Chapter Text
October 31st – New York City, one year ago
The thud of the bathroom door, the key turning and locking out techno music that was really loud for an apartment. The background chatter fading away, swallowed up by the apparent quiet of the place and Anthony Scavo’s rapid breathing as he stared at himself in the small mirror above the sink.
Angel Dust’s cheeky, amused smile disappeared the moment he realized he was alone and no longer had to pretend to be okay. That everything was going great, that he hadn’t argued with Valentino yet, that the purple marks around his left wrist were just the result of their kinky games between the sheets.
The mirror image sent him back a sexy nurse – who knows why Halloween costumes are an excuse to dress like in the cheapest porn – looking definitely wasted: tiny pupils in hazel irises, a pair of dark circles that testified that he hadn’t slept in weeks, a thinness that was becoming excessive even for someone as naturally skinny as him.
The smudged lipstick on his chin reminded him why he had locked himself in the toilet: a friend of Valentino’s who was a bit too pushy, whom Anthony had invited to that party only to try to make Val jealous and then find out that he wouldn’t even come.
Vox had demanded his presence that night.
The truth was that jealousy was eating him alive, not Valentino.
A repeated knock on the door made him growl and grip the edge of the sink harder.
“Fuck off!”
The rumor stopped after a couple more knocks and an unspecified curse, leaving Anthony alone with what threatened to be a panic attack.
No, it’s just jealousy, just turn it off.
Tony reached under his white latex miniskirt to reach a secret pocket and pull out a small bag containing his entire world, especially the last two months; he dumped the contents onto the counter next to the sink, scattering the various drugs with shaking hands and chewing more curses between his teeth.
“Where the fuck is it.”
Among colored pills, white powder, and pre-rolled cigs that definitely didn’t contain just tobacco, Tony grabbed a bag of caramel-colored powder. He opened it, sprinkled a teaspoon with a dose – a little more, just a little more – and clicked a lighter to dissolve the aforementioned powder.
His breathing, meanwhile, was getting faster and faster.
It was the coke, he’d taken too much – you just have to balance it out, you know? Turn it off.
Valentino had taught him that.
That way you don’t get too high too soon, amorcito. See? You’ll feel better right away. Good boy, like this, niiiice and slow.
He had never been able to stop.
He picked up the syringe from the same bag he’d taken earlier, along with a tourniquet that he tied one-handed above his elbow, tightening it with his teeth as he clenched his fist to make the vein stand out.
The vivid memory – so sweet so dirty so cruel – of the first time he had done heroin gripped his consciousness and threatened to make that panic attack explode. Valentino’s hands showing him how to do it, the gentleness of the needle piercing the white skin, the immediate relaxation that had slowed his heartbeat and loosened his muscles.
Val’s tongue removing the last traces of blood from the inside of his elbow and his distant, velvety voice – now come here, baby, let’s make love.
Love.
Anthony blinked twice, three times, and looking up in the mirror he realized he was crying.
Glitter and mascara, purple and black.
One way or another, the marks that Valentino had been leaving on him for a few months now were only those colors, whether they were bruises or tears.
Since when did I let myself become like this?
At that moment, a crazy idea of rebellion – when Anthony Scavo wants something he just takes it – made him consider the most suitable way to get back at Valentino and stop feeling bad.
Turn. Everything. Off.
While the bass of the music outside made the wood of the closed door vibrate, Tony looked down at the dose ready and already in the syringe.
If only—
What drives someone to think that there are no more ways out of situations is anyone’s guess; not even Anthony, to be honest, could explain precisely what had driven him to take that dose all at once. And to swallow three colored pills. And to dip his fingers messily into the coke bag to take some on his fingertips and snort.
He only knew – while he felt his heart twist in his chest to accelerate abruptly and make him dizzy, while his muscles began to scream and the room to visibly expand under his gaze – that it was the only satisfaction he could get.
Looking at himself in the mirror, in those pupils so dilated that they had swallowed all the color as if they were black holes, he savored in a crazy smile the last, visceral payback before losing consciousness in an infinite fall towards nothingness.
If Valentino wanted him out, he would have obliged.
In his own way.
October 31st – Las Vegas, four years ago
“Another one!”
Henry Husker’s fake-tipsy voice came with the clink of half-melted ice in his gin-and-tonic-without-gin glass – at least the third since he’d sat down at that Black Jack table – shaken towards one of the pretty waitresses in vampire costumes buzzing around the gaming tables like sexy bats.
Rule number one, boy. Stay focused.
There was a little voice inside his head that suggested that maybe he shouldn’t overdo it tonight; he’d promised Caroline he’d take her trick-or-treating – in a Las Vegas that was dyed orange for Halloween and, in some areas, much more kid-friendly. Lidia had smiled softly at him, in a spark of hope that this time he would really keep his promise.
I still got time.
One of the waitresses picked up his empty glass, clicking her tongue a couple of times flirtatiously and fluttering her eyelashes.
“You’re not working today, Husker?”
“Nah, today is fun day.” he replied, clinking the chips on the green table as the pair of chairs next to him emptied and refilled. “A couple more lucky spins and I’ll take my princess trick-or-treating.”
“And your wife?”
Henry’s cocky grin matched the flirtatious look the waitress gave him; he felt her gaze linger on him, sliding from his mouth to the pair of undone buttons on the white shirt, a small tuft of dark hair peeking out.
He shrugged, the picture of innocence.
“My wife’s going to have fun tonight, too.”
The girl pouted somewhat, before sighing theatrically and waddling away on a pair of heels only a Vampire could balance on, muttering a complaint.
Husk chuckled again, returning his gaze to the dealer who had changed decks in the meantime.
Shit.
Easy, he told himself, easy. First bet low and let the deck swell, then pick up the thread.
He cleared his throat nonchalantly, settling back into his chair and eyeing the other two people at the table betting to start the game. He did the same, unruffled.
The game resumed.
One card after another, Henry began to count just like the one who claimed to be his father had taught him. That evening – the Night of the Witches, in which legend has it that anything can happen – it wasn’t just luck on his side.
He kept his amber eyes glued to the cards, to the hands of the dealer – a new guy he’d said hello to last month and who he thought was called Jerry, or maybe Johnny. Honestly, he’d forgotten the name the moment he’d shaken the hand and felt it sweaty and tense.
Those weren’t croupier hands.
He watched as the player to his right bet half his chips – too high, too fast; the deck wasn’t warm yet, too many numbers and too few face cards.
Rule number two: don’t rush. Counting cards is like fucking a beautiful woman, first you have to make her come and only then can you come too.
He thanked the returning waitress with his fake gin and tonic in a silent nod, grabbing the glass with a wink and receiving in return a playful drumming of the fingers on the back of his neck in a sort of complicit caress.
The fact that he was now married and had a four-year-old daughter was a detail that the waitresses and dancers – or croupiers or bouncers – of the casino didn’t seem to care much about. Not that Husk had ever done anything after putting a wedding ring on his finger – his days of screwing magicians in dressing rooms were over – but the constant flirting was exciting.
A lot.
Henry was madly in love with Lidia, but the idea of being able to have anyone he wanted was intoxicating. It gave him the same delicious feeling as the rush of adrenaline that pumped through his veins when he waited to see the cards reveal themselves on the poker table, or to follow with his eyes the white roulette ball as it skipped across the red and black segments.
The same intoxicating power that he had when he was on the other side of the table dealing the cards – judge, jury and executioner of those who bet a part of themselves together with the chips they put into play.
He actually played with a chip, making it spin vertically like a top on the table, his fingers rough and thick, steady and attentive like his gaze on the game that was taking place.
Plus twelve.
The player to his left folded and gave up betting again, while the player to his right frowned as if pondering what to do.
Henry cracked his neck with a satisfied breath; he took a large sip from his glass – the illusion that he was tipsy was like a magician's trick, drawing the cameras' attention to something that wasn't actually happening – before setting it down and adding more chips to his bet.
He didn’t need to look at the cards again to know that the dealer was going to bust on the next card. He grinned.
Black Jack.
The small group of people gathered around the table cheered in polite applause, watching Henry collect his winnings and chuckle with satisfaction.
His eye fell on the watch on his left wrist: it was definitely late.
Caroline. Trick or Treat. Lidia.
His promise.
He sighed, ignoring the call of gambling adrenaline that murmured in his ear languidly like a lover ‘just one more bet, Husk, you can win a lot more’ to push a tip chip towards the dealer and get up from the table.
"Thanks Johnny, I’m out."
"My name is Jimmy."
Oh well.
Husker slid his jacket back on in one fluid motion, smoothing his sleeves and stuffing the winnings into his pockets; he took his leave in a lighthearted parody of a military salute and turned away from the table, swallowed up by the partly masked crowd that swarmed the casino.
Perhaps it was because of the crowd that he didn’t see a man slightly shorter than him – white hair, mustache, a cowboy hat and a toothpick stuck in the corner of his mouth – approach the table and inspect his glass.
The ringing of the phone – a bizarre western melody – made him put down the glass and fish the phone out of the back pocket of what looked like a full cowboy uniform.
“Striker.” he dryly picked up, in a thick southern accent.
The question on the other end made him nod.
“Aye, he did it again. Should I follow him?”
Judging by the silent nod and the call ending, the answer was yes.
“Yo, sir.” called Jimmy’s attention, who jumped slightly. “Do you know where Husker went?”
“I guess to cash in. He said he was having a night with his princess…?” The dealer looked a little confused as to who this ‘princess’ was supposed to be, but not Striker.
He curved a slow, menacing smile, the toothpick bending upwards exactly like the corner of his mouth.
A dark flicker deep in his pale eyes.
“Perfect.”
Without another word, Jimmy watched Striker slip away, following Henry. The last thing he saw was his cowboy hat outside the slots room door.
He had slithered away like a rattlesnake.
October 31st – New York City, one year ago
There was someone sitting on top of him, compressing his lungs.
A dirty sofa in a Village club, that broken pole that he asked Bob to fix he doesn’t even remember how many fucking times and the sprained ankle.
No, it wasn’t his lungs; those weren’t working the way they were supposed to. It was his sternum, someone repeatedly pounding his sternum. Yes, that had to be it.
The reddish smoke of a cigarette – there wasn’t just tobacco in there – and a smile that was glistening with gold, languid and sweet like the aftertaste of that first drag he’d offered him. ‘It hurts less this way, amorcito.’
A thud. Another punch to the sternum.
Was he Spanish? Maybe Latino, definitely not from the old continent.
His lungs swelled with a sudden intake of breath, a cough. He rolled onto his side and vomited bile onto a floor already as dirty as his ridiculous sexy nurse costume.
He had massaged his ankle, unzipping his high boot with a slowness that had made Anthony shiver with a soft, intoxicating pleasure. He knew right away that those fingers could break his ankle entirely, or they could bring him relief.
Confused voices poured into his ears in a cacophony of sound, threatening to make him vomit again. With the voices came a searing pain in his head.
Those fingers could have been heaven or hell, salvation or damnation.
Someone was crying and a part of him – the part that refused to pass out again – wanted to tell them to stop, that they were only making it worse; that his head hurt, that he had puke in his nose and that he had probably pissed himself. That he was the one who should be crying.
The massage had become a caress. Up up up up along his knee to the hem of his thong. The bills stuffed inside had rustled like autumn leaves – they crushed under the shoes just as the dirty sofa under them.
The someone who was crying was a woman who probably knew him, because he heard her crying his name repeatedly in a continuous litany.
Anthony Anthony Anthony Anth–
Anthony. Anthony. Anthony. Valentino growled his name, between one thrust and another, reciting it like he was reeling off beads of a rosary. Poetry and curse, a delicious blasphemy that crucified him against the wall of his dressing room.
“Anthony!”
Legs wide open, arms against the wall, Valentino pounding in his ass.
“Anthony, wake up!”
Legs wide open, arms around his neck. Valentino making love to him.
When he opened his eyes – blinking once twice one more time – the confused sounds and the excruciating pain in his head were joined by the blurry vision of a forest of faces bent over him. Or maybe it was just a couple of people, he wasn’t sure he could see straight. Breathe, said someone. No, I’m not breathing, I’m swallowing poisonous air and the remains of my vomit.
A starry blue sky, the roof of a SoHo apartment. Two arms that hold him in an embrace, from behind, and murmur words in his ear, sweet little Spanish nothing.
Anthony wanted to turn off the light and go back to not breathing, because the awareness of still being lying on the floor of a bathroom that he had helped make filthy had started to sink its teeth into him and it hurt like hell.
A plate crashed against the wall, Valentino shouting in a jealous outburst that had made Anthony's legs tremble as he held his cheek red from a slap.
“Make room, take the stretcher.”
A line two three four lines of white perdition snorted in a club toilet. Valentino’s tongue on the neck, his perfume on him, inside him. Every-fucking-where. The inebriated smile of someone who feels loved. You’re mine, Anthony.
The world began to spin again, in a violent jolt, the moment he felt himself lifted from that floor and placed on another surface a little softer, but unstable. The faces above him disappeared, replaced by a pair of eyes exactly like his.
His reflection in the SoHo bathroom, one eye swollen-closed from a punch, a split lip and a cut on his forehead where Valentino’s ring had ended up. He didn’t do it on purpose, it was me. I’m the one who made him angry, I’m the one who looked at that waiter, I’m the one who smiled at him.
A new wave of headache mixed with the desire to sleep made him close his eyes again, while someone pushed a sort of mask over his nose and mouth. Oxygen and vomit, a disgusting taste.
The bitterness he had felt on his tongue, when he had come home and found Valentino busy sucking another man’s cock. The same Valentino who had never taken his in his mouth, because Anthony was the one who gave. He gave, he gave, he gave, he gave everything of himself.
“Anthony, why did you do it.”
He didn’t know if the sobbing was a question, if it was his thoughts, if he had imagined it all.
Why did you do it? I love you, Val. I love you so much it makes me wanna die.
Above him, the ceiling began to slide and became sky; a dark, starless sky, lit by what were maybe streetlights or maybe that too was all a hallucination.
Please don’t leave me.
Someone had turned off the music and all that was left were indistinct voices, a high-pitched noise that made his head throb every now and then, the sirens of an ambulance.
Oh Angie, baby, you know I love you too.
A blue light that painted the Halloween masks around him, in a disturbing picture perfectly in tune with how he felt at that moment: dead.
So stop throwing a tantrum, you know what happens when you make me angry.
The truth is that perhaps dying would have hurt less. It would have hurt less to close his eyes and just keep falling, choking on his own vomit while the drugs devoured his heart.
Your heart belongs to me, Anthony. I am the only one who can devour it.
He started to cry, or maybe it was still the sobs of the one he had now understood was his sister, as they loaded him into the ambulance.
The image of Valentino standing in front of him, curled up on the ground against the wall, with a belt in his hand and a blood-red smile for that one time he had dared to fight back.
The thud of the door closing, the sirens starting to wail, a wave of nausea that threatened to make him vomit into his oxygen mask again.
I am. The only one. Who can kill you.
Killing himself would have really hurt less. He had failed at that, too.
October 31st – Las Vegas, four years ago
“Husker?”
He’d never heard that voice before – and he knew everyone around here.
Henry frowned in mild perplexity, turning away from watching the cashier change his chips into cash to focus on the cowboy who’d just spoken to him.
“Henry Husker?”
“That’s me, yeah. And you are?”
The smile that came to him a few moments later gave him the inexplicable feeling of being in danger; a cat cornered by a venomous snake.
“Striker. Can I borrow you?”
Husk was called back by the cashier, who pushed the money towards him; he thanked him with a nod, taking the wads to put them directly in the inside pocket of his jacket.
“I’m in a hurry, actually, so if it’s a—”
“I think you’d better listen to me, hm?”
Henry’s amber gaze slid down to Striker’s pulled-back jacket, discreetly revealing a gun tucked into his shoulder holster.
The unpleasant sensation of being in danger was suddenly no longer just a sensation.
He swallowed the last of his saliva in a dry mouth, as Striker let go of the jacket and looked at him as if nothing had happened – a waiting smile.
“Okay. All right,” he muttered, cracking his neck again to try to stay calm. “What do you want?”
Striker clicked the tongue, as if calling a horse – there was a golden flash, of a tooth he might have lost and had been replaced.
“Not here. Boss wants to talk to you in person.”
“Boss?”
Henry frowned again, confused, before regaining control and exhaling in annoyance. He made to pass the cowboy, taking advantage of still being in public.
“Look, if this is some shitty Halloween prank—”
A hand grabbed his wrist. Hard.
“The sooner you talk to him, the sooner you can get back to your daughter and wife. Or do you want me to pick them up and bring them here?”
Striker’s blunt but elegant threat – murmured in his ear in a low, gravel tone – made him stiffen abruptly. He took a deep, slow breath and yanked his wrist out of Striker’s grip.
“Fine. Just leave them out of whatever this bullshit is, okay?”
The cowboy grinned again, pleased; that was his only response.
Henry nodded again, following him towards the exit – not the front one, no. The one on the back.
The moment he saw a limo and a couple of other goons, dressed in black, waiting for him and the cowboy outside the casino, he knew he was in serious trouble.
“Where are we going?” he asked, putting on his poker face and praying that Striker didn’t feel his heart pounding against his ribs as he climbed into the car.
“Oh, don’t worry, we’ll be there in ten minutes.”
The thud of the door, the sound of the engine starting.
Sitting sandwiched between two men, Henry glanced at Striker, seated across from him.
“Who’s your boss?”
A shadow of suspicion began to creep into the back of his mind, but hearing it directly was a different story.
“Crimson.”
The owner of the casino. The same casino he regularly played at. The same casino he regularly cheated at.
Holy shit.
“And what does Crimson want with me?”
Striker looked at him with the bored expression of someone who has lived this scene who knows how many times.
“Let me put it this way, Husker. Crimson doesn’t like to be fucked.”
No, I am the fucked one.
As the car drove through the crowded streets of Vegas, Henry thought about his promise: he was pretty sure he wouldn’t be back in time to keep it.