Crescendo (Beautiful Monsters Book 1) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  About the Author

  Table of Contents

  Wednesday Designs

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  About the Author

  CRESCENDO

  LANA SKY

  Crescendo

  Copyright © 2017 by Lana Sky

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover Design by Cover Couture

  Cover Photos © Shutterstock

  Editing by Erica Russikoff

  Formatting by Wednesday Designs

  Proofreading by Charity Chimni

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  About the Author

  Erica, thank you so very much for taking the time to help me perfect this draft. As always, your feedback and expertise has been invaluable. Thank you, Anna at Cover Couture, for the beautiful cover, Charity for applying the final touches on this draft, and the many beta readers who provided encouragement along the way.

  DEDICATED TO:

  Maria and Cherry B. for your amazing expertise

  We used to play tic-tac-toe as children, in the dirt with sticks. Now, our game consists of the lives of the two bloodied men standing naked on the ornate rug before us. One can barely see, on account of both of his eyes being swollen shut, so he frantically eyes the wall a few inches away from Vinny, while the other stares at the floor, muttering prayers under his breath.

  Eeny, meeny, minie, moe, Vinny calls it.

  Dressed to kill in a tailored suit, Vinny takes his sweet time observing them both while caressing the pistol he holds in one hand. “Eeny, meenie, minie, motherfucker,” he murmurs in a guttural tone. “Which one should I kill first?” He inclines his head in my direction, ever the gentleman. “Lynn?”

  I swallow hard and tug on the sleeve of my sweater. Two hours ago, it was a neatly hemmed number in soft pink. Now it’s bloodstained, the ends of the sleeve ragged and torn.

  “Really, Vinny. You don’t have to—” I break off and try again. No one tells Vinny what to do, ever. Not even me. “I’m fine. Really.”

  It would take more than this to ruin my night. This beautiful, perfect night, which should have ended with a nice bubble bath. Not here in Vinny’s office with the scent of blood in the air and the inevitable promise of death tainting the atmosphere.

  I glance down at my throbbing hands, surprised by the numerous scratches that mar them. They contradict my lie, and I curl them up into fists, even though I know it’s already too late. I’m fine.

  Regardless, Vinny doesn’t even look in my direction. His thumb greedily traces the trigger of his gun, eager to let a bullet fly.

  He’s in a mood. Something must have happened, even before he caught wind of my little adventure tonight. My heart picks up speed, my spine tensing.

  “Really,” I croak out against his back. “I’m fine—”

  “Sit down, Daniela.”

  I flinch. My full name is a dangerous sound coming out of his mouth. Lynn is his puppy, his favorite toy. Daniela is just a little girl in danger of disobeying her master.

  My jaw snaps shut, and I stagger a few steps past him to collapse on one of the plush armchairs that is positioned to face his desk. His office is one of the few places I hate most in the world. What, in a normal setting, would be designated for stuffy business meetings, in Vinny’s hands takes on a broader purpose. It’s his arena. His showroom. My cage.

  I warily
scan the oak-paneled walls. They’re polished to shine and reflect the rest of the room back to me: hardwood floors and exactly two windows, each one framed by black curtains. There is another leather armchair across from mine, flanked by Vinny’s massive desk, which takes up the center of the room. Vinny’s reflection is like a dark smudge over the scenery while the two men before him flicker the way a candle flame does when it’s in danger of going out.

  “Let’s play a game,” Vinny declares in a voice that makes me shiver. I know that tone all too well. Bile creeps up the back of my throat and, oddly enough, the thought of ruining my sweater with puke is even worse than what already stains it now. “Tell me again what happened—from the beginning. The bastard who tells the least amount of lies wins.”

  There’s this painful moment of silence. The men share a look that resembles the wary expressions of two animals shoved into a cage and forced to fight to the death. Which one is the lion, which one the gazelle?

  The one with the busted jaw speaks up first, or at least he tries to. “We were just screwing around. We didn’t—”

  “First lie,” Vinny interjects.

  I can’t breathe. My throat contracts in an attempt to choke down air, but the action doesn’t relieve the pressure building in my chest. Lying was another one of our childhood games. It wasn’t played quite as often as tic-tac-toe or red rover, but often enough to recognize the way Vinny crouches forward, bracing both hands against his desk. He’s got that cold, dark gleam in his eye. The same one that made him seem so powerful, even as a child. His parents may have been immigrants. His family may have been dirt poor. He may have had a slight limp on his left side and a lisp that affected his speech.

  None of that mattered when you met his gaze head-on. His eyes held a darkness that swallowed you whole. And the worst part? A part of you wanted to be swallowed. You were stupid enough to be comforted by the shadows.

  “That was the first lie,” he repeats. His fingers dance on the surface of the gun until they find the safety. He flips it off noisily so that they hear the clip engage. “Let’s make things interesting. Next one to lie gets a bullet through his eye.”

  The two men don’t look at each other this time. They shift on their feet. The one with the busted jaw glances at me as if he wants me to say something. They were just playing around, after all. When they cornered me in an alley and tried to rip my shirt off, it was all just fun and games.

  I should be thankful for what will come next. There’s a cut on my chin and blood dribbling down onto my scalloped collar. I can taste dirt and grit from when they tried to hold me face down and pull my pants off.

  I should want Vinny to blow their brains out all over his priceless, antique rug. Maybe, a few years ago, I wouldn’t have cared—back when I’d been younger and stupid enough to mistake his aggression for love or kindness.

  But now I know the truth. Men like the two sniffling before me are nothing more than predators. They hunt and stalk and gleefully devour their prey in the shadows—but not all predators deserve to be torn apart by the Big Bad Wolf.

  “Any takers?” Vinny gives them another five minutes to decide. The seconds tick by like hours, long enough for stupid, irrelevant concerns to take precedence. I’m tired. All I want to do is crawl into bed and blast Bach until I fall asleep. I want to eat my leftover Thai food with extra hot sauce. I want...

  “Time’s up.” Vinny pulls himself upright to all six foot, two inches of his height. The movement displays the muscles that ripple in his forearms, straining the sleeves of his suit jacket. “This isn’t very sportsmanlike. Daniela? Would you like to give us an idea of what really happened?” His tone is crisp with impatience.

  “Vinny...” I trail off. My side hurts from connecting with the pavement. There are dark circles under my eyes, I know, from staying up all night playing until my fingers bled. I’d give anything to play now, to lose myself in the cadence of the music.

  “Daniela?” Vinny points the gun in my direction; not at me, exactly. Instead, he trains the barrel over the framed photograph of an Italian villa hanging behind my head. It’s a warning. “What happened?”

  I fold my hands over my lap, and I try to look anywhere but at the men who crowd the room. There’s a beautiful view of the city from the window across from Vinny’s desk, silhouetted by the gap between the curtains. You can see everything, highlighted by neon lights and flashing street signs. Against the black backdrop of the night sky, it almost resembles diamonds.

  “Daniela—”

  “They followed me, from the subway,” I say, my voice detached. “One of them took my purse, while the other grabbed me. They held me down and tried to... Vinny, I’m fine.”

  “No.” The flat of his hand strikes the surface of the desk with a sound that has me jerking upright. “It’s not fine.”

  Two quick pops, muffled by the silencer, and it’s over. Two bodies hit the floor with a thud, and Vinny puts his gun down. There’s a noticeable release of tension in his shoulders. People like me prefer bubble baths to relax. Men like Vinny go for murder.

  “Your cello came,” he tells me while wiping something from his chin. “Next time when I send you a fucking car, you be in it, too. The subway.” He shakes his head, perplexed by the idea of me being so indignant as to shun his hospitality.

  In a way, I suppose it’s ironic. I’d cared enough about my cello to have it delivered to the hotel in the town car Vinny sent for me, but I couldn’t bear to climb inside it myself. I’d walked, traveling two blocks before taking a bus and then the subway.

  If I were lying to myself, I’d claim I’d wanted the exercise. In truth, I’d just wanted to prolong the moment. That freedom. That soothing silence of being alone with my thoughts, for once. A world without violence or vengeance or Vinny.

  “Lynn?” Vinny snaps his fingers to draw my attention. “Go to bed. Get some rest. We’ll do lunch tomorrow. How does Capellas sound?”

  “Great,” I croak. Capellas is a restaurant on Fifth, firmly under Vinny’s control. The chef’s name is Tony. His wife is Maria. For a share of their profits, Vinny ensures their establishment’s ‘protection.’ Out of gratitude, Tony always serves him one hell of a chicken marinara, on the house.

  “Good.” He motions for me to get up while he circles the desk to stand in front of me. I try not to flinch when he touches me, trailing a thumb along the corner of my mouth. He observes me like that for two seconds. Then he leans forward and brings his mouth to my forehead, leaving a chaste kiss. “Mi Bella.”

  I feel his hand run down my spine, sensing the curves of my body through the fabric of my sweater, but I don’t react. I don’t cringe.

  I inhale. In and out. Out. In. There’s a noticeable tremor in my hands when he finally pulls away. His dark eyes don’t miss it and they narrow, honing in on the rebellious fingers.

  “Those bastards better have not hurt you,” he growls with an intensity that makes my stomach churn. Fear has a bitter flavor that settles on my tongue. Or maybe it’s love?

  I run my eyes over Vinny’s chiseled features. He must seem handsome to some, with a Romanesque nose and smooth, olive skin. He has a laugh that can raise goosebumps and eyes that gleam like firelight. But none of that can make up for the monster lurking within the beautiful exterior.

  “Get some sleep,” he tells me before laying another soft kiss on my cheek.

  “Goodnight, Vinny.” It’s a precarious trip over the bodies of the two dead men to reach the door. I manage to keep my balance until I grab the doorknob, then his voice rings out behind me, issuing another command. “Send Gino in here to clean up this fucking mess.”

  “O-Okay.” I pull the door open and stagger into the narrow hallway beyond it. Two men stand on either side of the doorway, both broad-shouldered with matching stern expressions. “Gino,” I speak to the one with a goatee and heavy-set build. “Vinny needs you to clean...he needs—” I wind up gesturing to the room with a wave of my hand, and he nods once.


  “Of course, Ms. Manzano.”

  He brushes past me while I head down the hallway of the suite. It contains ten rooms, all interconnected on the highest floor of the Hirmark Hotel. My room is on the far west corner, but I don’t head for it now. Instead, I cross the living room, past four more men who lounge on the imported Italian furniture. One of them calls out to me. “Your instrument is safely in your room, miss.”

  I glance over and nod, forcing a smile. “Thank you.”

  “Miss?” He questions when I finally reach the front door. “Do you need anything?”

  “No...I—” My grip tightens over the doorknob. “I just need some fresh air. I’ll be right back.”

  I twist the lock and push the door open before he can even rise from the couch. Just outside of the suite, another guard takes up his post, but he doesn’t say a word when I head toward the elevators. He doesn’t have to.

  Vinny has even more men watching me from the shadows. Men ready and waiting to trail me from the concert hall and through the subway, there to step in when two thugs try to rape and mug me in an alley.

  Vinny has eyes on me everywhere, but after all these years, I know how to evade them for a few precious minutes. Rather than wait for the elevator, I take the stairs. It’s thirty-four flights to the bottom level. An elegant oak door leads to the main lobby, while a battered metal one opens onto the street.

  It’s cold out, and my sweater isn’t a good enough barrier against the mid-October weather. Each breath I take paints the air white, but I relish the chill. It’s bracing after the stifling heat of Vinny’s office. The stench of the city and a dumpster a few feet away almost displaces the spicy scent of blood. I can breathe again, and I take huge, savoring gulps as I stagger two feet down the alley and then turn the corner to skirt the back of another building.

  Vinny likes to conduct his business on the Upper East Side. Far away from the riffraff we grew up around, but still close enough to keep an eye on his holdings. It’s the perfectionist in him. The same personality quirk that compels him to carefully plan his days around a clockwork-like schedule. The same way he likes to plan mine.

  This little detour is entirely my own, however, and I take my time, walking up at least a block until I reach a familiar stretch of pavement. There are a few metal trash cans here, nestled against the side of what I assume is an old office building. Inside one of them is a stack of old newspapers, just ripe for the taking.