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“Is Gabriella pregnant?” The spot Frankie had placed her hand on had aroused his suspicion. She had fiercely protected Gabriella’s abdomen, as if there was something inside to lose.
For a split second, Frankie’s face gave her away, but then she responded, “With how fucking stupid you’re acting, I’d think you’re the one who fell down some stairs.”
“I warn you.” Anteros leaned down, caging her with his arms. “You will not be punished for what you said because you are grieving. Say anything else and you’ll wish you were Gabriella.” Anteros could see the swell of her throat as she took in his threat. He pushed off the mattress and left the room, shutting the door behind him to deal with the mess.
When Anteros arrived back in the room, Giovani was leaning over Gabriella. Knees bent, he fingered a strand of her blonde hair, the locks falling through his pudgy fingers like water until they landed on her semi-conscious cheeks.
“Step away from Gabriella,” Anteros uttered, voice like the wintery wind outside. Giovani blinked his glare, clearly surprised, but also upset.
“She is my wife,” he sputtered.
“As if I needed a reminder.” He let the world know the same way a rancher branded cattle. Anteros beckoned Giovani over with a wave of his hand. Reluctantly, Giovani stood and followed. Anteros led him through the house until he reached the door to the cigar den.
“I could use a good cigar,” Giovani said, relief in his voice.
“You and me both,” Anteros replied, though he didn’t open the door. Turning, Anteros leaned against the wood and studied Giovani. Hands in pockets, Giovani waited for Anteros. You could see the relation between him and Councilman Sal De Luca. They were both fat, balding, and apparently unable to work a razor on their chin.
“I’m going to hurt you,” Anteros stated. “Badly.”
“What?” Giovani’s eyes widened.
“You ruined my evening with your domestic shit.” Grabbing Giovani’s collar, he thrust him against the wall.
“You-you…” Giovani sputtered, looking from Anteros to the floor to the ceiling, back to Anteros. “You have to ask The Council first.”
“I don’t think I’ll do that.” Anteros readied his arm then swung it so it collided perfectly with Giovani’s nose.
“But I’m a De Luca! My uncle is a councilman! This isn’t how things are done, Beast,” Giovani sputtered blood. Anteros readied another punch, this time going for the gut. Giovani gasped and groaned.
“It is now.” Anteros cracked Giovani across the jaw, the sound like lightning breaking a branch. Giovani’s head fell, and Anteros paused to roll up his sleeves, buttoning them at his elbow.
“My uncle will have your head,” Giovani said, still sideways. Anteros paused for a moment, and Giovani gave him a sidelong glance. Narrowing his eyes, Anteros cracked Giovani underneath the jaw.
He kept up, making expert hits to the jaw, eyes, nose, and ribs. He had intended to only punch Giovani a few times, as a small discipline. Then his fist collided with his jaw and it was like a well was released. A dam burst. His internal storm flowed freely through his fists.
“There were rumors that the Beast was going soft,” Giovani sputtered through punches. “Rumors that a slave had turned his cold blood warm. I didn’t believe them, but now…” He laughed, showing bloody red teeth. “Your punches are like my mother’s kisses at Christmas.”
Anteros gripped Giovani by the collar of his suit, lifted him up a few inches, and then slammed his head against the wooden floor, producing a sickening crack.
“Nikolai?” Anteros called as he walked back out into the main room of the penthouse. He unbuttoned the sleeves of his shirt, rolling them back down once more, and called out again.
“Yes, Boss?” Nikolai appeared seconds later.
“Mr. and Mrs. De Luca will need a ride home,” he replied, rolling down the last of his sleeve. It hardly mattered, though, as the fabric was completely drenched with blood.
Nikolai nodded. “Yes, Boss.”
Sometime later, after the maid had been informed that a special cleaning was needed, Anteros crept down the hall. He was outside the door to his bedroom, ready to go inside, when he pulled out his phone.
He dialed.
“Are you bleeding?” Crazy A’s harsh brogue came on at once. “Dead on the ground? You’d have to be to have any leg to stand on right now.”
“Something came up,” Anteros replied. His hand rested on the knob, brass with elegant detail. “You have permission to approve the order.”
“Well that’s fucking great but the order is already late,” Crazy A snapped. “You know what that means.” Anteros traced his finger along the intricate lines of the doorknob, barely listening to what Crazy A was saying. He knew what it meant, had known the entire night—he just couldn’t find it in him to care.
What it meant was The Institute would be very displeased.
