13. Melody #2
I give myself one last look before slipping on some combat boots over my torn black tights.
The black lace-trimmed dress completes the look: goth bitch supreme.
I don't know how Dante filled half the closet with clothes in my exact desired style, but best not to look a gift horse in the mouth.
I'm stuck here, anyway, so I might as well enjoy it.
Even if it means getting knocked up by his weird spawn. And, like he said, I wouldn't have to do the mothering. I pop the thing out and fuck off to Mexico, with tons of money in hand. The thought puts a tiny smile on my face as I turn back to Dante.
"Fuck, yeah. Let's do this."
The pair of us storm down the stairs into the waiting McLaren.
Roman dips his chin to Dante and offers his hand to me with the passenger door open.
I wave him away and settle myself, connecting my phone to the sound system.
Nineties rap fills the air as Dante revs the engine and speeds us away to this goddamn tribunal.
He still hasn't really told me anything much, besides the fact that all of his… organization… will be there. Goetic Consortium. Seems to me like a bunch of rich fuckers who wanna get richer, but I'm profiting off this as well, so who gives a shit?
Bobbing my head to the beat, the scene around us changes from urban traffic to suburban yards, then vast rural estates.
Old money. The oldest money in the country, it seems. Dante pulls off the paved road onto a gravel driveway.
It's not the same Pearford place from last night but similar.
Marble fountains position themselves on either end of the massive porch—if you could call it that—the concrete pad lined with perfectly trimmed hedges.
The grass remains green, even though we're well into autumn.
The massive building before us looks more like a castle than a house. Men in black suits and sunglasses flank the mahogany front doors, hands folded in front of them. They grasp the handles and open the doors for us as we approach, bowing slightly. I gape at them, heart in my throat.
This is fucked. This is so fucking weird. It's like we're royalty . I shouldn't be surprised, considering. But it still feels fucking weird.
Dante leads me by the hand to another set of doors as our shoes clack against the white marble floors. This whole place is nearly blinding white, and the room beyond is cloaked in shadow. It's disorienting, I can barely see a thing as Dante leads me to a small table with two chairs.
I sit, gripping the edge of the table, tempering my anxious breaths. I can slow my breathing, but I can't slow my heartbeat. Dante lays a comforting hand on my arm and whispers in my ear, "It's going to be fine. Promise."
A spotlight hits us from above, and I blink out into the bright light.
Two others click on as well, illuminating another identical table and a raised dais.
At the opposite table, that fucker Francisco sits looking smug.
Upon the dais, there's a single chair. An incredibly tall man—that guy from last night—sits looking intrigued, idly petting his Rottweiler.
The dog pants and flicks its gaze between me and its master.
If I wasn't nearly certain I'm about to die, I'd want to pet that dog.
It looks soft and well-fed. Its golden-brown eyes match the man's, though the dog's fur is short and sleek.
The man has long twisted locs piled high upon his head.
He pulls a black silk hanky from the pocket of his deep crimson vest worn over a matching black dress shirt.
He crosses his legs, and I spy a strange symbol embedded in gold on the sole of his shoe. Interesting.
It looks similar to the one plastered all over Dante's house but different. Angular lines and perfect circles. Upside-down crosses. If I tilt my head the right way, it almost looks like a crying skull.
Dante squeezes my arm again, gently, pulling my attention back to him.
"The Belial presides over the tribunal. He will hear both sides and make a decision.
The decision is final and cannot be appealed.
You don't have to worry about any legal tricks—no attorneys represent either side.
Just tell him what happened, and I'm sure we'll get justice.
" Dante smiles and tips his head toward the man—The Belial.
I take a wavering breath and nod silently.
With a flick of The Belial's hand, ambient lights glimmer around the walls.
The room is massive, with what looks like fancy bleachers lining the walls.
People fill the seats and stare down at me, only me, not Dante.
Not fucking Francisco . I'm the new one here.
And I've already fucked shit up by bitch-slapping that guy.
God dammit.
"This Tribunal is called to order. Instigated by The Dantalion, on behalf of his wife, accusing Francisco Rannison of House Marbas of grievous disrespect." The Belial stands and addresses the court, I guess. I inhale sharply and flick my gaze over to Dante, who smiles.
I can't help but notice that Francisco sits alone. Based on what Belial said, he's of House Marbas, but The Marbas hasn't joined him. Is that normal? Is it weird that I'm not alone?
"Francisco Rannison, speak your truth." The Belial points to the lone man, who stands.
"I deeply apologize to everyone here. I assure you, making this journey all the way out here was not necessary.
Belial, Marbas, friends. This is all a very silly misunderstanding.
" Francisco spreads his hands and smiles smugly out at the crowd.
"I simply made an observation—one you all made as well, I'm sure. "
"And what is that observation?" The Belial leans back in his chair, scratching the dog under its chin.
"Oh, we don't need to get into all that—"
"Yes, we fucking do. That is what this is all about, Frank. Tell everyone what you said to my wife," Dante snarls, and I flinch a little. Judging by the shuffling of chairs, everyone else does, too.
"I made the observation that she is… different. From what I imagine… for you." Francisco doesn't look quite as confident now, and it makes me sit up a little straighter.
"Tell the fucking truth, Frank. Quit dancing around it," Dante grits out, and The Belial nods.
"Oh, who can remember exactly what was said? I certainly don't." He sits and inspects his nails. I take a deep breath and stand.
"I remember. I remember every word. If I may?" I look at The Belial, and he nods, gesturing for me to continue. "Francisco here said, quote, 'This isn't the sort of woman I envisioned for you. Certainly not someone of this size.'"
Dante snarls and turns it into a cough, his fury showing through in the irritable huffs of breath. My own rage simmers to the surface, and I flex my fingers around the edge of the table, shifting on my feet.
"And then she slapped me! Over a silly little comment. Please, Belial, she's overreacting. It was a comment made in jest—a joke! Can no one here take a joke?" Francisco pleads, facing the crowd, fear on his face.
The Belial huffs out a chuckle. "Do you have dreams of being a comedian, Francisco? Well, I wouldn't quit your day job." He turns to me with a hardened gaze. "Mrs. Lyons. As you are the aggrieved party, what punishment do you see fit for your aggressor?"
"Death." The word slips from my tongue, and I'm surprised, too.
The room explodes in gasps and murmurs, my cheeks flush a deep red.
But I can't take it back. I won't take it back.
That fucker is just an extension of Charlie, whether he knows it or not.
The buzzing at the base of my skull roars to life, and I can't tamp it down.
I won't tamp it down.
"Mrs. Lyons, this is highly irregular—" The Belial starts.
"Is it? Do you regularly allow your members—not even your honored members, but their lackeys— to behave in such a manner?" I'm shouting, and I can't stop myself. "I said death and I'll do it myself."
The murmurs rise to a roar, all the voices joining together, and it makes the buzzing in my skull radiate down my spine. I huff out breath after breath, looking over at Dante—my husband—as a cold sweat breaks out on my brow. I can't hold this shit back and honestly? Right now?
I don't fucking want to.
The Belial's dog barks once, and the crowd falls silent immediately. I clench my fists and look up at the man on the dais.
"If you're sure, then. Dantalion, do you agree to this punishment?"
The room swivels as one to stare at my husband. He smiles devilishly and nods. "Fuck him. He dies."
I nearly fainted in that weird court when The Belial confirmed my punishment.
Poor Francisco—Frank, as Dante calls him— The Marbas didn't say a word.
Didn't even stand in his honor. She's a very severe woman with a constantly furrowed brow and the sleekest high bun I've ever seen.
She should really watch out for traction alopecia, but it's not really my place to comment.
We all see how that goes.
So, as it is now, we're headed back to Dante's Old City rowhome. Frank is bound and gagged in the nearly ornamental trunk of the McLaren. Dante keeps stealing looks, and I swear I can even see a blush on his cheeks. He's assured me that we have more than adequate facilities at the house.
I don't get it. Will he make me scrub the blood from the polished hardwoods? Are we going to stop for some plastic sheeting at a paint supply store? As we near the city, I crank up the volume on the stereo.
Those guys from the 90s were right. Damn, it does feel good to be a gangster. I mumble the words to myself as I watch Roman heft the trussed-up Frank out of the trunk, barely breaking a sweat. Dante mumbles something to him under his breath, and Roman smirks.