Chapter 19
JUDE
Ifound Violet at the bottom of a bridge.
Unconscious, but not dead.
The only reason I found her was because my hacker managed to install a tracking device on her phone.
She was bleeding from her head, rivulets of red trickling down her neck, and from rips all over her hoodie and jeans.
Her hair was tangled with leaves and debris from when she hit the ground and her lips were blue.
But what made me crouch and touch her face were the two dried streaks of tears running down her freckled cheeks.
She was crying.
Violet cried before whatever the fuck happened.
At first, I thought she’d finally given in to her demons and committed suicide. It got to be too much with all her depressive thoughts, her inferiority complex, and her inability to rise above everything her bitch mother said to cut her self-esteem to pieces.
Worse, as I was holding her frail body in my arms while one of my guards was speeding to the hospital, I thought she’d thrown herself off the bridge to escape me.
And that…cut me fucking open.
It made me tighten my grip on her arms, holding her closer and breathing her in, and telling myself she wouldn’t do that.
Violet’s suicide method would be taking pills.
She hates anything gory, and even in death, she wouldn’t want to hurt others by having to see her blood or disfigured body.
But there was still a chance, right?
I hid my face with my hoodie as I dropped her off at the closest hospital, which happened to be the shithole in Stantonville, then disappeared before anyone could start asking questions.
After that, I made calls to the Callahan empire’s higher-ups and arranged for Violet to be taken to Graystone General Hospital’s trauma center since it’s better funded and has superior services to Stantonville.
But no genius medical crew or advanced equipment managed to fix her completely.
Her bruises are mild, but the head trauma sent her straight into a coma that the doctors aren’t sure she’ll be able to recover from.
And now I’m standing in the hospital room, staring at her.
I’ve never liked hospitals.
Despite the fact that my family owns them and profits from people’s lives and deaths, these establishments have always been a manifestation of Mom’s pain.
Her tears. Her screams. Her begging to ‘bring her baby’ back.
Within these white walls, my mother battled with miscarriages, depression, cancer.
Everything.
So being within their walls, inhaling the smell of antiseptic and clinical coldness that sticks to my skin and clogs my throat makes me tense.
On edge.
Every muscle in my body is wound up as if I’m about to fight.
The machines beep in slow, mechanical intervals, a hollow, unnatural rhythm that doesn’t belong to Violet. Just like it didn’t belong to Mom.
But my mother is gone, and Violet is here.
And she will always be right here.
She looks small in the hospital bed. Too still.
Too fucking quiet.
Violet is never still. Always moving and forcing smiles and being a busybody. Even in slumber, she shifts, curls in on herself, and exhales little breaths that catch on the edge of her nightmares. She thrashes and cries and even mumbles in her sleep.
But now, there’s nothing.
Her hair spills across the pillow, strands of copper and gold catching the light’s soft glow slipping through the hospital window. Normally, her hair is a bit messy, tangled from restless movement, from fingers raking through it absently. Now, it’s too smooth, too perfect, too untouched.
But what unsettles me the most is the absence of…her stare.
I reach out and pull her eyelid up, but distorted white greets me, her pupils unfocused, not really there.
There’s no blue.
There’s no hint of the quiet storm she directs at me when she’s pissed or the icy stares she gives when she’s guarded, or the deep ocean that’s there at night when she’s thinking too much.
I release her lid and her long lashes rest against her cheek.
I’ve watched her sleep more times than I’ll ever admit.
Back at the bar, when she’d finish a long shift and she’d sit in the back, massaging her shoulders with her fists, before her body would slump from exhaustion and her head would droop to the side.
In that tiny living room, shaking, mumbling, her fingers twitching from nightmares she never spoke about.
But she’s not sleeping right now.
She’s not even here.
And I fucking hate it.
I hate how wrong it feels to see her lifeless, quiet, tethered.
I hate that I can’t reach into her head and rip her out of whatever abyss she’s stuck in.
But maybe she’s there on purpose, to avoid being trapped in those paralyzing nightmares.
At least now, the demons in her head aren’t eating her alive.
I step closer, my fingers itching to push her hair back, to prove to myself that she’s still warm, still real, still Violet.
But I don’t.
I just stand there, watching her, staring into something that’s starting to swallow me whole.
Starting? Is that really the correct word to describe these feelings I’ve had since Violet disappeared without my permission?
My fist clenches. “I told you that your life is mine. How fucking dare you be in a coma?”
I know I should go, but I can’t seem to swallow the rage that’s been flowing in my veins since I found Violet a week ago. We have a game tonight, and if I check my phone, I’ll find everyone screaming at me to get to the arena.
Besides, Dahlia, who left an hour ago, will probably be back soon.
She’s barely left Violet’s side since she was discharged from the ICU a couple of days ago, and she’s spent entire nights crying and begging Violet not to leave her alone.
Dahlia is a problem like everyone in Violet’s fucking life.
If she loves her so much, how could she not know her beloved sister is one big ball of depression wrapped around suicidal ideation?
But then again, Violet is a professional at hiding herself—even when writing in her journal.
If I hadn’t personally witnessed her countless nightmares and the way she was crying so bitterly in her sleep, it would’ve been hard to see any of the pain behind her constant wide smiles and soft-spoken platitudes.
In reality, Violet doesn’t cry. Even when she’s shocked, in pain, or downright terrified.
“Fucking liar,” I mutter, staring at Mario’s bed beside hers.
He’s also in a goddamn coma, so I can’t get anything from him either.
Only these two know what happened that day. Because, for some phantom reason—aka suspicious as fuck—all road surveillance footage for that day was wiped out.
It can’t be a suicide attempt.
Evidence?
One, no security footage, which means someone was covering up a crime.
Two, Mario was run over or hit by something and had severe internal bleeding. Violet likes him—too much for my liking—so she would’ve definitely tried to help him.
Three, and most importantly, I found her far away from Mario’s location, which means she was transported, by force, because she’d never leave him bleeding out on the street.
Now, the only evidence we have—that Dahlia has been pestering the detective about nonstop—is the traces of human skin under her fingernails.
Because Violet fought. And there was blood, so she clawed, too.
I can only imagine how much she cried and screamed, wanting to save Mario and being helpless to do so.
Maybe that’s why she cried. Or maybe it was because of something else. Something worse.
At any rate, I asked our head of staff, Lucia, to look into the DNA since the police are coming up empty. Lucia is Mario’s mom, and even though she makes a show of being loyal to Regis and even Julian, she’d never forgive anyone who hurt her son.
Lucia’s a wise, resourceful, and very detail-oriented woman. We struck a deal—she helps me solve this case, and I’ll take revenge for Mario and make sure he’s given the chance he deserves to climb the ranks once I become a Founder.
That is, if he ever wakes up.
I never told Lucia that I intended to give Mario his chance anyway. We kind of grew up together behind the Callahan prison bars. He’s smart and attentive, which is why I trusted him with watching Violet.
A decision I regretted when I saw how effortlessly close they became. She kept giving him gifts and food—which I asked him to refuse, but the bastard just ignored me.
“What really happened, Mario? Who could hurt you this badly?”
Only the beeping machines are his response.
Mario has Special Forces training and quick reflexes. Unless it was professionals like himself, he wouldn’t be lying in a hospital bed right now.
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
I tilt my head sideways as Kane, who just spoke, strolls into the room with Preston following behind, both of them dressed in blue Vipers sweats and varsity jackets.
“I knew you’d be here, watching two comatose people like a creep.” Kane crosses his arms. “We have a game tonight, Jude. We’re supposed to be at the arena by now.”
“This is why I haven’t seen much of you?” Preston stares between the two beds. “You replaced me with comatose people? My pride is so wounded, I’m gonna cry.”
“What is he doing here?” I ask Kane.
“He tagged along. You know how persistent he gets.”
“Poor Mario. So young and probably a virgin. We should’ve pressured him to fuck around…” He whistles upon seeing Violet. “And who is this beauty— Oww!”
I slap his hand away before he can touch Violet’s face.
Preston shakes his hand. “The fuck was that for?”
“She’s number seven,” Kane says, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. “The one he didn’t kill, but she still got attacked and sent into a coma anyway.”
“Oooh, so this is mystery number seven. She’s hot!” Pres grins. “Still want to chop her head off, big man? Though, seriously, not the face, something about it feels like it’ll be a waste for some reason.”
“Stay the fuck away from her, Pres, I mean it.”
He cocks his head to the side. “Consider me fucking intrigued. Who is this chick anyway?”
“Unfinished business,” I say from between clenched teeth, then stare at Kane. “Lucia said you switched the DNA sample the police got a hold of. Why?”
“Until you figure out who’s behind this, it’s better not to have them in our business, even if they’re on our payroll. Besides—” He jerks his chin toward Violet. “—her sister won’t let this go. She’ll come sniffing around, and when she does…” A rare smirk tilts his lips. “She’s all mine.”
I’m distracted by Preston, who’s poking Violet’s cheek, and I growl as I slap his hand away again.
“Hold on, there’s something about her face.” He tilts his head to the side. “Where have I seen it before? Hmm? Good skin, though. You didn’t by any chance take note of her skincare routine during the stalking side gig, did you, big man?”
I punch him in the chest, and he groans, doubling down. “Fuck! Want to kill me or something? Kaaaane, if I’m not in my best form tonight, blame Jude.”
“Don’t ever touch her again.” I shove him away.
“Fuck me!” He snaps his fingers. “It’s the girl who told you that you’re a disappointing fuck, isn’t it?”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“She is! Fucking hell, I’m disappointed I didn’t meet her before the Sleeping Beauty phase. Hey! Wake up, Violetta! I wanna talk.”
I grab him by the arm and start to pull him away.
“Wait! Hold up!!” He tries to fight me. “Let me try scaring her into waking up.”
“Don’t make me punch you again.” I drag him down the hallway as Kane follows behind us with a sigh. “This time in the dick.”
“Not my Armstrong lifeline. You’re so cruel to my highness.” He grins. “On second thought, do it. Curious if Dad will still sigh when his only son can’t continue the family legacy.”
“Just shut it, Pres.” I toss him away because my phone is vibrating.
Lucia.
“Any progress?” I ask as soon as I pick up.
“Good news and bad news.”
“Good news first.”
“We found a DNA match.”
“Who is it?”
“A Vencor Member who’s a hit man of sorts.”
Fuck.
Kane, who’s being pestered by Preston, side-eyes me as I walk at a slower pace.
I clench my fist. “Is it one of Julian’s men?”
I’ve had my suspicions about that motherfucker since he was giving me ultimatums about cutting out the ‘childish, fruitless revenge.’ I suspected he was the one who sent men to kill Violet or scare her that first time Mario got shot.
But there’s one problem with that.
The whole thing is not his style. It’s too showy and in-your-face. Julian doesn’t leave evidence behind, and his hit men are doctors. Just a jab of medicine and people die of nervous system shock or heart attacks.
He prefers controlled and bloodless kills—unlike me and, to my dismay, Regis.
“Are you insulting my intelligence?” Julian looked down at me when I confronted him, throwing the tablet with the security footage to the side.
“If I wanted her dead, I’d poison her drink.
She’d die in her sleep, and I wouldn’t have to deal with the hassle of security footage and witnesses.
On the bright side, this shouldn’t be hard if they’re doing such a sloppy decapitation job. ”
That’s what Julian called it. Decapitation.
Something we do in Vencor where we cut off the head of the snake so the rest of the body—the organization, other members—will stay in line.
But Violet has nothing backing her.
She was born and has lived as a fucking nobody. When I asked Julian what he meant, he said it was merely a figure of speech.
My brother does not use words in vain. He reads just so he can piss off other people with his pretentious philosophical nonsense or just to call people who read certain thinkers clowns.
But as I’ve been watching Violet sleep whenever Dahlia doesn’t get in the way, I’ve been thinking that if Julian had something to do with her attack and I didn’t stop him… If I brought this upon her…
“He’s not one of Julian’s men,” Lucia says. “As for the bad news, he’s dead.”
“What?”
“Saul was found dead in one of the containers heading to South America the day after the incident.”
“He was rubbed out?”
“It seems so. There are clear signs of poisoning.”
“Fuck!”
“And, Jude?”
“Juuuude.” Preston pulls on my arm. “Kane said I’m annoying. Let’s punch him.”
“What now?” I ask Lucia, fighting Preston off.
Our head of staff speaks as I’m staring into Preston’s grinning face. “Saul was a hit man on the Armstrongs’ payroll.”