8. Dante
Dante
I sit in my McLaren in the parking garage across from Melody's window.
She found one of my cameras. That's fine, I have others.
Though I must be getting sloppy—she nearly caught me lying in her bed.
I can still smell the cheap body wash from her sheets.
I'm so close to her, but nowhere near where I need to be.
Two weeks. I have two weeks to make her my wife.
Two weeks or the Consortium will appoint a new family to take over the Dantalion's line.
I grit my teeth and scowl as I watch Melody skulk around her own home.
She's a vicious little thing, and she'll fit perfectly into my world.
I've never wanted a yes-man in my life, and I need someone who challenges me.
And fuck, is Melody ever a challenge. Though this game of ours is getting quite tiring.
I have all the money she could ever need, and she has the fiery spirit that would make her the perfect mother to my infernal heir.
I suppose I've known that since I started my surveillance.
I thought I could trick myself into believing this was just a whim, an option I could pursue.
But she's not an option. She's the only option. And I look forward to her putting up a hell of a fight.
Roman has already drawn up the contract for her to sign—though I have some ideas for if, or when, she refuses. Based on her vicious demeanor, we may have to correct her behavior.
I thought I'd have more time. But time makes fools of us all, so they say, and Melody's violent fury is doing nothing but wasting time. I'm not even upset that she called Rafaella again. Hell, I'll call her myself, after we're hitched. I smirk to myself and fire a text off to Roman.
I'll need your help getting the locks installed.
Of course. How many key copies?
Just two, for now. One for me and one for you.
Looking up from my phone, I see Melody at her window, inspecting the sill.
Just because she's on the fourth floor doesn't make her untouchable from the outside, as I'm sure she's noticed.
I blow her a kiss and reverse out of the garage, heading back to Old City.
Tomorrow's the day she becomes my wife—she just doesn't know it yet.
My nerves quell on the drive home, while I expertly weave through the afternoon traffic.
Roman, being the perfect professional he is, already has every interior door fitted with new locks by the time I'm finished with work for the day.
Valencia and I drew up the nonrenewal letters for every tenant of the Ridgeway Arms, and they'll be delivered tomorrow.
Lucky for me, everyone there is in a month-to-month situation.
Except for the commercial office on the ground floor, but they'll stay. That doesn't matter.
I just need more fuel for the fire under Melody. She won't be able to refuse my very generous offer.
Roman walks me through my house and points out the discreet cameras he's placed in the common areas, with the feeds encrypted and only accessible by him and myself.
The matte black locks are solid, yet not out of place in the upscale Gothic architecture and design of my home.
Running a finger over the new lock to my bedroom, I smile.
My home is silent, for now. The tentative footsteps of Marie echo in the empty, dimly lit halls. But it won't be this way for long. Melody will be here soon, and I believe she'll be a terror. A furious banshee of a woman, fighting me at every step.
I can't wait.
"Everything to your liking, sir?" Roman stands at attention at the foot of the stairs.
"Perfection, as always," I call back, flicking an invisible speck of dust from the railing. "Is everything in place for tomorrow?"
He nods and grunts the affirmative. My leather-soled shoes tap quietly as I descend the stairs.
I'm suddenly quite critical of my interior decorating.
Roman's always called me an uptight rich boy, and he's right.
Though I wonder if Melody will learn to like that side of me, or if she'll hate every moment of the three years—minimum—that we have together.
"You're absolutely certain about her?" Roman asks as he extends a whiskey glass to me. I take a long pull and hiss out a breath, nodding.
"Yep, she's the one."
"Permission to speak freely, sir?"
"Of course."
Roman inhales sharply and follows me to our respective chairs. "She murdered Charles. She's on the run from the law—not to mention the Seraph connection. Are we entirely sure you'll be safe?"
I swirl the whiskey in my glass and watch the ice clink against the sidewalls. "No. But what's life without a little danger, hmm?"
Valencia's eyes nearly popped out of her skull when I told her I wanted to hand-deliver the non-renewal letters to each and every tenant at Ridgeway Arms. Melody is working today, so she'll be home late, and I'll be waiting for her.
Claude, the building super, follows me morosely through the halls. He points out various attempts at maintenance over the years—a spot of paint here, buffing the tile there—but it doesn't matter. I can't imagine why he cares so deeply about the dregs of society that live here.
This singular apartment building accepts all kinds, no background check, no credit check, nothing of the sort. That all ends very soon. This building, the very name—Ridgeway Arms—will be synonymous with luxury and class by the time I'm done with it. And by the time I've got Melody in my arms.
Most of the residents are out and about, likely at their jobs.
I happily slip the letters under their doors and follow Claude all throughout the building.
I've never been so happy in a place that smells this much like urine.
And it doesn't have anything to do with the profits I'll make.
No, it has everything to do with the fact we've just crested the fourth floor.
Melody's floor.
Mysterious stains smear the thickly painted walls.
The metal doors for each tenant look slightly battered, as though they've been kicked by one too many drunken residents after a late-night bender.
It adds character . And the new tenants, after everyone is out, will laugh to their rich yuppy friends about what a deal they got.
How they're really living the gritty city life.
Apartment 403 is the only thing between me and Melody's home. Claude knocks on the door, and a stream of curses and grunts lets me know that someone is home.
"Uh, sorry. About him, I mean." Claude coughs. "He's not the most friendly."
"You don't say," I mumble as I wait for the man inside.
The metal door swings open with a creak, and a middle-aged balding man appears, a grimace on his face, wearing a yellowed undershirt and baggy blue sweatpants.
"You're not my lawyer," he sneers.
"Very astute. I am the new owner of Ridgeway Arms. Your lease expires at the end of the month." I sniff and nearly cringe into myself. He smells as though the hot water hasn't run in this building since the Reagan administration.
"Expires? This month? Claude, what's this suit saying? I have to leave?" He turns and berates the building super.
"You knew the risks moving here, Art. Month-to-month. Could end at any time." Claude looks up at the ceiling, avoiding eye contact.
"Where am I supposed to go?" the man—Art—spits out.
"That's not my problem. Best of luck to you and your future endeavors." I smile and turn on my heel. Nothing can keep me from Melody's apartment, now. Claude and Art bicker behind me as I stride closer and closer to her door. Rifling through my jacket's inner pockets, I find a different letter.
She doesn't get the form legalese. She gets something much, much better.
The envelope is thicker, a creamy off-white, and her name is handwritten across the top.
Checking my watch, I see there are only a few hours between now and her end of shift.
A perfect amount of time for me to lose Claude and the loud man.
I stoop down and slip the envelope under her door and grin. She'll be furious . But maybe just mad enough to take me up on my offer.
Claude and Art are still arguing over what is and isn't legal, vis-à-vis tenants' rights, when I straighten back up and smile over at the long-suffering super.
"Enjoy your day, gentlemen."
The tiny camera I placed in the hallway outside Melody's apartment showed Art and Claude arguing for another twenty minutes or so before the men split, and Art slammed his door shut.
I can hear the low thumping of bass from his apartment through the surveillance system.
Shocking, honestly, that he hasn't been evicted for noise complaints.
Though I imagine the other residents don't feel inclined to make waves , as it were.
At seven on the dot, Melody comes crashing down the hallway, fury on her face.
I grin—it seems the other tenants have already given her the news.
I shift myself on her bed, patiently waiting for her to make an appearance.
With one earbud in, I watch her unlock her door and huff in frustration as the doorknob refuses to turn.
After a few swear words, she finally gains entry to her home… where I watch. And I wait.
She scoops the letter up from the floor and rips it open, eyes flashing left to right.
A genuine smile cracks across my face as she reaches the best part, and she drops the sheet of paper.
Looking around cautiously, she stumbles to her sink and pours herself a glass of water.
The crystal clear video shows a drop of water escaping her frantic gulps, dripping down her chin, sliding to her chest, and leaving a tiny wet spot on her work shirt.
Absolutely beautiful.
My heart picks up its pace—I'm so close. I'm so fucking close to her. I watch her slam the plastic cup down on the counter, and I hear her groan loudly. Yes, yes! Come to bed….
She kicks off her shoes and rubs her forehead, her face scrunched up in annoyance. Poor baby. She must have a headache. I watch her grab a plastic tub of yesterday's dinner—spaghetti and mushrooms—out of the fridge. She plops down on the kitchen floor with a fork and digs in.
The wait is agony. I'm so goddamn close.
She just won't come the fuck to bed! I huff out an exasperated breath and slap my hand over my mouth, eyes glued to the video feed on my phone.
If she heard me, she doesn't make any indication of such.
She slurps up the remaining pasta and tosses the tub into her sink.
I hear her groan as she stands, muffled down the hallway, and then through my earbud. There's a split-second delay—still—but that won't matter for much longer. I shove my free hand into my suit pocket and grip the cold tube hidden within. An insurance policy. Just in case she doesn't come quietly.
After what feels like an eternity, she sighs and turns toward the hallway. I hold my breath as I watch her shuffle ever closer… until she reaches her bathroom.
"Motherfuck," I whisper and immediately regret it. She's just a few feet away, doing her business. If she listens hard enough, she could definitely hear me. Fortunately, it seems she hasn't. The toilet flushes as she washes her hands. A few moments later, she emerges.
Time seems to slow down as she takes step after step closer to her bedroom. Closer to me . I straighten my posture and stow my phone in my pocket. Hands folded casually in my lap, a devilish grin breaks across my face.
"Hi, Melody."
She freezes. Time doesn't slow—it stops. Every frantic beat of her heart feathers in her throat, and I have to hold myself back from licking my lips. Her fear is delectable.
And then, everything explodes.