26. Damien
26
DAMIEN
T he warehouse stinks of blood, gasoline, and fear. Angie sits strapped to a metal chair in the center of the room, trembling, her mascara running in thick streaks down her face. Her once-polished nails claw at the zip ties cutting into her wrists. I bet she thought she'd die an old, rich woman in a king-sized bed with silk sheets. Instead, she’s here—cold steel beneath her, death breathing down her neck.
Vincent’s face looks like it was carved from stone. Cast leans against the table of tools, rolling a cigar between his fingers, green eyes glittering like a cat’s in the dim light. While I pace, knuckles tight, every muscle in my body wired, burning with the kind of fury that could tear a man apart.
This bitch put Willow in a hospital bed.
She thought she could have her killed like it was nothing, like Willow was some obstacle in her path instead of the only goddamn thing keeping Vincent from putting a bullet in his own head. That was her big mistake .
I stop in front of her, grabbing her chin and forcing her to look at me. "You know why you're here."
Angie swallows hard. “Vince?—”
The slap I deliver is sharp, snapping her head to the side. "No. You don’t get to say his name." I crouch, bringing myself to her level, watching her chest rise and fall in quick, panicked breaths. "You thought this was a game. You thought you could take her out, that you’d still be standing when the dust settled. That was fucking stupid."
Vincent finally moves. He kneels, grabbing a fistful of her hair, yanking her head back so she has no choice but to meet his gaze. "You signed your own death warrant the second you put her in danger." His voice is quiet, but it holds a finality that makes her shake harder.
"Please," she whimpers, "I—I was only?—"
"You were only trying to make sure you got to keep your little kingdom?" Cast muses from his spot, exhaling smoke. "Wrong move, reina. Now we get to carve you up and serve you to our queen."
Angie thrashes, the chair rattling, her breath coming in short gasps. "No, no, Vincent, please! I— I raised you!"
Vincent's lip curls. "No, Rosemary Sterling raised me." His grip tightens, yanking her head to the side, exposing the pulse beating frantically in her throat. "You’re just some bitch my father was fucking."
I grab the scalpel from the table and twirl it between my fingers. "Do you know how many ribs we have to break to get to your heart, Angie?" I ask, tilting my head. "Or how much it's going to hurt? "
She screams.
Cast chuckles. "I love it when they scream."
I grip her pinky first, twisting it back with slow, agonizing pressure. The bone resists for a second before it gives with a sharp, wet snap. Angie’s scream rips through the warehouse, bouncing off the concrete walls. Her body jerks, legs kicking out, chair rattling as she thrashes against her restraints. But there's nowhere for her to go.
"Shhh," I mock, tilting my head. "We’re just getting started."
Her breaths come fast, choked sobs spilling from her lips as I move to the next finger. This time, I do it slower. Feel every tremor in her bones, every tiny movement as she realizes exactly what's happening, exactly how much pain she’s about to be in. She whimpers, shaking her head, tears slipping down her face.
“P-please,” she sobs.
I smile. Snap.
She wails, body jerking violently, her forehead slick with sweat.
"That was a good one," Cast muses, rolling the cigar between his fingers. He pushes off the table, stepping closer, his knife glinting under the dim overhead light. "But you know what I think she needs?" His green eyes flick to me, then Vincent, who still hasn’t moved, still hasn’t looked away from her.
Cast drags the tip of the blade down Angie’s arm, pressing just enough to break skin, a thin red line blooming in its wake. She flinches, her breath shuddering out.
He tsks. " Not deep enough, huh?"
Then he digs the blade in.
Angie screams, her body seizing as he carves into her skin—not deep enough to kill, not yet, just enough to make every nerve light up in agony. Blood wells, dripping onto the floor in slow, rhythmic splatters.
"You know, if we really took our time, we could make this last all night," Cast muses, carving another slow, shallow line down her forearm. "Just little cuts like this, nothing fatal. Just pain. Endless pain."
Angie sobs, her whole body trembling, her chest heaving like she’s trying to gulp down air that just won’t come.
Vincent steps forward then. He kneels in front of her, gripping her chin hard enough to make her whimper. "Keep looking at me," he orders, voice low, steady. Dangerous. "I want to see it when you finally understand that you're going to die here."
She hiccups through her tears, lips trembling. "Vince, please?—"
He doesn’t blink. "You don’t get to beg."
Cast presses the blade just under her collarbone, twisting it enough to make her scream again.
By the time we reach the main event, she’s barely conscious, a bloodied mess of tears and snot, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. She’s shaking so hard the chair rattles beneath her. Hiccups break up her sobs, her body slumped forward, held up only by the restraints cutting into her wrists.
She looks pathetic. Weak. Helpless.
Exactly the way she left Willow .
Vincent steps forward, pressing a hand to her chest, right over her heart. "This doesn’t belong to you anymore."
I press the scalpel to her sternum. She thrashes weakly, but it's no use. The first cut is deep, parting flesh like wet paper. I don’t rush. I make sure she feels every inch of the blade, every slice of muscle and tendon. Her body jerks once, twice—then goes still.
I don’t stop cutting.
Her heart is still warm when I place it into the container. Willow’s new heart. The only thing that matters.
Vincent exhales, a slow, steady breath. "Let's get out of here."
We leave the warehouse, blood staining our hands, our clothes. But none of us look back. There’s nothing left behind worth mourning. As we approach the car, Cast lights his cigar and speaks with smoke billowing from his lips.
“We have to change first,” he says in the first moment of clarity I have ever seen from him.
“No, we have to get this heart to Willow,” Vincent sucks his teeth and turns to get into my black Mercedes.
“If we go covered in blood, they won’t give Willow the heart, they will open up a homicide investigation.” Cast snaps, flicking the ash onto the floor.
“We have to get this to Willow ASAP and-” Vincent snarls, but Cast just takes another pull from his cigar.
“Clothes are in the trunk and there's a gas station two miles down the road,” Cast cuts him off, opening the passage seat door for him.
“Good call, Cast,” I praise, before walking around the car and sliding into the driver’s seat.
The ride to the gas station is quiet, but filled with anticipation.
Vincent sits in the passenger seat, his knee bouncing, fingers tapping against his thigh in a rhythm that’s just slightly off-beat. Meanwhile, Cast is in the back, arms stretched over the seat like he doesn’t have a care in the world, looking at the road through the window. The orange glow of the streetlights flickers across his face, making his green eyes look sharper, hungrier. He holds the smoking cigar between his teeth, filling up the car with smoke..
“Put that cigar out, Cast,” I say, my voice flat.
Cast chuckles but doesn’t argue, pressing the lit end into his black hoodie sleeve.
The gas station comes into view, its flickering neon sign barely holding on, the single pump out front looking like it hasn’t worked in years. I pull into the lot, killing the engine. The sudden silence rings in my ears.
“We’re in and out,” I say, pushing open the door. “No bullshit.”
Cast scoffs. “Come on, hermano. Since when do we ever bullshit?”
Vincent doesn’t respond. He just gets out, slamming the door behind him. I swipe the bag of clothes Cast slid into my trunk and follow them inside.
The gas station clerk doesn’t even look up as we walk past, too focused on whatever shitty reality show is playing on the tiny TV behind the counter. That’s good. He won’t remember us .
The bathroom is at the back, the door hanging slightly off its hinge, a Do Not Enter sign half-ripped off. I shove it open with my shoulder, stepping into the dim, flickering light.
The stench of old piss and cheap bleach hits me first. The walls are cracked, covered in graffiti, the mirror above the sink warped with years of grime. It’s disgusting, but it’ll do.
Vincent moves to the sink immediately, gripping the edges like he’s trying to hold himself together. Cast leans against the stall door, lazy and unbothered, watching Vincent like he’s waiting for something to snap.
I grab a handful of paper towels, wet them under the faucet, and start scrubbing at the blood staining my hands. The water runs red, swirling down the drain.
Vincent exhales sharply, lifting his gaze to the mirror. “No more secrets, right?”
I strip off my jacket, my ruined shirt following, the fabric stiff with dried blood. Cast pulls his own bloodied dress shirt off, tossing it in the overflowing trash can like it’s just another Tuesday. “If you don’t want to be in prison, we better keep a few,” he mutters, grabbing a damp paper towel and wiping it half-assedly over his chest.
Vincent is silent as he rolls up his sleeves, rubbing at the blood staining his skin. His movements are stiff, deliberate, but there’s something off about the way he’s holding himself. Like there’s something else boiling under his skin, barely kept in check.
Then he speaks.
“My mother is alive.”
I freeze .
Cast, who had been lazily wiping down his arms, jerks his head up, eyes narrowing. “What?” His voice is sharp, like he can’t quite believe what he just heard. He blinks, then lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. “That’s insane, man. I thought she died.”
Vincent doesn’t look at him. “My father lied.” He says it like it’s just a fact, like it doesn’t shake the foundation of everything he’s believed his whole life. Like it doesn’t make him question who the hell he even is anymore.
“Your Dad’s a dick,” I bark.
Cast whistles low, shaking his head. “Jesus. ” He watches Vincent for a second longer, then grins. “You get to solve your mommy issues now.”
Vincent rolls his eyes, “Fuck off.”
I tug a clean shirt from the bag, yanking it over my head, my hands moving on autopilot. My mother is alive. The words press against the grief already sitting heavy in my chest, squeezing something raw and ugly inside me.
Because it doesn’t matter how much I want it— my mother isn’t coming back, and I hate that. I would do anything to bring her back, anything to tell her I love her one more time and Vincent just got that for free. I envy him, and I hate myself for it.
After everyone is dressed and the clothes are stuffed in a black garbage bag from the bin, we walk out of the gas station, throw the bag of bloodied clothes in the trunk, and I slide behind the wheel. I race to the hospital so fast I'm surprised there isn't a highway chase. My foot is lead on the accelerator, knuckles white against the steering wheel. The rear-view mirror shows Cast in the back seat, one hand on the cooler containing our salvation, our girlfriend's second chance.
"Faster," Cast growls, but I'm already pushing ninety.
When we finally screech into the hospital parking lot, I slam the brakes and we're out before the engine stops ticking. Vincent clutches the cooler like it's made of glass while Cast leads our charge through the emergency doors. The fluorescent lights overhead cast everyone in a sickly pale glow as we march toward the nurses' station where Dr. Patel is reviewing charts.
Dr. Patel looks up from her clipboard, her dark eyes narrowing slightly behind her glasses. “Mr. Sterling,” she says, her voice calm but wary. “I was just about to check on Miss Carter?—”
I slide my arm across the counter in front of her, caging her in just enough to make it clear this isn’t a request. “Dr. Patel, can I borrow you for a moment?” My voice is low, steady.
She exhales, clearly debating whether to push back, but then nods once. “Fine. But make it quick.”
Vincent and Cast flank her the moment she steps out from behind the counter, guiding her down the hall without a word. She straightens her spine as she walks between us, her professionalism keeping her from showing any unease, but I can see the way her fingers tighten around her clipboard.
The second we step into an empty consultation room, Vincent shuts the door behind us. The lock clicks into place, and Cast moves in front of it, his arms crossed over his chest.
Dr. Patel sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Is this supposed to intimidate me? ”
Vincent steps forward, his gaze sharp, deadly serious. “No. It’s to make sure you understand something very clearly.”
"We have something for you and Willow," Cast announces, slamming the cooler on the empty hospital bed. I smile at the force of it, at the way the doctor jumps.
Dr. Patel’s breath hitches as she stares at the cooler. She glances between us, her professional mask slipping for the first time. “Tell me this isn’t what I think it is.”
Vincent exhales sharply, scrubbing a hand down his face. “It is.”
Her gaze flickers to the locked door, then back to us. “Where the hell did you get a donor heart?”
Cast leans against the door. “Does it matter?”
Dr. Patel glares at him. “Yes, it does! Because if this is stolen?—”
“It’s not,” I cut in, my voice low, firm. “It’s a match for Willow. That’s what matters.”
She hesitates, her fingers flexing over her clipboard like she wants to throw it at one of us. “You don’t just find a perfect match.”
Vincent’s gaze darkens. “We did.”
Her lips part, but she doesn’t speak.
I take a step forward growling."This heart goes into Willow in the next hour, or I'll personally ensure your career and life expectancy both end tonight."
"I can't just—" Dr. Patel chokes out, her eyes wide with fear.
"Sure you can," I say, leaning in next to Vincent. "And you will. Or should I tell Cast to squeeze harder? "
Cast grabs her by the hair, yanking her head down.
"I'm sorry, you don't know who I am," he whispers, but loud enough that we can all hear. "I am Juan Castillo, head of the cartel that runs the underworld of the entire south. Your children—Maria and Tomas—they're at piano practice right now with that instructor on Maple Street, aren't they? My men are parked outside. One text from me changes everything."
I pull out my phone, making a show of hovering my thumb over the screen. "Just say the word, Cast. I've got Mateo on standby."
Vincent steps forward, his voice surprisingly gentle. "Please. Willow means everything to us."
Good cop, bad cop, worse cop. We've always worked well together.
Dr. Patel's face is chalk white as Cast finally releases her. Her hand trembles as she reaches for the cooler.
"Third floor surgery," she whispers. "I'll prep Willow immediately."
Before she can take the cooler, Cast grabs her wrist. I step closer, blocking her escape route.
"If she dies, you die," Cast says quietly. "If she wakes up and isn't the same, your children suffer. Do we understand each other?"
Dr. Patel nods frantically, tears welling in her eyes.
Cast releases her with a shove. "Good. Now move."
As Dr. Patel hurries away with the cooler, I feel a rush of satisfaction. This is how you get things done in a world that wants to let people like Willow die waiting on some list.
"Think she got the message?" I ask Cast, adjusting my jacket.
Cast straightens his cuffs with that cold precision I've always admired. "Love makes monsters of us all."
"Not monsters," I correct him with a smile. "Just people willing to do what needs to be done.”