17. Cast
17
CAST
Present
The world can be so cruel at times and I know because I’m the cruelest thing in it. The fucked up thing is that I have all this power, all this control and people will still die on me.
When I get to the hospital, Willow‘s inconsolable. She’s sitting on the floor with her knees to her chest and rocking back-and-forth. I want to sit next to her, wrap her up in my arms, and whisper that Vincent’s going to be okay—that my best friend, the one I’ve known since we were in diapers, will pull through. But that would be a lie. The truth is, I don’t know if he’ll be alive let alone okay. And that thought scares the hell out of me.
I walk past Willow and make my way to the front desk, where a blonde woman with pointy glasses and a tight-lipped smile looks up at me. “How can I help you, sir?”
“Yes, Vincent Beaumont was brought here about an hour ago and I want to know what his status is.” I say this in the most professional tone I can muster, but my tone still sounds like a threat, and she frowns at me.
“Are you his family? Spouse?” she questions as her fingers clack away on the keyboard in front of her.
“I’m his brother,” I answer because there’s no other correct answer besides that Vincent is my brother. Damien is my brother too, and there is no other option for me to be able to see him or know what’s going on right now..
“Sir, I’m gonna need some identification that you are a blood relative of the patient.” The woman eyes me with suspicion, and it takes everything out of me for me not to curl my lips into a snarl and growl at her.
“Ma’am, I don’t know if you know this, but when he came in here, he had a life-threatening bullet wound. I don’t have time to give you identification to know whether or not he is OK.”
“Sir, I just need?—”
I slam my hand against the table, irritation crawling across me like ants at a picnic. “Listen-”
A light hand lands on my shoulder, and I flinch at the contact, only to look over my shoulder and see Damien with his million dollar smile that he only uses for emergencies. He looks like an edgy Prince Charming, ready to unlace a corset and bring women to their knees.
“Ma’am, sorry for my brother here; he is a little stressed. We just wanna know what his status is. You don’t have to give us any personal information beyond whether or not he is out of surgery or—” Damien trails off not daring to say the words we are all thinking because if Vincent is, then there is no more us and I would’ve lost a piece of myself forever.
“All I can tell you is that he is in surgery.”
Damien takes out his ID and slides it across the counter. “I am not his blood relative, but I am his emergency contact. Is there any more information you can tell me?”
The woman takes a minute to type in her computer and try to find out any more information. “No, but I can request that the doctor come talk to you as soon as he can, Mr. Sterling.”
“Thank you.” Damien nods, and we turn around to see a frozen Willow standing looking at us.
Vincent’s blood stains her clothes, her hands, and probably even her goddamn soul at this point. She’s still, eerily so, like if she moves too fast, she’ll shatter. Her wide, glassy eyes flick between me and Damien, her chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths.
I’ve seen people in shock before. Hell, I’ve put people in shock before. But this? Seeing her like this? It makes an ugly realization crawl up my spine.
Damien steps forward first, his voice softer than I’ve ever heard it. “Willow.”
She blinks, like she’s only just now realizing where she is. Then, as if her body finally catches up with the weight of everything, she sways.
I’m in front of her before I even think about it, my hands gripping her arms to keep her upright. Her gaze snaps up to mine.
"You're okay," I tell her, even though I know it’s a lie.
Her lips part, but nothing comes out.
Damien is at her other side now, a bag in his hand. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” He doesn’t wait for her to argue, just guides her toward the bathroom like he’s leading a sleepwalker.
I follow, my grip on her tightening when she stumbles. The blood on her sleeves is dry now, but up close, I can still smell it—sharp, metallic, fucking suffocating.
We stop outside the bathroom door. Damien presses the bag into her hands. “Change.” His tone is gentle but firm, the kind that doesn’t allow for debate.
Willow stares down at the bag like she doesn’t understand what to do with it. Then, her fingers tighten around the plastic. “I don’t—” She swallows hard, her voice cracking. “I can still feel it.”
I know what she means. That kind of blood doesn’t just wash off.
I step closer, my fingers brushing over hers, smearing the dried red between us. “It’s not yours to carry,” I murmur. “Go clean up.”
She turns and disappears inside, the door clicking shut behind her.
Damien exhales sharply, raking a hand down his face. “Jesus Christ.”
I don’t say anything. I just plant my feet in front of the door, crossing my arms.
He looks at me. “You standing guard?”
I meet his gaze. “No one touches that door but her.”
Damien nods once. We are silent for a moment then Damien runs his hand across his buzzcut and looks at me with expectant eyes. I lean in closer, and he whispers, “How did someone find your safe house?”
My stomach tightens, a slow, cold burn seeping into my veins.
No one— no one —outside the higher-ups in the cartel knows about that place. It’s buried, locked down tight, meant for situations exactly like this. The kind of place that shouldn’t even exist to the outside world.
And yet, someone had found it.
"I don’t know," I mutter, more to myself than to Damien.
"You don’t know?" he repeats, arching a brow.
I snap my head toward him, eyes flashing. "No one outside the fucking cartel higher-ups knows that place exists." My voice is low, sharp, vibrating with barely contained rage. "No one. So tell me, Damien, how the fuck did someone find it?"
He looks at me with hardened eyes. “We have a mole problem.”
The thought makes my hands curl into fists, a wild, consuming fury clawing up my spine. My safe house. My territory. My fucking rules. And someone thought they could walk in and blow it all to hell?
The door clicks open behind us.
"What are you talking about?" Willow’s voice is quiet, rough from exhaustion, but there’s a strength beneath it. She steps forward, arms crossed over her borrowed hoodie, her damp hair sticking to her cheeks. Her eyes, still rimmed red from earlier, flick between me and Damien.
Damien shifts, his jaw ticking. I don’t say anything. My mind is still caught in the violent, circling thoughts of betrayal and bloodshed.
Willow takes another step forward. “Someone found the safe house?”
Neither of us answer.
She frowns. “Who?”
Before I can even think about what to say, a voice cuts through the tension.
"Mr. Sterling?"
We all turn. A doctor stands in the hallway, expression tight, clipboard in hand. "We have an update on Vincent."
Willow stiffens, her breath catching.
Damien steps forward, his jaw tight. “That’s me.” He doesn’t take his eyes off the doctor, already bracing for the worst.
The doctor clears his throat. “Vincent’s surgery was… complicated. The bullet went clean through his chest, skimming his lung and grazing his spine. We’ve stabilized him for now, but the damage is significant.” He pauses for a moment, watching the air hang heavy between us before continuing. “We won’t know the full extent of his recovery until he wakes up.”
The words hit like a punch to the gut. Willow’s eyes go wide, her hand coming up to her mouth as she stifles a gasp. Damien’s hand goes to her shoulder, a comforting weight, but the look in his eyes is dark, distant.
“Will he make it?” Willow finally asks, her voice barely above a whisper, full of raw emotion.
The doctor hesitates, his eyes flicking to Willow briefly before meeting Damien’s. “Vincent is stable for now, but…” He trails off, a deep breath following. “He will make it, but there may be complications. We’ve repaired the immediate damage, but the next few hours are critical.”
“What kind of complications?” Damien asks, his voice low but urgent.
The doctor glances over at Willow before speaking again. “His lung may not fully re-inflate, there’s a risk of infection, and there’s the possibility of paralysis from the spinal damage. The next 24 hours will tell us more about how his body will respond. We’ll continue monitoring him closely, but I need you to understand that this is far from over.”
Willow’s breath catches, her lips pressing into a tight line, as if she’s trying to hold everything together. I watch her, knowing the weight of those words is crushing her. She swallows hard, her throat working like she wants to say something, but nothing comes out.
Damien shifts, moving closer to her. “He’s strong. He’ll pull through.” He says it more for her than for himself, but I know it’s something he needs to believe.
The doctor nods, though the skepticism doesn’t leave his eyes. “We’re doing everything we can, but it’s still touch and go. That's all we can offer for now.”
Damien turns back to the doctor. “Let us know if anything changes.”
The doctor nods again, then walks away, his footsteps echoing down the sterile hallway.
Willow's voice is small but clear, cutting through the silence left by the doctor's departure. “Can I see him?”
I see her hands tremble at her sides, a quiet plea in her eyes. She’s still holding onto the hope that seeing Vincent will make all of this feel less unreal, less fragile. I can’t blame her for wanting that—hell, I want to believe it, too.
The doctor turns back to us, his expression neutral. “I’ll take you to him, but only for a few minutes. He’s not conscious, so he won’t be able to respond right now.” He looks at Willow briefly before nodding. “It’s better if you see him while he’s still stable.”
I watch them walk down the hallway. “Damien,” I say, my voice cutting through the tension, “I need you to get everyone ready in an hour. I want all Cartel members, everyone we trust, to be in the meeting room. We’ve got a mole to hunt.”
I nod, my gaze hardening. “The only people who knew about that location were cartel higher-ups. There’s no other explanation for how they could have found us. We need to move quickly. No more mistakes.”
Damien’s jaw tightens, his eyes sharpening with the same fire I feel. “Fuck.” His hand tightens into a fist at his side. “I’ll get them all together.”