Anteros broke the kiss to rake his gaze over Frankie. She was fuzzy and gray in the dim light, but still so stunning. Cheekbones high, lips full, she was like a creature from a fairytale. A month without her had made him too aware of how lucky he was, and how easily that luck could vanish.

“What’s this?” he asked, eyes landing on a letter in her hand.

“I stole it from Lucia.” She handed it to him without hesitation. It was old, the paper thin, crispy, and buckling. Anteros turned his attention back to Frankie, ready to ask her more about it and the circumstances that lead to her stealing it, when he saw her.

Really saw her.

Tears streaked her cheeks, abject heaviness weighing down her shoulders. She was sad; something or someone—the thought incensed him—had made her upset. He’d been distracted and caught up in the fever of first seeing her, but up close it was obvious. She was defeated.

“You’ve been crying.” Stuffing the letter into his pocket, he brushed a thumb beneath her lid, swollen and red even in the gray night. His hand moved slowly from her cheek down to her neck, and she swayed into his caress.

“Tell me what happened.” At his demand, she pushed off him and spun to the front of the church, gripping the banister. The moon was full above them, shining rays of liquid silver through the slats. Her skin was bathed in it, hair silky and bright in the night. Bits of dust floated in the night like stardust, ethereal in the moon’s glow. The image stunned him, until he heard her sad hiccup.

“Frankie.” Anteros went and grabbed her, turning her so she faced him. She was hot against the cold night, squirming to get away. Her thighs rubbed against him and he pressed a leg between them, pushing her against the bannister.

“Stop squirming,” he said, voice gruff with restraint. Frankie didn’t listen and the harder she squirmed, the faster her shirt rose and caused his to rise as well, until their skin was touching. The simple contact was enough to have his dick slamming against his jeans. Anteros breathed evenly, battling the need to fuck her. “Unless you want me to take you right here and now”—he rubbed his nose from her ear to her collarbone, inhaling her—“Stop. Moving.” She stilled, and he took her face between his palms. “Tell me what happened.”

“I want to be with you,” she said in response. “I don’t want to go back to Lucia, I want to be with you.” He held her face, thinking of the problem he’d been trying to work out since the moment he’d realized he loved her. He wanted Frankie at his side. Fuck. He wanted that more than anything, but if he was going to take down the Pavonis and build a new empire, he needed the Wolves. It had always been the Beast and the Wolves.

Gripping her face harder, thumbs digging into her cheeks, Anteros imagined what it would be like if they ruled the underworld together. The vision taunted him, an apple in the garden, so sweet yet filled with ruination. Her blue eyes grew wide as she waited for his response, cogs worked, and he tried to figure out a way for them to be together for the one thousandth time.

All of them ended with her dead.

He let her go, abruptly walking to the other side of the church.

“It’s not safe for you,” he said, voice hoarse. A moment passed before she spoke.

“All right.” All earlier emotion and yearning in her voice died, a spring flower bloomed too early and killed by late winter snow. He turned around to see she’d started walking down the aisle, heading to the door. Anteros quickly cut her off, gripping her upper arm. She struggled again but he pushed her against a wall.

“Tell me what happened,” he repeated, this time pulling her chin between his fingers, refusing to let her go.

“What do you think happened?” she asked and kneed him in the groin. He groaned and let go, not expecting the hit. Putting a hand to the wall, he watched her walk away underneath his arm.

“We’re at war,” she said over her shoulder. “We’re enemies. I’m beginning to think I should just fuck off for good.”

Head down and palm flat, Anteros took one more breath before he stood up. Frankie’s breathing was rocky when he pulled her into his chest, her muscles coiled. It was like she wanted to run, yet as Anteros drew her deeper into his embrace, even though her nails dug into his wrist, she didn’t attempt to move.

“You don’t taste like my enemy,” he rumbled, moving Frankie’s hair from one shoulder to the other while placing his lips on the soft skin at the curve of her neck. Her head fell back, hair satin on his skin. “You taste like a tease of what I’ll find between your thighs.” He ghosted a hand there and she sighed, the delicious sound curling in his chest.

“Please,” she whispered, “let me come with you.”

“I can’t take you with me,” he said, dragging her earlobe with his teeth. “But I can leave me with you.”

* * *

Frankie spun around, weaving her arms around Anteros’s neck. She crushed her lips against his, bodies melding together like a perfect fucking fit. Anteros gripped her waist, slid his hands up her back, momentarily lost in the taste of her, the feel of her.

“Fuck, I want to be inside you,” he said against her lips when they broke for air—but Anteros had plans for Frankie. That night, he had plans. He’d been thinking about it since she’d carved him, had started planning it when he’d discovered the church. Reluctantly, Anteros untangled Frankie from him and went to get the supplies he’d hid in the church a few days before.

“I thought you wanted to be inside me?” Her voice drifted over his shoulder, lilting with a need she tried to hide, and a ghost of a smile came to his face. He went to the back room where he’d placed the items he needed. Hidden in his boot was the main event, but he’d stuffed the church with a few other items too large to carry in his shoe. He returned with a blanket and laid the soft, plaid fleece on the floor. Frankie’s eyes widened with anticipation.

“That sounds like a request,” he said then grabbed Frankie’s wrist and pulled her down. She fell underneath him with a squeal, smile bright.

Her pajamas were nothing like she’d worn when she was with him—just satin pants and a camisole—but somehow seeing Frankie like this, just herself, drove him into a state of mad lust. Perky, irritatingly tempting pink circles were visible beneath the thin fabric of her top, and Anteros lightly brushed the back of his hand over them. Frankie’s breath caught, nipples hardening.

Eyes locked, he gripped the waistband of her pajamas, pulling the fabric past her thighs until he could drag it from her ankles. He wanted her naked—he always wanted her naked. Anteros tossed the pajamas and her panties to the floor, eyes flicking briefly to the underwear. He’d be keeping those.

He swiftly kissed inside her knee and was getting ready to stand when her breath stuttered. He lived for that sound, for the way her lungs seized when he touched her. No matter how much darkness Frankie unearthed, with him she still got nervous.

Her eyes were stuck on his and, as if sensing the battle inside him, her legs fell open even more. Anteros gripped her knees, fighting the urge to devour her, to push her knees completely apart and dive into her pussy. He had a fucking plan. With a sound low in his throat, he stood up. Frankie’s eyes followed his the entire way up.

Anteros pulled his tank over his head then paused, shirt in fist, as Frankie got to her elbows. He was stuck on the little things she didn’t even know she was doing—legs falling open slightly, eyes widening, lip pulling between her teeth. When he finally dropped his shirt, her eyes landed on the F.

“Admiring your handiwork?” He fell to the blanket and, in lieu of response, Frankie caressed the scarred letter. Their eyes locked, the air stilled.

When Anteros spoke, his voice was hoarse, rocky. “Do you remember what you called me that day?”

She slyly lifted one cheek. “Maybe.”

“You played dirty, mio cuore.” Anteros pushed her hard back down onto the blanket.

She looked sideways, eyelashes shadowing her gaze. “I only called you Boss.” Blue eyes flashed back to his and he could see the devilish glint. She knew exactly what she’d done.

“You didn’t mean it then.” He lowered so their chests were just inches apart, brushing fingers along her inner thighs. Her eyes grew wide. “You’re going to mean it now,” he said, ending on a growl.

“Did I hurt the big, bad Beast’s feelings?” she asked, breathless but with a teasing grin on her lips.

“No,” Anteros responded, plunging a finger into her at the challenge and pinning her flat. She gasped, the grin falling from her face in a sigh. Fuck, she was so wet. Her back arched and her hips lifted. Frankie was like a dancer following the music the way she always moved for his touch. Anteros could have watched her for hours, but that wasn’t part of his plan.

Though it killed him to do it, he removed the finger and sat up. She let out a small, grieved moan, and he knew he was winning.

“You didn’t hurt me, Frankie,” he clarified. “But the next time you call me Boss, it won’t be to trick me. The next time you call me Boss, it will because you’re begging your master to fuck you.” He reached into his boot for the hidden item: a knife—the knife.

Frankie’s breath pulled but she didn’t resist when Anteros put the blade to her top, where the edges were scalloped with lace. Her eyes grew wider as he lowered himself onto her, letting her feel how achingly hard she made him. Her lips parted and she licked the bottom one.

“You—” she stuttered, trying to get control of her breathing. “You wish. You’ll never be my master…” she finished, but her eyes were stuck on the knife.

“You’re a bad liar,” he said, words steam on her neck. He dragged the knife down her top and the fabric stretched and tore around the steel, ripping through the middle until the thin material butterflied. Frankie wrapped her arms around his shoulders, sliding her hands up to his neck then tangling them in his hair. She arched, trying to kiss him. With his free hand, Anteros tore her hands away.

“Lie flat,” he growled. “Don’t move. Don’t touch me.” Her eyes grew wide, but she nodded, carefully putting her hands back to the ground. As Anteros had said, Frankie was a bad liar: she was, and always would be, his slave.

Little beads of sweat were raindrops on her chest when he put the knife to her skin. The blade was just enough pressure to tease, not enough to break the skin—not yet. Anteros would do to Frankie as she’d done to him in the hotel, but not until she was out of her mind with need.

Frankie pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, bright eyes hooked on his when he slid the knife along her honey skin. Her heartbeat was a violent drum against his fingertips and where steel met skin, the flesh rose and puckered. He slid the knife under the curve of her breast and her hips moved with the movement, torturing his dick. A moan fell from Frankie’s lips, body undulating, riding a wave of pleasure. Her hand shot out and she gripped his neck, nails biting into his flesh.

Anteros stopped and pinned her collarbone with his elbow to keep her steady. “Did I say you could fucking move?” he growled, words vibrating against the small bone of her shoulder. “Did I say you could touch me?” She looked down, wide eyes meeting his level ones, and then shook her head, slowly bringing her hand back to her side.

Satisfied, Anteros resumed. He slid the blade along her nipple—just hard enough to leave a mark—and Frankie thrust her head back against the blanket. The whimpering sounds she made were almost enough to make him forget his plan. Since she couldn’t move or touch him, she balled up all of her energy. Her fingers scraped the blanket, toes angry balls, every vein and viscera in her body begging for release. She sprang off the ground, back a rigid arch. She was so close and, fuck, he wanted to give that to her, but he stopped.

“What are you doing?” Her eyelids fluttered, confusion and lust swirling beneath them.

“Say it,” he said. Frankie groaned and rolled her head to the side. She put her hand between her thighs but Anteros grabbed it and pinned it to the blanket. She looked back at him, pupils dilated, in a trance. “Say it,” he grated.

“Please!” she gasped.

“Please what?” She’d jokingly asked if calling him Boss had hurt his feelings, and though it hadn’t, it had done something to him. That night at the hotel she’d toyed with him. You don’t toy with a Beast without getting bit.

“Say it,” Anteros growled.

“Please, Boss.” The word came out in a long, twisted moan, and the sound, the meaning behind it had him pressing the knife deep into her skin until a sprig of blood burst. It trickled down the slope of her breast. He made one diagonal slice, then another, until the A was clear.

The effect on her was instantaneous. Frankie thrust her head back, rubbed her thighs together, squirmed on the blanket. She looked possessed and it was fucking hot, so distracting. He threw the knife to the ground and it skittered across the floor. He caught both her hands, pinning them above her head.

His cock throbbed as he lowered his head to blow on the cut. The skin pebbled but her nipple was already hard and reaching for him. Unable to control himself, Anteros sucked her breast into his mouth. When his lips met her naked skin, a sound of pure desperation escaped her. He released her hands, smoothing his own over the sides of her tits, the curve of her waist. Anteros glanced up to find Frankie looking back at him, unhinged need radiating from her clear-water depths. The coppery taste of her blood soaked his tongue, but that just urged him further. Her hips rose to him.

“Please fuck me, Boss,” she begged. He smiled against her skin—he hadn’t told her to say that. He really wanted to grant her wish, but he needed to clean her wound first. Gathering some kind of crazy willpower, he tore himself from her and went to go get antiseptic. As he stood up, he took a mental snapshot of how she looked—spread out on the blanket, freshly carved, begging for him.

He wondered what he’d done to get so lucky.

It took only seconds to find the first aid kit he’d stashed. When he returned, he gently rubbed the antiseptic on her breast, taking longer than he needed because of how she moaned and moved for his touch.

“Mio cuore,” he said through a grin. “All of New York will hear you.” She was completely out of her mind though, not listening to him. He bent to catch her moans and she hungrily attacked him, bit his lip. Fuck. She was perfect. Everything about her was absolutely divine. With a deep, impatient, growl, he separated their mouths.

“Where are you going now?” She sounded upset.

“Bandage.” He could only get that one word out, chest tight with the need to fuck her.

“I don’t want a bandage,” she said, dragging him back to her. “I want to bleed your name.” The earnestness with which she said it tore through his body, breaking him open in ways he’d thought impossible. Without further debate, Anteros pressed himself into her, the crimson A smearing against their skin as he fused their lips and bodies together.

* * *

“Will you tell me the story of Sofia De Luca?” Frankie murmured sometime later when the moon began to dip down toward the horizon. He caressed the silky strands of her hair as dawn brightened the sky to a dusty periwinkle through the slats in the roof.

“Odd choice of pillow talk,” he responded.

“Please.” She rolled off him and looked him in the eyes. In her new position, the engraved letter was bright and clear on her breast. He ghosted a finger along the edges, her skin shivered, and she swayed.

“Do you want the truth or the lie the Pavonis tell everyone?” His voice was low, focus drifting as he continued to brush the flesh around the A. The newly cut skin was fresh and raw, the area around it sensitive. Her eyelids flickered and she pulled her bottom lip between her teeth.

She didn’t respond for a while, and when she did the words were nearly lost in her breath. “What do you think?”

“The Family is taught that the wife of Dario De Luca, Sofia, tempted twin brothers Alessio and Emilio,” Anteros said. “The brothers eventually killed each other over her. Sofia De Luca was killed and her newborn child was named Emilio Alessio in remembrance.”

“But that’s all shit right?” Frankie asked. “How could Gabby be alive if Sofia was killed right after Emilio was born?”

“Exactly. At first I only knew the history as Lucio told me.” Anteros slid his hand under the curve of her breast, feeling the weight. A little blood trickled onto his fingers and their eyes locked.

“It’s like everyone only knows what Lucio told them,” she said, voice faltering as he caressed the swollen, pink flesh. Not many picked up on what she had. Most Family members lived their entire lives swallowing the Family history, never bothering to look for the truth—but Frankie was not like everyone else.

“When I started rising through the ranks, I learned the truth. At one point I had dirt on every council member, and Cuck was covered in it.” Anteros had spent the better part of his youth gathering dirt on The Council and anyone who might help him rise above the ranks—it was how the Wolves had been formed.

“Cuck?” she asked, tongue brushing her lower lip as his thumb stroked the underside of her nipple.

“Dario De Luca.” He reached out, stroking the lip she’d just licked with his free thumb. Her eyes closed at the touch. “At the end of the First Blood War, Dario discovered the affair and, I can only guess Dario’s motives, but I assume he was worried about his place in the Family, worried Sofia would leave him and he would have nothing. He told Alessio about Emilio raping Sofia, and then Alessio and Emilio killed each other. So that much of the story was true, but it was all Dario’s doing.”

Her eyes popped open at the revelation, then drooped when he twisted her nipple.

“Sofia De Luca killed herself when she discovered Alessio’s body,” Anteros continued, but his story was on autopilot. He was more interested in Frankie’s reactions to his touch—the flutter of her eyes beneath her closed lids, the bottom lip she chewed raw. “All three were found on the kitchen floor a day later, though Sofia was said to be in Alessio’s arms.”

“Are you serious?” Frankie gasped, breaking away from him and sitting up. “But how does that explain Gabby?”

“Gabriella De Luca is not the daughter of Sofia De Luca. She was born years later to some random whore Cuck had been fucking.” Anteros reached for her wrist, pulling her back to his chest.

“How did this happen?” she asked, sliding into his embrace. “How does an entire mafia believe such a brazen lie with so many holes?”

“History is written by the strongest pen.” It was a lesson Anteros had been forced to learn the hard way, through trials with the Pavonis and studying world history himself. History was taught as fact, when in reality it was just men telling their experiences—or worse, what they wanted you to see. In the Pavoni world, history was taught so you didn’t see what really happened.

“I’d hoped the truth would make things clearer for me,” she whispered, tilting her head on his chest to see him. “I’ve been living with Lucia for over a month and I’m no closer to learning anything about my family.”

“If I knew something, I would tell you,” Anteros replied. “I can at least promise you that.” Frankie grew quiet and Anteros grabbed his discarded tank, draping it over her body, making sure to leave the A visible.

“Anteros…” Her voice caught in the air. “There’s something you need to know.” She pushed herself off him, the tank he’d placed sliding to the floor. She held her hands in her lap, an unreadable expression on her face.

“It’s…I…the leak…” She trailed off, fiddling with her hands in her lap, keeping her head down.

“Do you know something?” Anteros asked. She lived with Lucia, so it stood to reason that she knew things. She could even know something about the leak. Before, he wouldn’t have pressed her, but after everything they’d shared, it was time. “Frankie, do you know anything about who’s leaking my information?”

“I want to come with you,” she said in response. “There has to be some way.”

He placed a palm on her cheek. “There isn’t.” Frankie tore from his embrace, eyes falling to the floor. It must have been five minutes before she looked at him again and when she spoke, it was barely a whisper.

“Never mind. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Anteros narrowed his eyes. “Something was on your mind before, Frankie.”

“It’s nothing. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

He placed a thumb to her forehead, trying to smooth out the wrinkles. She swayed into his touch, closing her eyes. “Tell me, mio cuore.”

“I promise I don’t know anything,” she said. “I wish I could tell you something.” Anteros etched a line from her forehead, to her neck, down to her newly branded A. In his life Anteros had known nothing besides subterfuge and deceit. He never imagined he could trust anyone like he trusted Frankie—deeply, in his marrow.

Earlier she’d surrendered to him on her own. She’d taken his initials on her body willingly, happily. So instead of pressing, Anteros pulled her into his arms and back down onto the blanket. He snaked his arm around her body, cupping his palm between her legs possessively.

For the night, this was enough.

* * *

The light streamed into the church and Frankie’s A blazed at him while she lay back on her elbows, smiling up at him as he put on his shirt. Forces beyond their control were ripping them apart from all sides, but it was a pain that let him know they were fighting.

Before he’d been numb.

He would never go back to that life.

“I just realized I have no shirt to wear.” She sat up, folding her arms across her chest. Without hesitation, Anteros reached to the material at his neck and pulled the tank over his head. He bent to his knees and handed it her. She took it wordlessly, sliding it on before reaching for her discarded pajama bottoms.

They had shared a lot with each other the previous night. For the first time in his life, Anteros hadn’t layered his responses under multiple levels of motive—how would this benefit her? How would this benefit him? He’d simply answered her. It had been refreshing until Frankie had closed herself off. Like now. Her eyes were distant, muddled, scrunched and on the worn carpet, but focused on nothing at all.

“Mio cuore.” Anteros put a finger to her chin, tilting her gaze to his. “What are you thinking?”

“Nothing,” she said, tearing herself from him. “It’s nothing.” Bullshit, Anteros thought, but he wasn’t going to push it. Whatever it was, she would tell him eventually, or it wasn’t important.

He was sure of it.

She stood up, A on her chest poking little red dots through the tank that fell past her thighs. They kissed at the door, she went right, he went left. He followed Frankie at a distance, waiting until she’d arrived safely inside Lucia’s—as safe as she could, considering where’d she gone—before going to his bike. Then he rode back to his club.

Inside Crazy A would be waiting to tell him how he planned to kill the woman he’d just branded. With Emilio dead, the Wolves pointed out that the Pavoni throne was back in view. Anteros should have cared. He should have been inside, planning with the Wolves, and seeing what new information Levi had for him.

He noticed he’d been saying that a lot—should.

Anteros had never been a man to shackle himself to shoulds. What he wanted to do was destroy Lucia, raze her empire, and claim Frankie. He was fucking tired of shoulds getting in the way. While Anteros was sitting on his bike, unable to reconcile the shoulds and the wants inside himself, he slid his hand into his jean pocket. He hit scratchy paper.

It was the letter Frankie had given him, the one she’d taken from Lucia—he’d completely forgotten about it. Anteros uncurled his palm and studied the piece of paper. It was a letter in Italian.

Dearest Lucia,

My love, you’ve given me the only joy I’ve ever known in this world. I was too harsh with you before, and I hope you will forgive me for my passion. This child ruins nothing, but can give us everything we never dared to hope for. The minute I can get away I’ll come to you in Venice. We’ll figure out a way to keep our child safe, and then we’ll be together. I’ll bring the pendant because even if fate decided against us, you should wear it as all the true matriarchs before you have.

I love you, my heart.

Your Lucio

Anteros read and reread the letter. Even when snow started falling, he stayed in the parking lot reading. His brain told him it had to be wrong, but the lead in his gut spoke the truth. He gripped the page until it nearly tore in two, unbelieving as memories of the first day he met Lucio flooded his brain and puzzle pieces fell into place.

Twenty years ago, almost twenty-one, Anteros had followed Lucio, preparing to pick his pocket. He had been so young, the memories got warped, but one thing was clear: a child had been born.

Years later, Anteros acquired Sofia De Luca’s journal. She’d written in her journal about Lucio and Lucia, speaking of a child born out of wedlock. Anteros had ripped the page out to use as leverage. Sofia never said whose child it was, and Anteros had always assumed it was a De Luca bastard.

Now the truth was blinding.

Anteros had been present the day Frankie was born. She was the child of Lucia and Lucio Pavoni, daughter of brother and sister.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Frankie could never know the truth.