. We’re filing a complaint with OSHA.” There was a deadness to Little O, a glassy film that coated his eyes.

Pretty Boy took the hookah and puffed. “That’s not who you file the complaint with.”

“Fuck you,” Little O responded without heat.

“You lazy fuckers are going to help me kill Governor Dubois,” Anteros cut in. Pretty Boy dropped the hose, which hit the polished floor with a clang.

“That’s a vacation I can get behind,” Little O said.

When Anteros finished filling them in, they decided grabbing Dubois before he reached his home in Albany was best. It would be easier, less messy, if they avoided the governor’s mansion. Assuming Dubois spent a few hours at Lucia’s, they only had a few hours to do the grab if they were going to do it that night.

And Anteros wanted to do it that night.

Pretty Boy drove and they arrived by dusk. The city was like an old photo, the blues and oranges of sunset muted by the gray of falling night. A light snow fell, dusting the cement. As the Wolves observed the door, Anteros found himself staring at the second floor, studying the curtains for the slightest flutter.

It was almost two in the morning when Dubois’ sandy blond head came out. The guard he’d brought opened a jet-black umbrella, reflecting streetlights as it got wet. They got into a charcoal SUV—just one guard and one driver they noted, and pulled away from the club. Pretty Boy followed at a close, but not too close, distance.

“Shit, he’s going to the private airport,” Little O said when the car made a left turn.

“Knock him off the road,” Anteros replied evenly. Pretty Boy revved the gas until they were side by side and, with a violent jerk, swerved the Escalade. They caught the driver unaware and knocked the SUV into the guardrail, causing it to tumble down a small hill.

Anteros thrust open his door, Dubois’ screams for help turning to distorted yowls in the night. Gripping the metal guardrail with one hand, Anteros flung himself toward the overturned car. The wheels were still spinning, heat from the car warping the crisp night air. As Little O went and pulled Dubois from the upended vehicle, Crazy A put four bullets in the guard and driver—head and heart, two for each.

“You’re so bad at returning our calls,” Little O said, grabbing Dubois by the hair. Dubois stopped screaming when he saw who’d come for him, but he grappled with the grip at his head as Little O shoved him head first into the Escalade. “It really hurts a girl’s feelings.”

Pretty Boy slammed the door shut, the inky tinted window reflecting all four of their faces.

* * *

Pretty Boy tied Governor Dubois to a thin, metal chair. In a soundproofed room at the back of the club, it was like someone had thrown a thick blanket over the place. Only the occasional thump of a heavy beat rattled the barren walls.

“I don’t know what the misunderstanding was here, men,” Dubois said, frantically trying to make eye contact. There was a crescent-shaped cut bleeding into one eye, and his shoulder was out of its socket. Dubois was probably in pain, but he would be out of it soon enough.

“Let’s talk this out like men,” Dubois attempted. Anteros shot a look at Pretty Boy, who then reached into his back pocket and pulled out a strip of fabric.

“Hey, what are you doing?” Dubois squirmed in the chair. “Hey wait—” Pretty Boy shoved the fabric into his mouth, tying it around his face.

When Dubois was secure, Pretty Boy joined the Wolves near the door, standing behind Anteros. Eyes wide, Dubois still sought to make contact as if it would save him. Exhaling, Anteros put one hand on his head and regarded Dubois. A traitor, but more than that, a visage of his old life.

“I tried doing it the Pavoni way,” Anteros said, folding his arms. “I tried wearing the fucking suits. I tried putting the words in my mouth. I thought if I did all of that, I would become who I wanted and get what I needed. The more I did that, the farther away I got. So I think I’ll do it my way.” Anteros flexed his knuckles, thinking about the book Frankie had left, and slowly advanced on Dubois. “I’ve been trying to fit a Beast into a suit for too goddamn long.”

Anteros put a hand on the seat, gripping the metal back. He bent over Dubois so his breath was an unwelcome heat on the man’s neck. Dubois craned his neck to get away, but it was fruitless. Anteros was at his ear, his next words earwigs that would tunnel down and ruin him.

“Anyone who gets in my way, dies. Anyone who fucks with me, dies. Anyone who screws me over, dies horribly.” Dubois yelled through his gag, shaking so much the chair screeched against the concrete floor. Anteros pulled out the gag and Dubois spat out cotton bits.

“You can’t do this,” Dubois blubbered. “I’m a governor!”

Anteros stood up straight, rubbed a finger under his nose. “You’ll still bleed.”

“You’ll go to jail.”

Anteros laughed. “I’ll be dead before then. You’ll be bone dust long before then.” Dubois continued to sputter as Anteros walked back to the Wolves. Pretty Boy and Little O eyed Dubois, bloodthirsty and eager. Placing a hand on Crazy A’s shoulder, Anteros pulled him aside.

“I’ll give you guys a few minutes alone, but then he’s mine.” Anteros briefly glanced at Dubois then returned to Crazy A. Eyes wide, Crazy A regarded Anteros like he’d never seen him before. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

“Time starts now.” Anteros headed for the door, but Crazy A grabbed him.

“Look.” Crazy A dropped his hand, rubbed it on his pants. “I’m glad you’re back.” Anteros stared into his eyes, knowing Crazy A would go ape shit if he discovered the real reason he was back. With a terse nod, Anteros left, Dubois’ frantic pleading silenced when the door shut.

Anteros went to his room, walking along secret hallways that lined the club. Every room in the building had its own adjacent hallway, each one a dusky mirror of the main club. When he got to his room, he grabbed Paradise Lost, putting it under his arm and hiding it in his jacket. He took his time on the walk back, letting the Wolves have their fun.

When he got to Dubois, the governor was leaking blood from his mouth, eyes, and nose, and was already missing a few fingers. Upon seeing Anteros, Little O set down the pliers and stood up. Without further communication, the Wolves left the room.

The door clicked shut and Anteros pulled the book out, placing it on the table next to the wrench. Dubois wasn’t just a traitor, he was a glowing memorial of what he’d lost himself inside. So Anteros would turn him into an effigy, a bloody warning to never let that happen again.

“I want you to know this will be public,” Anteros said, gripping Dubois by his bloody chin. “You’re not going to end up at the bottom of a lake with cinderblocks at your ankles. Your blood is going to drench the streets until the asphalt is stained and everyone knows who you fucked over.” Dubois’ one unbroken eye widened as Anteros released him, turning to the instruments.

The scalpel was so cold it felt wet in his palm, but it wasn’t right. None of the items were—wrench, pliers, they all felt wrong. Weapons had their place, but he’d always relished the grinding of bone against bone, blood on skin.

Anteros slammed his fist into Dubois’ nose, crushing it flat. It wasn’t until Dubois leaked brain matter that he finally reached for the scalpel. When Anteros had killed Arlo, he’d felt a tug on the restraints inside him, but now as he worked on Dubois he was finally undone. Ripped open. Freed.

Anteros set the scalpel down, wiped his bloody hands on his pants, and went to open the door. The Wolves were leaning lazily against the wall, but when the door opened and they saw him, they jumped to attention.

“I need a box,” Anteros said. “Something special. I’m sending someone a present.” They looked beyond him and, seeing what was left of the governor, grinned and dispersed. Anteros shut the door and turned back, focusing on the book he’d set beside the tools. Anteros walked over, stepping over what little remained of Dubois, and picked up Paradise Lost.

His bloody fingers smudged the paper as he turned to the words that had brought the Beast—the real Beast—back. Frankie had drawn a messy black line beneath the sentence Better to reign in hell, than to serve in heaven, and underneath it she’d written, Let me fall with you, Lucifer.