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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.
