Saved by a Sinner

by A G Henderson

  “We stick to the plan.” I met Manny’s eyes first, waiting for his nod before moving to Isaac. When I knew we were on the same page, I threw my door open and stepped out, almost kneecapping George as he came around to open it for me.

  He shot me a look I easily ignored. I was used to staring down hardened killers and waiting for them to blink. A balding, older man in a tux throwing attitude my way was hardly in the same ballpark. He was one of the few holdovers from the ashes of my father's ramshackle empire.

  Most of the service staff had been spared. I'd taken it for a show of mercy, in those early days. The naivety had been burned out of me quick enough.

  Who better to tell the tale of a conqueror’s wrath than the horrified survivors?

  George primly adjusted his bowtie and I knew he was going to give me hell the next time we were alone. When he did, I would likely threaten to fire him and never follow through with it. The two of us had a pattern by now. He'd been the driver taking us to and from school before shit hit the fan.

  It gave him leeway he frequently exploited.

  But having a man trying to open doors for me was never going to stop being weird as hell.

  “Carlos! Over here!”

  I glanced around as my brothers flanked me, easily spotting the tall, raven haired woman bouncing up and down in the line, wearing a tiny red dress which left nothing to the imagination. My smile was warm and bright and about as real as the fake balloons bolted onto her chest. Her attention raked over me suggestively. Too bad for her I had already forgotten she existed.

  “Let’s go.” I strode forward, shooting a nod towards the bouncers holding back the crowd. My brothers fell into step behind me.

  Curve swallowed us whole, a sea of strobing lights, writhing bodies and pounding base barreling into my senses. We cut straight through the dance floor towards the VIP section. Guards steered people out of our way, outright shoving those who weren’t cooperative. Red rope was spread before the glass staircase leading to the next level and someone was already there, dropping it as we passed. They looked antsy behind their mirrored shades, yet I saw no clear reason as to why.

  I paused not even halfway up, raising my voice to be heard over the music. “You can’t bring your snack with you, Manny.”

  He joined me on the steps, hair mussed, lipstick streaked around his mouth.

  Never fucking fails.

  “These things always get so boring,” he said, blowing a kiss to the flushed woman standing a few feet away.

  I appreciated his levity when we were alone.

  We weren’t alone.

  Out here, mingling with the rest of the city, there was only one constant. I was their boss first, and their brother second. It was beyond important everyone recognized me as such.

  Manny knew the rules. He recognized his mistake. I could see it in the way his eyes narrowed and his stance shifted. Too late. Weakness was in the air and I would smother it. He'd already overstepped earlier. Some lessons required firmer teaching than words could provide.

  I lashed out, striking hard and fast. My clenched fist smashed into his solar plexus, robbing him of breath, and his body started to fold in on itself. Before it could, I caught his neck in my grip and forced him backwards.

  Manny was strong as an ox. When his hands came around to lock on my forearm, I grimaced. But it didn’t matter. The glass staircase had no railing, and it only took a second to force him halfway off the edge until only the tips of his muddy boots remained on a solid surface. Everything else was hanging out into empty space and his face lost color as he realized I was the only thing holding him up.

  “You’re a heavy motherfucker, you know that?” I shook him for good measure, threatening the drop. It wasn’t far, but it wouldn’t be pleasant either.

  What it would do was get my point across.

  If he made me go there.

  “Piece...of...shit,” he wheezed.

  “Carlos, let’s take a breather for a-”

  “Shut up,” I hissed at Isaac, attention returning to the liability in my grip. “She’s my prize at the end of this. If you cost me that, Manuel…”

  The thought wasn't worth completing, nor was it necessary. He understood. The acceptance was written on his face. I pulled him back to his feet and let go, continuing on my path without another word.

  Except when I finally reached the top, high enough above the first floor of the club the music returned to being a dull throb, my world tilted on its axis.

  Scattered along the walls of the VIP section were multiple bodyguards, but I didn’t care about them.

  The three people seated around the main table looked up at my entrance. Two of them, I was expecting. One, I definitely was not.

  Narciso, owner of this club and current bane of my existence, was a given. The fat, greasy looking bastard with hair dyed an unnatural shade of black was wearing an ill-fitting suit and dabbing at the sweat rolling down his jowls.

  He was a parasite, using his connection to the big bosses of the Cartel to constantly extort more, push further. He always found a reason to hike the price of my ‘tribute.’ Any delayed payment or attempt at retaliation would have him unleashing the dogs he held sway over on an unexpecting and undeserving city.

  No matter how soon the time came where I finally extinguished the life in those dark, beady eyes, it wouldn't be here fast enough.

  Across from him sat Raze, head of the Black Vipers, one of the Sinners own chapters. Having been friends since my brothers and I settled in Charlotte, I was usually able to count on the blonde haired playboy to be unruffled by much of anything.

  But he was fidgeting.

  His knee bounced erratically, and he refused to meet my eye.

  Let’s just say I had a pretty good fucking idea why he was looking so nervous, given who occupied the middle seat, facing me directly.

  Blurry pictures hadn’t prepared me in the least for seeing Sylvia in person for the first time since she spared my life more than a decade ago.

  Her signature mohawk was hidden below a black beanie, leaving her sharp features in plain sight. Not a single blemish marred her cool, ivory skin, and it provided a stark contrast to the mix of black and silver piercings decorating her face. Dual, monochrome bars went through the corners of each eyebrow. A silver one went through the bridge of her nose, and there was a small, black hoop for her septum. Lone, silver studs dotted each cheek and I briefly wondered if she had dimples while my eyes traced their way to her full, pink lips and the hoops bracketing either side of them.

  She was striking. Imposing. Powerful in a way that gave me pause.

  Sylvia was the smallest person in attendance, but it damn sure didn't feel like it. No, it was more like death herself was sitting at the table in blue jeans and a long sleeve white tee, her scythe pressed to our necks.

  No wonder Narciso and Raze looked like stuck pigs.

  I stalked towards the table with a calm I didn’t feel, heart thundering in my chest. And that was before I warily flicked my gaze up to meet silver eyes, bracing for the hate I was sure to find.

  Our stares locked.

  Her eyes flashed, cycling quickly through emotions as I slowly sat down.

  Cataclysm.

  The only possible description capable of doing justice to how I felt when I realized what was in the foreground.

  Anger. Bright and hot and fierce.

  Startling in its intensity.

  I tried hard not to smile, aware of the eyes on us. Aware I was staring a bit too hard. But not showing my pleasure was the hardest fucking thing I had done in ages.

  This was more than I had dared to hope for.

  How many nights had I laid awake, wondering if there would be nothing left but the hate when I finally approached her again?

  Wondering if the woman I wanted to save would be too far gone before I could get to her?

  It wouldn’t have been enough to make me give up. Quitting wasn't in my DNA. The promise I made to myself to save h
er was an eternal blaze. Constantly raging. Completely inexhaustible.

  But it would’ve made things much harder.

  Anger, on the other hand, could be dealt with.

  Anger was passion.

  And passion, in any form, meant she was only a hop, skip, and jump away from being mine.

  The plan had changed, just like that. Measures to keep her with me would have to be taken. Good thing I knew how to think on my feet.

  Raze faked a cough beside me, obviously uncomfortable. Narciso was looking between us, saying nothing, but I could feel his patience unraveling. When I spoke, it was in a low rumble, but my words were meant for her.

  Meant to taunt.

  Meant to provoke.

  Meant to push the scythe into my neck that much deeper, as long as it brought her closer at the same time. A small wound was worth overall victory.

  “What the fuck is she doing here?”

  Silver eyes turned molten.

  Gotcha.

  CHAPTER 3 - Sylvia

  Five hours ago

  “Hey there, hot stuff.”

  I pulled the brim of my beanie down and stared at the coffee cup in front of me like it had the answers to the universe itself. It wasn't as helpful as I might've hoped.

  Mr. Preppy with his boat shoes and khakis and carbon copy haircut continued to linger by my seat. I was situated near a window, as far away as possible from the rest of the cafe. Caution tape couldn't have made the hint more obvious.

  He was also holding a cup of some garbage I couldn’t pronounce if I wanted to. Which I didn’t. It was an abomination to the classic dark roast.

  When did the world go so wrong no one could make it through the day without dumping an entire dessert down their throat every morning?

  “You come here often, babe?”

  I sighed.

  I hated new places.

  Truly, fully, completely. From the very bottom of my black, cold, dead heart.

  Why?

  Because without fail, new places came with new people.

  And I fucking hated new people.

  Although it hadn’t always been that way.

  Once upon a time, I was as outgoing as they came with the worries of a fifteen year old girl. Who was kissing who behind the bleachers? What was I going to wear to homecoming? Was I going to make cheer captain?

  It became so much easier to appreciate and long for those simple days once they had been burned to ash and dust beneath the cruel inferno of reality.

  “Can I buy you another cup?”

  My eyes sliced up to Mr. Preppy and he grinned, practically preening from finally getting my attention.

  Don’t cut him. Don’t do it. You made a promise to Creed.

  I ran my tongue along the backs of my teeth, piercing rubbing against the roof of my mouth. Stop reaching for it. I paused the hand inching towards my waist.

  Was I actually going to cut this guy for speaking to me in the middle of a public place? Probably not. But there were lots of idle uses for a blade, and it was amazing how little talking guys wanted to do when they saw you picking your nails with a knife bigger than their cocks.

  I technically hadn’t promised anything about not threatening people, but I was sure it was implied.

  Whenever Creed was in the picture, it was better to be safe than sorry. Stretching his rules would do nothing but leave more rope he would use to hang you. In this case, word getting back to him of any confrontation with some civilian would see me snatched from this assignment faster than I could snap my fingers.

  That couldn’t happen. This meant too much to me.

  I reached for my purse instead - really a satchel, given the size - grabbing a blue marker and my tablet sized whiteboard. I intentionally wasted his time while I slowly popped the cap off and tilted the board towards me.

  Preppy stepped closer, starting to edge in on my personal space.

  The knife could slip, right? If I lean over just a bit and give it a little nudge, it might impale itself right in the middle of those disgusting loafers.

  I bit my lip, denying those thoughts access before I found myself acting on it.

  On the board, I wrote three words. Two on top and one on the bottom. Nice and neat and clear as can be. Then I turned it towards him, an arctic expression on my face.

  “Fuck. Off. Fucker.”

  Take that, Shakespeare.

  Preppy read the words twice over, lazy grin falling away. His cheeks turned pink, followed by bright red. He looked around to see who had noticed and I exhaled slowly, wondering if I was going to have to truly embarrass him in a moment. When his attention landed on me again, he looked me up and down with a sneer on his face.

  As if all of a sudden, I was the most disgusting thing he had ever seen, simply because I didn’t want to be bothered by him.

  Men were funny about that kind of thing.

  “Bitch,” he hissed, stomping away with his shitty drink half melted.

  Ms. Bitch to you.

  I nodded at my own comeback, regardless of the words themselves never seeing the light of day.

  This was a perfect example of why I hated new people.

  See, back in Oakdale, I would’ve never had to be bothered with a punk like him. The Sinners were feared by some.

  Okay, most.

  Loved by others.

  Respected by all.

  People questioned the brutal tactics we employed but there was no denying they worked. The small town had been circling the dumps before Creed, Texas and Rebel had stepped on the scene, systematically destroying their opposition as they rose to the top and stabilized the community.

  I remembered my mom’s voice, warning me about the areas they frequented back in the time before the ashes and dust. I remembered my dad snorting in the background of each of those conversations, knowing I wouldn’t be caught dead in any of those places.

  Sometimes, I wondered what they would think if they knew I had escaped from one set of monsters only to join up with another.

  But I was going down memory lane instead of making my point.

  Everyone there knew I didn’t speak. It didn’t have to be a whole thing. No one made it their duty to find out if I could and wouldn’t, or wanted to and couldn’t.

  I could speak if I had to.

  Physically, there was nothing wrong with my voice. The doctors had assured me as much. Which had been very surprising when I found out.

  Who knew you could scream until your throat bled and be able to talk afterwards?

  The problem was in my head. Less chemical imbalance. More unrelenting trauma.

  If I thought about speaking, my throat closed up. My heart raced. My palms started sweating.

  Not because I was afraid of speaking.

  But because I was afraid of not being heard.

  In movies, the terrified girl always got a gag in her mouth to keep her from screaming. Begging. Pleading. Then there were the chains, or the ropes, or the cuffs. Followed by the drugs. I always thought the drugs made it so much more awful. When they had to suffer the abuse without at least being able to rage against their attackers.

  At least before the Cartel took me and killed my parents in front of my eyes.

  We’d been celebrating after an away game. Our football team won and I begged, no, pleaded for a late night ice cream run before we got home. I would never forget the blacked out car pulling up while we were on the benches, carelessly enjoying ourselves. I would never forget seeing Santino’s face for the first time, shrouded in clinging darkness only interrupted by the flickering street lights and neon sign of the creamery.

  I would never forget the things he had whispered in my ear as his men pulled the trigger on my family.

  Sadly, that was only the start of my nightmare.

  There were no gags inside the small, windowless room where they kept me. No ropes. No drugs to make me docile.

  I woke up naked and alone inside a virtual cell, empty but for a lone mattress pushed into th
e corner. So I did the only things I could do.

  Night after night.

  Day after day.

  For five months that felt like an eternity.

  I fought and screamed and begged.

  But it all meant nothing.

  I wasn’t a person to them.

  I was prey.

  “There you are.”

  I was up and out of my seat in one motion, breathing hard, sharp edge of a knife tucked against dark skin and the jugular beneath it. One little flick of the wrist. The slightest bit of pressure. And blood would spill in an unending flood.

  “Sly.”

  My mind lit with recognition at the nickname, the voice registering a moment later. I stepped back and stashed the blade, glancing around. A few too many people were looking this way.

  Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

  “Let's take a walk,” said Tone, reaching out for my arm before letting it fall.

  That only made my mood worse, and I was grateful for the time I stole by stashing my stuff away in my satchel before swinging it over my shoulder. It gave me a much needed moment to embrace the hurt of witnessing his wariness.

  We ambled out side by side. I held my head high while doing my best to ignore the careful amount of space he kept between us. The distance was painful in a different way than the memory itself. It was an unsettling ache, cramping my stomach, because I was supposed to be beyond this.

  The days of jumping at every noise, fending off every touch, and waking up in a cold sweat at night were supposed to be over with. I would do whatever it took to make sure the feelings of helplessness never returned.

  Tone said nothing as we walked, content to leave me in my own private world as we strolled through downtown, surrounded by skyscrapers and more people than I would’ve liked. He wasn't one of the core Sinners, but at times like these, he was better than any of them to have at my side.

  Creed and Texas were my heroes but they were too...substantial. Impossible to ignore even if you tried. Imagine being locked in a room and attempting to gather your thoughts while on one side, a hurricane devoured everything in sight, and on the other, a tsunami patiently waited to come crashing down.

  Kane and Saze, identical Hispanic twins with a love for blowing shit up, weren’t much better. They couldn’t take anything seriously if they tried. I had the unfortunate experience of watching them defuse a bomb once. While the situation remained dire enough to drench me in cold sweat, they never stopped their banter.