Chapter 18
VIOLET
“Here.” I hand Mario a cup of coffee. “You’re working late because of me again.”
He stares at me, then at the cup in my hand, frowning slightly. The night air feels heavier than usual, clinging to my skin with a disturbing eeriness.
My sneakers hit the pavement as I shove the cup into his hand. “Just take it.”
“You don’t have to do this.” He taps the elbow of his jacket, where I embroidered a falcon patch to cover an area that was a bit worn out. I thought it was the least I could do after he lent it to me the other day because I was feeling cold. “Or this.”
I smile as I fall in step beside him. “It looks good, though, and it’s not that I have to do it, more like I want to.”
Mario is kind of my companion, walking me to my shifts at the bar, my classes at college, or even my shopping at the grocery store.
Over the past few weeks, when my head has become foggy and my nightmares have gotten to be too much, I’ve found a bit of comfort in knowing I have Mario as a guardian of sorts.
I know he’s a pseudo stalker, but I don’t like to think of him that way. Especially since he’s never been malicious and even looks like he feels guilty at times.
And since he’s mostly in his car, I give him coffee or even food. Poor guy doesn’t get enough sleep, and I feel guilty, even if this whole thing is Jude’s fault.
“You’re not supposed to feed the man who works for your stalker,” he says with a note of irritation. “Do you have any survival instinct?”
“I do, which is why I don’t feel any danger from you.” I point a finger at myself. “I’m a great judge of character.”
“You’re too nice for that.”
“And you’re grumpier than your boss.” I sigh. “Has he ever mentioned how all of this will end? I mean, I know how, but has he ever talked about when he’ll finally do it?”
“You believe he’d kill you?”
I nod sharply. “He’s made that clear countless times.
But it’s been months since he promised that, and he still hasn’t taken any steps, so it’s making me a bit anxious.
Okay, a lot. My depressive episodes are worse, and his lack of action makes me overthink…
Forget it, I don’t want to waste your time with that. Just…can you talk to him or something?”
“I’m telling you this once, so listen carefully, Violet.” He throws me a look. “If he wanted to kill you, you’d be dead by now. He wouldn’t be wasting his time and resources this way.”
“W-what?”
Mario opens his mouth to say something else, but the quiet is shattered by a sudden screech of tires against pavement.
He stiffens, his hand reaching behind his back out of instinct. I turn just in time to see a van hurtling toward us, its headlights off, its engine snarling in the dark like a nocturnal beast.
Just like that day.
The day he was shot.
Oh my God.
The van barrels forward, cutting through the silence with its raw, hungry speed. My breath catches, lungs locked, heart thudding.
And for one terrible, disorienting moment, I just stand there.
Frozen.
Paralyzed.
My body refuses to move, as if it’s still trying to understand whether this is real or another nightmare I haven’t woken up from as I catch a glimpse of the driver.
A silver mask stares at me through the windshield. The glow from the streetlights catches on its edges, revealing serpentine details coiled along the surface, twisting and curling like it’s coming alive.
The sight sends ice through my veins, my pulse slamming against my ribs and my hands shaking.
For someone who often thinks about death, actually facing it is making me jump out of my skin.
What about Dahlia…? You promised to never leave her alone in this world.
Move, Violet, move!
Before I can do so, Mario shoves me back, hard.
A gunshot rips through the night as he fires at the van, and it swerves, its tires screeching, but it keeps coming.
Mario fires again, aiming for the driver. Another crack of gunfire, but this one misses as well.
Then, from the side, a motorcycle comes out of nowhere.
I barely have time to register the gleam of metal before it slams into Mario at full speed.
His body snaps backward, legs twisting unnaturally as he crashes against the pavement.
No. No. No.
The wet, sickening thud sends a shock wave through me, and my stomach lurches at the sound of bone hitting concrete.
“Mario!” I lunge toward him.
“Run!” He groans from between clenched bloody teeth.
Before I can reach him, a fist grips my hair and yanks me back.
Pain explodes across my scalp, my neck snapping at the force. A hand clamps over my mouth, suffocating my scream. My vision blurs as I thrash, my nails digging into flesh and clawing, but another blow crashes against the side of my head.
White-hot agony splinters through my skull.
The world tilts violently, the pavement rising up to meet me as the edges of my vision darken.
Through the haze, I see Mario reaching out to me, and my fingers twitch, but I can’t touch him.
“What about him?” one of the voices murmurs, gruff and low and seeming to reach me from underground.
“Collateral damage,” another replies as my eyes roll back. “We need to take care of her. Now.”
So this is it.
The end?
A tear slides down my cheek as I watch Mario’s motionless body bleeding out on the pavement.
Then everything goes black.
Pain.
That’s the first thing I register. A deep, dull throb in my skull radiates behind my eyes, tightening with every sluggish beat of my pulse.
The room is too bright, sterile white walls stretching for as far as I can see, the steady beep, beep, beep of a heart monitor filling the silence.
I blink against the burn of artificial light, the effort sending another sting of pain through my head. My mouth is so dry that every breath feels like sandpaper at the back of my throat.
My limbs are heavy like I’ve been weighed down with something thick and invisible. The nightmare…?
No, it’s dark in my nightmares, not this…white.
Where am I?
My body freezes when I turn my head and realize I’m not alone.
A man sits on a large leather chair beside my bed, his long fingers leisurely turning the pages of a book, the smooth rustle of paper the only sound slicing through the mechanical beeps of the machines.
He’s well-dressed—tailored navy slacks and a crisp white shirt that looks too perfect for a hospital setting.
Not a wrinkle, not a misplaced thread. His tie is loosened just enough to suggest comfort rather than carelessness, and his jacket is folded neatly and draped over the back of an empty chair.
His posture is relaxed, one ankle resting over his knee, but there’s an unsettling precision in the way he holds himself, like he’s used to being watched and controlling every movement he makes.
Who is he…?
My gaze drags up to his face, and my mouth hangs open.
His eyes.
Dark brown, deep, unreadable, and disturbingly familiar. The type that don’t just look at you, but through you.
Jude’s ruthless eyes.
But this man lacks the raw, untamed fire Jude carries in his stare. These are colder, more refined, sharpened into something surgical. His dark hair is neatly styled, not a strand out of place, and the faintest trace of expensive cologne lingers in the air.
Brother? Uncle?
He seems to be in his early thirties, not old enough to be Jude’s dad.
I shift, wincing as a fresh wave of pain flares up in my head. The movement must catch his attention, because he turns the page with deliberate slowness before finally looking at me.
I don’t know why, but my blood freezes.
There’s no warmth in his expression. No concern. Just mild curiosity, as if I’m a puzzle piece he’s studying, deciding where I fit.
My gaze flicks to the book in his hands.
The Antichrist by Friedrich Nietzsche.
My pulse jumps.
Is he reading Nietzsche in a hospital room?
Something about that feels so deeply wrong, but before I can process the thought, a polite but entirely insincere smile tilts his lips.
“Ah. You’re finally awake.”
The stranger sounds as elegant and put together as he looks. Where Jude speaks in deep, rough words, this man speaks in a deep, commanding tone.
“Do I…know you?” I say in a hoarse voice.
“No, but I know you.” He pauses, running his gaze over me. “My name is Julian Callahan, but I wouldn’t say it’s a pleasure to meet you, Violet.”
I swallow. “Are you related to Jude?”
“I’m his older brother. Older half-brother, to be precise. Same father, different mothers. Mine wasn’t the one you watched die.” He flips the page even though he’s not reading the book.
He’s just…looking at me. No—staring. With no change in inflection or expression, even as he stabbed me with those words.
He seems mildly interested in watching me bleed, but apparently, not for too long, because he speaks again. “Aren’t you going to ask why someone as poor as yourself is in a private suite in the hospital?”
“Why…?” I jerk up, ignoring the pain that throbs in my skull as memories pierce through me. “Mario! How is Mario? He was run over and bleeding—”
“Not important.”
“What?”
“A foot soldier is not important.”
Rage flares up inside me until I see red. This is what’s always happened whenever anyone has threatened Dahlia, and apparently, I feel the same type of anger toward Mario.
Staring into Julian’s dead eyes, I say in a clear voice, “I will not listen to whatever you have to say until you tell me what happened to Mario.”
“You believe you have negotiating power?”
“Yes. You obviously want something, or you wouldn’t have made the time in what I’m sure is a busy schedule to have a word with me.”
He raises a brow, turns a page, then pauses. “He was badly hurt. The surgery was a success, but he hasn’t woken up yet, and he possibly never will.”
My eyes well up and I sink my nails into my thighs through the sheet.
It’s because of me.
Mario was hurt and is facing death because of me.
Why did he have to protect me?
Would he still be okay if I hadn’t been born like Mama often said? Because she’s right, I seem to only bring misfortune to those around me.