Dirty Souls (Sins Duet Book 2)

by Karina Halle

  And I’m feeling pain.

  A whole fucking lot of it.

  I’m feeling so much pain that I can barely concentrate on Vicente’s voice.

  Because that’s what I’m hearing, isn’t it?

  His voice coming through the grey and the darkness and the white sparks and red veins behind my eyes.

  “Violet,” he says. “Mirlo.”

  Mirlo.

  My heart wants to melt.

  Into a puddle.

  It wants to flood me from head to toe.

  Because if this really is Vicente, it means I’ve been saved.

  I try and open my eyes to see, praying I’m not looking into anyone else’s face except his. La Mueca, Javier, Luisa—I never know who I’m going to get.

  But the pain is so great that I have to keep them closed. It pounds me, stealing my thoughts and funnelling everything down to just one thing.

  My wrist. It throbs, aches, screams.

  You’d think after everything that’s happened to me I would be used to it, but the pain never gets any easier. It just finds different parts of you to occupy.

  Thankfully the pills La Mueca gave me are supposed to dull the pain. They aren’t morphine, so I don’t know if they’re making that much difference but if there’s a chance I could be feeling more pain than this, then I suppose I should be grateful.

  But I’m not. One moment La Mueca is telling me his life story and the next he’s kicking me off my chair and stomping on my wrist.

  I should have figured something like that would happen.

  Javier had told him to deal with me.

  And when a Mexican assassin starts telling you his life story, that’s usually a big hint that something terrible is about to go down.

  “Violet.” There it is again, Vicente’s voice.

  Then a warm hand at my forehead.

  “Oh, what the fuck happened to you? What happened to you?”

  Now he’s whimpering.

  This can’t be real.

  I try again to open my eyes. I fight through the pain.

  I’m lying on my side on the damp ground, staring at his knees as he’s kneeling beside me.

  Oh my god.

  Is this really him?

  Vicente? I try and speak but I can’t.

  I don’t dare move.

  He lowers his head so I’m staring right into his face.

  Everything inside me breaks open.

  It’s him.

  It’s him.

  Also looking a little worse for wear, but it’s him.

  “Violet,” he says, his voice cracking. “My mirlo, what have they done?”

  His eyes go from my cheek to my wrist. He doesn’t even know what lies under my pajama leg. In a way I hope he doesn’t find out. He’s already looking like he wants to explode into a murderous rage and I don’t want him going anywhere. I just want him here with me.

  “Please,” I whisper to him but the word is barely audible.

  He leans in lower and his eyes hold me like a lifeline. I was so afraid I wouldn’t be able to look at him again without seeing his father, but it’s not the case at all. In Javier’s eyes I saw pettiness and vengeance when he looked at me. In Vicente’s I see his heart. It may be black at times, but it’s large and it’s beautiful and it’s mine.

  “I’m here,” he says softly, his eyes growing wet. “No one will hurt you anymore. No one.”

  I fall back asleep.

  When I open my eyes again, I don’t expect to see Vicente.

  I certainly don’t expect to be in a different position, slumped in the corner of the room, propped up against the wall.

  Beside me is a bottle of water.

  My aching, screaming wrist is wrapped up in bandages.

  The contents of the tote bag are beside me.

  As is Vicente.

  He’s holding out three pills in his hand. “Here,” he says gently. “I tried to give these to you while you were sleeping but it didn’t quite work.”

  I reach for them with my good hand and place it in my mouth before taking the bottle from him. It hurts to swallow but I get them down. The drugs are definitely wearing off since the pain is more acute from before, but at the same time I’m more awake, alert.

  I can finally take in what happened.

  “How did you get in here?” I ask, having to mumble in case I split my cheek open.

  “You don’t want to know,” he says in a low voice, looking pained. I then notice he holds a silver gun in his hands, turning it over.

  “Yes, I do,” I say, even though I’m afraid to hear it.

  “I’m afraid that what I’ve done isn’t enough after what’s been done to you,” he says, staring at the gun with a hard glint in his eyes. “No, it’s not enough.”

  He’s in another place right now. Completely swept away by fury and rage. What I saw him do to Leo Madano was just the tip of the iceberg.

  I can’t say I blame him. I took my own beast and I let her out. I fought like I’d never fought before. It just didn’t get me anywhere but further in trouble.

  But I didn’t have a gun. I just had my body.

  If I had a gun, I’m not sure if I would have used it or not.

  If Luisa hadn’t let me pass, if I couldn’t fight her off, would I have shot her?

  If I couldn’t fight Javier, would I have shot him?

  If I had a gun around La Mueca, would I have killed him?

  I would have done anything to escape.

  I still would.

  I still will.

  But there’s a difference between injuring someone to get away and to take pleasure in taking their life.

  Even when it comes to La Mueca, the man who took care of me and patched me up, who said I reminded him of his dead wife, who then broke my wrist in a million places, the very wrist that screams in time with my heartbeat, would I have placed the gun against his head and fired?

  Would I have tried to enjoy snuffing him out, watching the light extinguish from his eyes?

  I honestly don’t think I would.

  Maybe there would be relief.

  Maybe it wouldn’t even be that.

  And that’s just me. I can’t imagine what Vicente is grappling with right now. He’s trying to take all his wild anger and revulsion and funnel it somewhere, somewhere he might regret if he doesn’t already.

  “Vicente,” I say softly. “Look at me.”

  He doesn’t though. Winces at the thought.

  Looking at me is painful for him.

  “Please,” I tell him.

  He finally does and I see the struggle there, trying to keep calm and in control as he usually is, and failing. “I’m going to kill him.”

  “Do what you have to do to get us out of here,” I tell him. “To run away with me and never look back.”

  He presses his lips together into a thin white slash and nods.

  “Thank you for bandaging my wrist,” I tell him.

  “I had to do it while you were asleep,” he says. “I didn’t have much to work with but I hope it stabilizes it. I also put more cream on your face. Took off the bandage too. The bleeding stopped.” Red flames of rage pass over his eyes. “My father did that one, didn’t he? That’s his style. Branding people. I’m not sure if it makes it better or worse that he did it for me. It could have been a J.”

  “It’s all worse,” I tell him slowly. “There’s a V sliced into my damn face. You think I want to be scarred for life?”

  His brow furrows, eyes becoming soft. “No,” he says quietly. “Violet, I’m so sorry for all of this.”

  It’s not your fault.

  Those words are on the tip of my tongue.

  But I stop myself from saying them.

  Because it kind of is his fault.

  The pain from earlier, the one that made my heart sore, comes back.

  “Why did you lie to me?” I ask him, unable to keep the hurt out of my voice. “Your father told me everything.”

  “Wh
at, exactly?”

  “Just tell me the truth. Your truth. You didn’t find me by accident…”

  He shakes his head in shame. “No.”

  Ugh. After everything and this still hurts like a fucking kick to the gut. A hot ball of fire burns in my stomach, making me want to double over to quell the splintering pain.

  “Violet…” he starts. Chews on his lip for a moment, looks back down at the gun. “I found some papers in my father’s office, papers about your mother. It detailed their relationship. I was intrigued. He’s always been so…soulless.”

  “You don’t say...” I remark.

  “And these papers, your mother, what he felt for her? They proved he wasn’t. They proved that my father was once a man who felt deeply, who loved and cared and wasn’t spending every moment trying to rule the world. I wanted to meet your mother. I wanted to see her. And I wanted to learn.”

  “Learn?”

  “What could make him tick. What could get under his skin. If he was still obsessed with her, then maybe I could figure out his weakness and how to exploit it. That was one reason, anyway.”

  “What was the other reason?”

  “There were two. Maybe if luck was on my side, I could take her. Bring her to him. Maybe he would respect me more. Think of me more. Confide in me more.”

  This is unbelievable. And yet I know he’s telling the truth.

  “And the other?”

  He gives me a sour smile. “It was an excuse to leave and never come back.”

  “So let me get this straight,” I say, trying to position myself so my wrist is propped up on my knee, “you came to San Francisco because you wanted to know your father’s weakness and how to exploit it, you also wanted to kidnap my mother so you could gain greater favor with your father, and you also just thought you’d run away and never come back here again.”

  He nods slowly. “Yeah.”

  I watch him for a moment. “You’re more complicated than I thought. So where did I fit in?”

  “You didn’t. You weren’t part of the plan.”

  It was never supposed to be this way.

  His words flash across my brain, what he said the other night before we made love. He was fighting a war within himself. He was fighting it this whole time.

  “I fell in love with you, Violet,” he says, “by accident. I thought if I got to know Ellie’s daughter that I could get closer to her.”

  I close my eyes. His words aren’t enough of a balm to these fresh wounds.

  He seduced me to get to my mother.

  “I didn’t expect to feel anything for you. I thought…I didn’t think it was something I was capable of. Especially not so fast, so hard, but, please, know it’s true Violet. Every word I’ve told you with regards to my heart is true.”

  “You were sleeping with me to get to my mother,” I say with deliberation. “You used me.”

  “I wanted you,” he says, desperation in his voice. “I wanted every inch of you. Your body. Your busy mind. Your big heart. I wanted in. I found something inside you I never thought I could find anywhere.”

  I take in a deep breath and lick my lips. “And what is that?”

  “Salvation.”

  I shake my head slightly. “Vicente…”

  “You don’t understand because you’re you and you’re good and pure and beautiful, but for someone like me, to find a way out of this, to…to see the hope, the fucking hope, that I might deserve someone like you is…” He stops. “Christ, I love you. So fucking much, Violet, please believe me.”

  I open my eyes and see the truth on his face, the pain. I know he means every word. It just doesn’t make this much easier.

  And I have to press on. “You met my parents and they knew. They knew right away who you were.”

  He nods. “Yes, they knew. And I knew from the way they were with you that they would never tell the truth. They wanted to protect you from the people they were.”

  “Well they did a fucking bang-up job,” I mutter.

  “In a way they did,” he says. “Your father obviously knew that the past might show up one day. Why else have you and Ben learning how to fight at a young age? They wanted to protect you the best that they could while still letting you protect yourselves. And I’m glad they did. I know you tried to escape.”

  “Sorry about your mother.” And I am. Kind of. “She was just trying to help me.”

  “I know,” he says. “And I’m sorry about your mother.”

  My eyes widen. “What?”

  He winces shamefully. “I may have hit her on the head and duct taped her to a chair before we left for Palm Valley.”

  “What?!”

  “Sorry,” he says again. “Honestly, it wasn’t my intention. While you were waiting by the car, I went to your house. She realized who I was and I panicked. I wasn’t thinking clearly, I just wanted to get away with you.”

  “To bring me here?”

  “No!” he cries out emphatically. “No, I didn’t want to bring you here. I had no idea my father’s men were after me. After us. I should have but I was stupid and I didn’t. I just wanted to get the fuck away from everything with you at my side. When I said I was selfish, that was the truth.”

  “You bet it’s the fucking truth.”

  “Violet, I just wanted you to myself. I wanted to pretend just for a moment that our families weren’t at war with each other. I wanted to pretend you and I could have another life.” He pauses, takes in a shaking breath. “We can still have that.”

  “How?” I cry out, looking around this hellhole. “How could we still have that? We’re fucking prisoners in your father’s torture chamber. There’s a six-foot three assassin outside the door, ready to tell me nice things and then break my other fucking wrist.”

  “I told you, I’m getting you out of here.”

  “And what makes you think I want that life with you?” I say the words so bitterly and regret them the moment they leave my mouth. The impact is visible on Vicente’s face, the hurt is deep.

  His expression crumples like dust. “Because no matter the lies, it doesn’t change how I feel about you. About what I want.”

  “What about what I want?” I manage to say, emotion climbing up my throat, making it harder to swallow.

  He stares at me for a moment, breathing deeply. “What do you want, mirlo? Tell me what you want and whatever it is, I will give it to you.”

  What do I want?

  Aside from the obvious?

  I honestly don’t know anymore.

  I wanted nothing more than to fly free, but now that I have, now that I’ve ended up ensnared in a greater net, I want things simple. So simple.

  I want to be with my parents. I want to get to know them and their truth, who they really are. I don’t want them to be ashamed of their past. I want to learn from them. I want to understand them in the same way that I crave to be understood by them.

  I want to take pictures.

  I want to spend more time with Ben, with Gus Gus and Mimi.

  I want to just wake up each day and not be afraid.

  To find the beauty in the world I know is ugly at heart.

  Do I want Vicente?

  I stare at him, at his beautiful face and despite everything, all of this, the answer is yes. I can’t stop loving him now that I’ve started. My heart doesn’t know any other way and it no longer belongs to me. It’s in his hands. Hands that maim and kill but hands I know will fight to keep me.

  “Violet,” he whispers, putting the gun down and crawling over to me until he’s on his knees at my side. He puts his hand to my good cheek and I close my eyes, feel a tear roll down it, over his fingers. “I love you.” His voice is urgent. “I love you and I will give you everything. When we get out of here, we will do whatever you want, go wherever you want. Just please don’t stop loving me. I’d sooner put that gun to my head.”

  “Don’t say that,” I say softly, reaching for his head, sinking my fingers into his hair. This feels
good, too good, just to feel him like this. My hand makes a fist, afraid to let go of him. “I love you. I love you and I’m not going to stop. I couldn’t if I tried.”

  His eyes search mine, drowning in wildness. I feel his heart, his fears, pouring out of him. With a shaking hand he runs his fingers over my nose, my lips. “I promise you, I promise you I’ll give you the world.”

  “I just want you, Vicente,” I tell him as he leans in and kisses me gently.

  The simple act of his lips to mine seals something greater. It reaches into me like a fiery hand, stroking the dying embers inside, giving me greater resolve. To live. To fight. To love.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Javier

  When Javier was a little boy, maybe seven or eight, before both his parents were killed, back when his childhood was happy, he used to work on the boats at the shore. They lived in La Cruz, a small, quaint town north of Puerto Vallarta that was popular with boaters who liked to anchor in the harbor.

  His dad wasn’t a good man—he was part of the Gulf Cartel—but he wasn’t a horrible father. Maybe he wasn’t always there, maybe he wasn’t always attentive, maybe having one son and four daughters was too much for him. But he did what he could.

  Javier helped him with his day job, which was being a boat mechanic. He would get his father water as he worked, maybe brought him parts. Sometimes he’d send Javier down the shore to scavenge for boat parts from washed up wrecks. Sometimes, when he was older, he’d get Javier to steal from gringo’s boats. Little Javier would sit on the shore with binoculars and watch the sailboats, watch the couples when they left their boats to visit a restaurant. Then he’d row out there and take and take and take.

  It wasn’t good or bad. It was just what he did. You might say that he was a child and he didn’t know any better, but he did. It just didn’t matter.

  One day his sister Beatriz wanted to come with him. She was often down by the shore, feeding the local dolphin pod leftover fish.

  The boat he had his eye on was close to shore and it was hot, as usual, and so both Javier and Beatriz decided to swim to the boat. About twenty minutes earlier the couple, gringos from Canada, had left the boat and took their dingy to beach. Sunset hour was very popular for the restaurants and the water was warm and Javier and Beatriz had more than enough time.