Black Hearts (Sins Duet #1)

I’m running like the wind.

My legs are pumping up and down as I book it down the street and around the corner. It’s almost effortless. I feel like I can run forever, like I’m Tom Cruise out for a jog.

But I know it’s adrenaline that’s propelling me forward, all the way to Haight.

Past my house.

Because even though I should go there after what happened, I don’t.

I’m afraid.

I’m afraid that whoever that was, they have something to do with my parents. Or Sophia. Or whoever sent my father that envelope.

I don’t feel safe.

I get in a cab instead, breathless and fidgeting in the backseat. The music the cabbie is playing it too loud and jarring yet I can’t find the words to tell him to turn it off. I feel like I’m in a video game, except the pain on my cheek reminds me that it’s very real.

I should go to the cops. Should file a report.

Should do this, should do that.

But I can’t. Because I feel there’s only one person who can help me, one person who is unbiased and impartial.

The outsider looking in.

Vicente.





Chapter Eighteen





Vicente




I think everyone has a little thing they like to do when they get nervous.

With Violet, she likes to pick off her nail polish. Or play with her hair. Or scratch her arms until they’re red.

With me, I like to clean my guns.

It’s as soothing and banal as I’m sure doing the dishes is. If I ever feel the itch of worry, if I’m unable to ignore the anxiety building in my chest, I just take out my guns. Admire them. Then take them apart. It shows that something can become a total mess, rendered powerless, but all you have to do is clean them, make them more efficient, and put them back together again. It’s a puzzle with the same results every time.

I have them laid out on the bed, my .45, my 9MM, and .38, when there’s a knock at the door. I freeze and stare at the .38 in pieces. I don’t have time to put it back together, so I grab the 9MM and keep it at my side as I quickly exit the bedroom, shut the door, and creep down the hall to the main one.

I half expect to see my father on the other side, smiling at me through the keyhole. It would be about time he showed up, actually.

I’m shocked to see Violet. We didn’t have plans to see each other tonight – she wanted a break to be with her friend and I needed the time to think.

I quickly shove the gun into my waistband, pulling my shirt out over it, and swing open the door.

“Violet?” I say as she pushes past me into the room, tears streaming down her face.

Her face.

Is she hurt?

Cold swells in my stomach.

I quickly lock the door and follow her into the living room, pulling her to me.

She’s in near hysterics, breathing fast and hard, sobs that rip through her body. Her hair hangs in her face so while I grab her arm to steady her, I tip up her chin to look her over.

Terror seizes my throat.

The side of her cheek is red and blue, reaching from the corner of her eye across her cheekbone to her ear and up into the temple.

“What the fuck happened?” I cry out, my fingers reaching for her.

She flinches, turns away. She tries to speak but can’t.

I don’t know what to do. Part of me is stunned by the horror I feel. Part of me is angry at myself for not being there to prevent this.

Another part, the darkest part, wants to tear the world to pieces and find the person who did this to her. Because someone did.

Someone did.

God help me if it had anything to do with my father.

“Violet.” I hold onto her tight. “Please. Tell me what happened.”

She can only shake her head.

Fuck.

I leave her and go to the kitchen, wrapping up ice cubes in a dish cloth. I take her over to the couch and sit her down, placing the cloth in her hand. “Here. Hold this to your cheek. Gently.” I then grab tequila off of the counter and a glass and pour her some. “Here, straight back.”

Her hands shake so much that she has to use both of them to cup the glass and do the shot.

My fucking heart is breaking.

Tiny shattered pieces.

And that’s when I realize I am not my father at all.

Not even close.

Because even though I planned to take Violet to Mexico, even though I was fully aware of what would happen to her, seeing her like this, I know I can’t do it.

She’s been hit in the face and it feels like I’m the one who’s bleeding on the inside. What my father would do to her is far, far worse. I’ve heard what he did to a man called Esteban Mendoza, and I never wanted to hear it again.

I feel vomit rising in my throat and try to keep it together.

She needs me to keep it together.

I sit on the coffee table across from her and grasp her hands in mine, holding them tight, ignoring the jab of the gun into my hip. “When you’re ready,” I say gently. “Just breathe. In and out. I’ve got you now. You’re going to be okay.”

That brings a bitter laugh out of her. “Okay?” she peers at me through sorrowful eyes. “How is this going to be okay? I was fucking attacked walking home and he wasn’t your run-of-the-mill random mugger.”

“Tell me exactly what happened.”

She shakes her head, a whimper escaping her lips. “Okay. Okay I was walking back from the Castro.”

“You walked? For fuck’s sake, Violet!” I explode, nearly getting up. “You knew there was someone following you a few weeks back and you walked?”

She lifts up her head. Her eyes are blades. “I was an idiot! All right? I walked. And then when I was tired I decided to call a car but my phone died.”

I don’t care that she’s looking at me like she wants to murder me. I can’t believe she would put herself at risk like that.

She goes on, looking down at her hands, picking off the olive green nail polish until it rains down on the floor in flakes. “So I was walking and I was just a few blocks from home and suddenly I was grabbed, a gun was held to my head.” She pauses, drawing in a deep breath. “I didn’t know what to do, I was so shocked. He dragged me over to his van.”