Chapter Two
Octavio
T he sun creeps over the horizon, turning the city an inky orange color as I circle around St. Francis Medical Center in Lynwood, creeping toward the emergency room. I've been up since yesterday morning, and I still have a thousand things to do…including checking in on the girl who helped me identify the victims.
"Faith Donovan," I mutter aloud, liking the shape of her name on my lips.
Not for the first time, I find myself wondering who she is and where she came from. With wavy black hair, stricken honey-brown eyes, and the face of an angel, she damn sure didn't belong in the heart of Nikolai Tarasova's territory, witness to a mass shooting.
I worked in Missing Persons for years before I moved to Robbery and Homicide, and I've seen a lot of awful shit. But never have I seen anything like what happened last night. Seven people are now dead, and six more seriously injured. Yet Faith stood in the middle of the chaos like an angel of mercy, covered in the blood of a girl she knew nothing about.
I shouldn't have asked for her help, but no one else on scene was willing to speak for the victims. She was brave as hell…and terrified out of her mind. Fear swam in those wide honey-colored eyes, making it clear she knew what she risked by speaking to me, but she did it anyway.
I intend to make sure she's safe before I get back to work trying to sort out the mess the Amato Family left behind.
It's the least I owe her.
That's not why my mind keeps drifting back to her, however. She's fucking stunning. The whole goddamn time I was beside her, my cock was hard and aching. I want her…want to know if that voice is as sweet crying out my name as it is when she's speaking. Would she whimper and beg for release? Or would she fight me for it? I'm an asshole for even thinking about it…but I've been thinking about it anyway.
The glass front of the hospital is awash in a sea of color, the glass spire and cross jutting proudly into the air. Despite the early hour, the hospital is a flurry of activity.
I pull up beside an ambulance in the bay and duck inside.
Doctors and nurses rush down the wide corridor, their expressions tense and strained. Call lights buzz up and down the hallway as those waiting for treatment grow impatient. Half of the shooting victims were brought here last night, creating more work than the hospital has the resources to cover…but I doubt telling sick patients that the holdup isn't the staff's fault has gotten them far.
A cleaning crew is hard at work stripping one of the trauma rooms as I stroll past. Bloody bedding and equipment get loaded into biohazard bags and set to the side, waiting to be carted off for cleaning. I clench my jaw at the sight, tamping down the swell of anger threatening to rise to the surface. The city lost more than Bratva and cartel members to their senseless war last night.
Unless I miss my guess, that was the room of Kira Grishin, the girl Faith Donovan tried to save. The girl barely made it to the hospital alive. She died on the operating table a little over an hour ago.
I don't relish sharing that news with Faith.
"Morning, Detective," a nurse mutters as she hurries past.
I lift my hand in a wave, not bothering to ask for directions to Faith's room. Rich Anderson and Sai Patel stand at the far end of the hall in their patrol uniforms, blocking access to the last room on the right. I stride toward them, staying close to the wall to keep out of the way of the staff rushing around.
Rich Anderson reaches out to bump my fist when I stop in front of him.
"How's it going?" I ask.
"A couple Russians tried to get by us a little while ago," he mutters, pitching his voice low so it doesn't carry down the hall. "We sent them on their way again, said no one but family was permitted to enter."
"They were here for her?"
Sai Patel nods, his dark eyes serious. "They weren't happy to find her under police guard, Octavio."
I peek in the partially closed door. Faith is curled up in a ball on the small bed, a thin sheet covering her. All I can make out is the back of her head, her long dark hair tangled on the sheets. I don't even have to look closer to know she isn't sleeping though. Her breathing is too uneven, making it evident that she's faking sleep…and not doing a particularly good job of it either.
Rich looks in at her too and then paces across the hall, crooking a finger for me to follow.
"What's up?" I ask, watching as two nurses rush toward an ambulance pulling into the bay outside.
"You need to talk to her doctor," Rich murmurs, wearing an uneasy frown in place of his usual smile.
I quirk a brow, silently demanding an explanation.
"She's pretty messed up, O," he says.
"Her hands?" The palms of her hands were cut all to hell. She'll have a rough few weeks while they heal, but the cuts weren't life threatening or even serious compared to most of the other victims. The list of injuries other victims sustained is long and gruesome. Gunshot wounds to the neck, chest, stomach…we'll be lucky if another of the victims makes it through the day.
Rich shakes his head. "Nah, man. She's been beaten and starved." His expression goes grim, his lips twisting with disgust. "Pretty regularly from the sound of it. She has quite a few badly healed broken bones. She's also severely malnourished. Doc says some of those bones were broken at least a decade ago, if not longer. If she sought medical treatment for them, they can't find a record of her in the system."
"Jesus," I whisper, angling my body so I can see inside her room again. She's still curled into a ball under the sheet, almost like she's trying to make herself as small as possible. The sight automatically has my protective instincts flaring. She looks tiny and vulnerable…afraid.
What happened to her? And who the fuck hurt her?
"Is she talking at all?"
Rich shakes his head. "She tried to make a run for it once," he admits. "We caught her before she got far. She wasn't happy about it, but Sai threatened to put her in handcuffs if she tried again. That settled her down."
My frown deepens, more questions whirling through my mind. I saw how frightened she was at the scene, especially when one of the Bratva called her a bitch. Stark terror flowed through her honey-brown eyes. Even in the dark, her tawny skin blanched white. If she's trying to run, it's not because she's in a hurry to get back to them. Which means she's trying to get as far away from Tarasova and his people as possible.
That fact, coupled with the broken bones and starvation paints a grim picture…real goddamn grim.
More than likely, Faith Donovan is la esclava del narco , a cartel slave held in captivity and forced to work for Tarasova. Human trafficking is a nasty business…and men like Tarasova have been using unwilling victims to carry out their misdeeds for years. God only knows what Faith has been forced to do for them or for how long.
The thought alone sets my blood to boiling.
It's bad enough men like Nikolai Tarasova exist at all…worse that they victimize innocent people right under our noses and we can't seem to do a goddamn thing about it. Tarasova is one of the worst men I've ever dealt with. He's a violent, depraved son of a bitch with a criminal record as long as my arm, yet he somehow manages to walk away every single time we try to take him down.
He has more connections than God. He's run the California arm of their Bratva operation for most of the last four decades. The Tarasova family is virtually untouchable…and I loathe every single one of the bastards.
The memories of their crimes still haunt me, as do the faces of their victims. My older sister was one of them. What they did to her…well, there was no body to bury. I know because I spent most of my life looking. Eventually, I had to face the fact that we'd never know what really happened to her. We'd never have closure.
I want the Tarasov family out of this city so badly I can taste it, and Faith Donovan might just be my way to make it happen.
" Mierda ," I mumble, already knowing she isn't going to like what I'm about to ask her to do or what it's going to mean for her. But if I can get her to talk, I might be able to take Tarasova and his people down for once.
Because if the doctor is right about how old those injuries are…she's been under Nikolai Tarasova's thumb for a long damn time. Perhaps long enough to know exactly where to hit him and how to make it hurt.
Dios, me perdone por mis pecados, I pray before turning to Rich.
"Find her doctor," I mutter, my voice grim. "He and I need to have a talk."
I step inside Faith's room an hour later, more concerned about her than I was when I first arrived at the hospital. She's dehydrated and malnourished, her body almost depleted of essential nutrients. Like Rich said, she's riddled with badly healed broken bones and scars, some so old there is no fixing them now. They tell a story that breaks a piece of my heart. There's no way I can let Nikolai Tarasova get anywhere near her. Even if she can't help me, he won't get his hands on her again.
Fucking hell. The urge to hunt him down and kill him runs hot…and so does the desire to scoop Faith up into my arms and swear to her that no one will ever hurt her like that again. It's fucking with my head in a major way.
She doesn't move a muscle or acknowledge my presence as I cross the threshold. I know she's awake, though. The thin sheet has slipped halfway off and she's shivering, her eyes are clenched tightly closed, and her breathing is uneven.
I stand just inside the room for a long moment, watching her. She's beautiful in an ethereal sort of way. Not even the harsh fluorescent lighting mars the softness of her tawny skin or the gentle waves in her hair. Her face is slightly rounded with youth despite how thin she is, her lips full and lush. The scrubs they've given her to replace her blood-soaked clothes are pure white. Even though she's dangerously sick, she's stunning…an angel awash in a sea of white.
My body reacts to her like it's seeing porn for the first time, my dick going rock hard again. I mutter a curse beneath my breath, quickly running through a mental list of baseball statistics and silently willing it to stand down.
It doesn't matter how beautiful she is or how brave, I don't fuck around when it involves my job. I don't fuck around with girls half my age. And I definitely don't fuck around with women who need my protection.
But Christ…she's tempting.
How long has it been since I was with anyone?
Five years? Longer?
I can't even remember. I realized early in my career that I don't have time for entanglements or distractions. Women don't want to come second to a job, and my job always came first. I never met anyone who made me want to change that, not when finding out what happened to my sister has always been my priority.
But part of me is seriously reconsidering celibacy right now…the same part that wants to slip into that tiny bed with Faith and slip my hand between her legs, show her how good she should feel.
"Fuck," I growl, trying to rein in the thought. It can't fucking happen. No matter what I want, sleeping with her is off the table. It was off the table the minute Rich told me what happened to her.
Fuck Nikolai Tarasova.
Faith jumps slightly, giving away her act. The corner of my upper lip twitches as she clings to her pretense, stubbornly refusing to open her eyes or say anything. Instead, she keeps breathing in the unsteady rhythm of one badly faking sleep.
"I know you're awake, angel," I murmur, fighting the urge to chuckle.
Her breathing pauses for a second and then her long, sooty lashes flutter. Those wide eyes flash open, landing on me. They're bottomless pools of warm honey, shaking me all the way to my core. She's so young, so innocent, but the keen intelligence and enervated acceptance lurking in her gaze make it clear she's wise beyond her years. A healthy dose of ire and a whisper of fear swim in the depths of her red-rimmed eyes too.
I push away from the wall, taking a careful step in her direction.
She pushes herself upright in the bed, grimacing as she uses her bandaged hands to steady herself. The IV in her arm pulls taut where it's gotten wrapped around her upper arm. Before I can lean forward to help her untangle it, she tugs the line free, steadying herself on an elbow. A pained grimace crosses her face, gone as quickly as it appeared as she sits up, wrapping the sheet around her. She eyes me, her expression carefully blank.
She's a frightened little rabbit, trying like hell to put on a brave face. There are cracks in her armor though, chinks large enough to drive a tank through. The sight sends an unfamiliar desire twisting through me for the second time this morning. The urge to wrap her up in my arms and promise her everything will be okay waves through me. I quell the urge, ruthlessly tamping it down.
It's not fucking happening, Hernandez.
Maybe if I tell myself that enough, I'll actually hear it.
"I'm Detective Hernandez." I ease myself down onto the stool across from her bed, being careful to leave distance between us. I don't want to crowd her or back her into a corner. She'll never trust me if she's afraid of me.
I'm…surprised at how fucking badly I want her trust. Not because I need it. Not because I want her help. But because I want her to know she's safe with me. More than anything, I think she needs that right now—someone she feels safe with.
I'm not sure it's something she's ever had. And I'm probably the last motherfucker she'd feel safe with right now if she knew the things I've been thinking…but I'm not a threat to her. I won't hurt her or take what she doesn't want to give. I'm not that kind of an asshole.
The tip of her pink tongue peeks from between her full lips. "I know who you are," she whispers, keeping her eyes glued to my face. Her voice washes over me like an aria. Even though it shakes slightly, it's melodic, almost musical. I thought the same thing when she spoke to me outside the bar. "I remember you."
"That's good. How are you feeling?"
She watches me for a moment like she's trying to decide if she wants to tell me the truth or not. "Tired," she finally whispers. "And cold."
I glance around, frowning when I don't see any blankets. "Sai," I call quietly, and then wait for him to peek inside the room. "Go find her a blanket."
He nods and then disappears down the hall.
"That's really not necessary."
"It is," I disagree.
She frowns at me, her face scrunching up in annoyance.
"Do you remember what happened?" I ask, forestalling the argument brewing in those expressive eyes. For someone who lived in captivity for so long, she really doesn't like being told what to do. That's probably going to be a problem, because I'm an asshole who loves barking orders.
She opens her mouth and then closes it, shivering slightly. "Yes, I remember what happened, Detective Hernandez."
Sai taps on the door, drawing my attention. He's got a stack of blankets draped over his arm. "They were in the warmer," he says, holding them out to me.
"Thank you, Officer Patel," Faith murmurs politely when he sets them on the end of the bed.
He nods and ducks back outside, pulling the door partially closed behind him.
She eyes the small crack nervously before looking at me again.
"You're safe with me, Faith," I promise, reaching forward to shake out one of the blankets. I drape it around her shoulders, tucking it carefully so it won't come loose. "I won't hurt you."
"Okay," she whispers, though she doesn't relax until I'm seated on the stool across from her again. She watches me warily for a long moment, her face scrunched up like she's trying to figure me out. "Do you have more questions for me, Detective Hernandez? I already told you what I saw."
"I do," I say, and then hesitate, reluctant to drag her even further into a war that isn't hers to fight. If I had another option, I wouldn't do it…but Nikolai Tarasova needs to be stopped. And all of my instincts scream at me that this woman may have the answers to questions I've been asking for half my life. I just have to convince her to give them to me. "Do you know what esclavo del narco means, Faith?"
"Slave of the narco," she says immediately, the tip of her tongue peeking out to wet her bottom lip again. "It's what Latino call cartel slaves, right?"
"It is," I murmur, keeping my voice calm and level. "Cartels like the Tarasova family imprison innocent victims and force them to work. For women, that often entails working as prostitutes or maids. Men are forced to run drugs or work at cartel-owned businesses."
Faith flinches.
"I understand that you were under the protection of Nikolai Tarasova," I say, grimacing at the word protection . If Tarasova kept her around, it wasn't to protect her. Her injuries are proof of that. "But I need to ask if you were there of your own volition, angel."
"I don't understand. I thought you wanted to ask me about the shooting."
"We'll get to that," I promise, hating the way she folds in on herself as if trying to make herself a smaller target. Distress whispers across her face, those honey eyes haunted. "Were you there of your own volition, Faith?"
"I'm not…I'm not that," she mutters, though it sounds more like she's trying to convince herself than me. "I'm not a prostitute. I'm not one of their slaves." She carefully avoids saying she doesn't work for them. She also avoids answering my question.
"Were you there of your own volition, Faith?" I ask again, relieved that she wasn't working the streets for them. I'm not sure why I believe her, but I do. Whatever they forced her to do, they didn't prostitute her. She didn't suffer that horror.
"I don't…" She frowns, pressing one bandaged hand to her forehead like her head hurts. "Why are you asking me this, Detective Hernandez?"
"I spoke to your doctor."
She blanches, her hand dropping heavily back to her lap. The edge of the blanket comes loose, one side fluttering to the floor. Her eyes narrow on me and her cheeks darken, her tawny skin flushing as distress turns to anger. "You had no right to do that."
"Most of your injuries are old," I say, pushing forward even as sympathy wells, demanding I shut up and let her be. She's already been through more than anyone ever should. "The doctor believes you were just a child when you sustained them."
"I don't know what you're talking about," she mutters, her jaw firming. Her shoulders go back as anger grows, her honey-eyes darkening to pools of molten, liquid flame. "My health is none of your business."
Any healthcare provider who suspects abuse has a legal obligation to report it. Her doctor should have told her that but didn't. I know why he didn't tell her—he was trying to ensure she didn't completely shut down and refuse the medical care she desperately needs. His heart was in the right place, but that won't win him any favors with her.
It didn't win me any with her either, apparently.
"Some of Tarasova's men came looking for you earlier," I say, changing tactics instead of telling her that she's wrong.
Despite her best efforts, she can't quite hide the flash of unfettered terror that races through her eyes. I don't miss the lack of surprise either, like she knew they would come. That tells me everything I need to know about why she was with them.
"Sai and Rich tell me you tried to sneak out earlier. I'm guessing you were trying to avoid falling back into their hands. If you're afraid of Tarasova, I can help you, but you have to help me do that," I murmur, fighting the urge to reach out to comfort her.
I've been questioning witnesses for a long time but doing it this time seems particularly cruel. The fear and hopelessness in her gaze prick at my heart. She's too goddamn young to be so fucking sad. And I'm an asshole for wanting her as much as I do when I know what she's been through.
Goddammit.
"What…" She pauses to lick her lips again. "What are you asking me to do, Detective Hernandez? What do you want from me?"
"I just want the truth," I whisper, unable to keep from leaning forward and tucking the blanket around her again. My hand brushes against her arm, making her jump. She doesn't like to be touched. I quickly sit back, giving her space, even though it's not what I want to do. I want to pull her into my arms and teach her that not every touch has to hurt. "If you're in danger, I can keep you safe, but you have to talk to me."
"I–" She breaks off, her gaze roving across my face like she's looking for some hint that I'm lying to her. "How can you keep me safe?" she demands after a moment. Hopelessness rolls through her expression again. "How can anyone?"
"I will," I promise, my voice lethally soft. "I won't allow them to hurt you."
"How?" she asks again.
I'll fucking kill every single one of them, angel.
"Protective custody."
She cocks a brow, hitting me with a look of adorable disbelief. "Witness protection isn't real."
"Probably not like you mean it," I agree, "but we can move you to a safe location outside of Bratva territory. Somewhere Tarasova can't find you."
"He'll find me," she mutters like she has absolutely no doubts about that.
"Someone will stay with you until they stop looking for you. They'll keep you safe."
"And what do I have to do in exchange?" she asks.
I grit my teeth against the irrational swell of anger her question brings forth. She asks it as if she expects me to act like Tarasova and demand something in exchange for keeping her safe. I want to tell her I'm nothing like he is…that not everyone is out to use and abuse her. And yet, I do want something from her. I want a whole helluva lot.
"I want you to help me bring Tarasova down," I murmur, my voice gruff as frustration pings through me. The last thing I want is for her to view me in the same light as that pendejo , but I can't lie to her, either. "You know who they are, how they think…what they do and where. I need to know what you do."
She eyes me silently for another long moment. "You say that like you think I have a choice, Detective Hernandez, but I don't think I do."
I quirk a brow in silent question.
"They saw me with you," she explains, impatiently batting at a piece of wayward hair with one bandaged hand. "They know I talked to you. You can pretty it up all you want, but we both know I don't have a choice here. My fate was sealed the moment I agreed to help you at Ilya's. If they find me, they will kill me. You know it as well as I do."
"Then why did you help me?"
"Because you asked," she says, like that explains everything, but it doesn't. Not even close.
Why does that matter to her?
And why do I care so goddamn much?
I don't have an answer to either of those questions, and that unnerves the hell out of me. So does the fact that she's right. Had I not asked for her help, Tarasova wouldn't have any reason to come for her. Maybe she could have snuck away in the pandemonium, hurried off to freedom somewhere far away. Instead, she stuck around to help me, thus sealing her fate, as she so baldly put it.
"Whether you agree to help me or not, I will keep you safe," I promise again, hoping she knows I mean that. Regardless of whether she tells me a damn thing or not, I got her into this. I'm the reason her life is in danger now. It's my responsibility to get her out of the mess I created, and I don't shirk my responsibilities.
"I'm trading one cage for another," she mumbles.
I open my mouth to tell her that isn't true, only to snap it closed again because she isn't wrong. This life—protective custody—is a cage. And I'll be the asshole with the key, the one locking her away. Part of me—a fucked up part I don't even want to acknowledge—doesn't hate that thought, even knowing she does. That part wants to be responsible for her, wants to stand between her and the world like a shield…wants to cage her simply so she's where I can find her at all times.
And that part is honest enough to admit it has nothing to do with bringing down Tarasova…and everything to do with the unfamiliar feelings clawing through me every time I look at her.
That part is a motherfucker.
I've always considered myself honorable, someone who does what's right because it's right. Turns out…I'm just a fucking man, after all. One willing to play dirty to get what he wants. And right now, what I want is seriously fucking complicated.
I take note of the watery sheen in Faith's eyes and the growing distrust. Her shoulders slump like the weight of the world just settled on them. The sight prods at me, stinging. I'm the world's biggest bastard.
"Fine," she agrees, her face set in stubborn lines and her expression closed off. "I'll go into this protection program, Detective Hernandez."
Her agreement doesn't make me feel any less like a bastard.
"I'll set it up," I say and then climb to my feet. I've pushed her far enough for the time being. Once she's had a little time to come to terms with this, we'll talk again. Right now, the best thing I can do is get out of her personal space.
I stride toward the door, my fucking heart in a vise.
"For what it's worth," I murmur, hesitating on the threshold, "I think what you did out there was brave as hell."
"There's a fine line between courage and stupidity, Detective Hernandez," she says, sighing sadly. Her tone leaves no questions about which she believes her actions were.