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“I don’t know if you understand the magnitude of what you’ve done,” he said. Slowly his fingers uncurled and he continued typing. “But you will soon, so take this moment to mourn your previous life, because when we arrive, Frankie Notte is dead. You traded your life, and soon I will take what is left.”
“Francesca,” I mumbled, folding my arms. Shut up, idiot. For the love of God, stop goading him.
“I didn’t catch that.” He took a sip of champagne, eyes not straying from whatever work was so important on his computer. Bitterly, I wondered what kind of mafia guy has so much work on a computer. Wasn’t it all kneecap breaking and little black books?
“Francesca,” I repeated, raising my voice. Oh God, I thought. I’m going to die. If I wasn’t before, I certainly was now. He looked over, catching my stare for the first time since we’d taken off. I tried to keep my cool, tried to match his harsh gaze. I swallowed, feeling like his stare was putting physical pressure on me. That thing in my belly happened, that tingly thing. I clenched my thighs. It was uncomfortable but a part of me…
Craved it.
I quickly added, “Only…” I swallowed. “Only my friends call me Frankie.” Really, I hadn’t had many friends since the one that left in high school. It was hard to make them, being sick and with Papa…well, Papa was a full-time job. After high school, I’d hoped a few guys wanted to be friends, but it turned out they only wanted sex.
Probably just wanted to fuck the weird girl.
Technically my mother was the one who called me Frankie, and the nickname had stuck. One of the few times Papa talked about her, he said she thought I had too much spunk to be called Francesca.
He clenched his jaw. “Listen to me, Frankie.”
“Francesca,” I repeated. I could practically hear my inner voice sighing in defeat. People might think I was insane, talking to a man like him that way. The thing is, right then you would be witnessing the swan song of my old self before I tumbled down into the darkness.
“Frankie,” he said pointedly. He rolled my name over his tongue as if he were licking it. I shivered and folded my arms. Shutting his laptop, he continued, “When this plane lands, everything you were vanishes. Your emotions disappear. Your name becomes nothing more than a sound passing from my lips. You become nothing.”
My breath hitched in my throat. “I should just jump out of the plane then…”
“You could, but if you die before I’m done with you, I will kill your father.” He sipped his drink casually. “Also, we’re nearly done with our descent, so you’d probably just break an ankle.”
“Well, what can I call you then?” I asked, sarcasm bitter on my tongue. “Prince of everything?” King Asshat, maybe.
“You can call me Beast.”
I scoffed. “That’s not a name.”
“You asked what to call me, not my name.” He looked away, signaling he was done talking with me—which was good, because instantly my eyes rolled back in their sockets at his response. I had this feeling in my gut, not the tingling I refused to acknowledge, but a bitter, dreadful feeling. It curled in my organs and I knew it was an omen. I wasn’t going to survive if I continued to roll my eyes and snipe. The more I expressed contempt, the tighter I tied my noose.
But how do you just turn off? How do you just stop being who you are? Rationally I knew that a man like him, who bled menace and called himself Beast, would not respond kindly to sarcasm. Sarcasm was how I’d survived the world thus far, though. It was how I responded to threats.
And he was threat number one.
With a sigh, I looked out the plane window. We were almost on the ground. I could see the airport getting closer and closer. When the plane landed, it was still snowing outside. I usually lived for nights like these; the bright white snow against the chilly moonlit sky mesmerized me. Now it just made me sad, because the Beast’s words echoed inside me. What would happen to the nights when I became nothing? Would they still dazzle me?
I briefly registered the sound of the captain, the stewardess, and the Beast. Sounds of turning off, turning on, and urgency, but I was stuck for a moment in my funeral, staring outside at the snow.
“Are you dumb?” The Beast grabbed me by my collar, forcing me away from the window. “I didn’t trade that debt to get a lame horse.” He looked into my eyes as if searching for the answer.
I pushed him off. “I’m not dumb, asshole. Quiet doesn’t mean stupid.” I had about a half second to regret calling him an asshole before he pulled me up by the collar and ripped me out of the seat.
“It isn’t your tacit nature that concerns me. Come now.”
I followed, n
early tripping down the slippery steps wet with snow. When I reached the bottom, I sucked in my breath and prepared, closing my eyes for a moment.
I just couldn’t face my death.
I hadn’t even thought of it before that day—not seriously. It was always so faraway, a concept I couldn’t even start to comprehend. With my eyes pressed shut and the snow dusting my hair, I waited. And waited. And waited. Then I opened one eye. No one was around me.
The Beast was a few feet away waiting by a black car, annoyance tingeing his apathetic face. Slowly I walked toward him, as if the tarmac was laced with mines and I was going to step on one, blow up, and the angels would greet me with, “Ha! Got you! You thought you were going to live—classic!”
When I finally reached the town car—sans landmine death—I looked from Beast to the car then back to the Beast. “I thought I was dead at the end of the flight?” I asked, confused. It wasn’t that I wanted to die, but I wanted to know if we were heading to my execution. How much longer did I have to live in limbo? A slight sound was heard from him—was that a growl?—and then he pushed me inside. I bumped my head on the way in.
