Page 43 of Ravaged Hearts

With a look of steely determination, she stared up at me. “Idohave to do this. It ends now, Vaughn. I’m ready.”

My stomach plummeted with the realization that I’d lost this fight yet again. Some irrational part of me had thought I might be able to talk Hope out of the mission. That she’d choose me over vengeance for her father’s wrongdoings. It was selfish to want that, but when it came to Hope, I was fast learning that my protectiveness knew no bounds. If the choice were mine, I’d bundle her into the van this second and take her as far from here as possible.

But it wasn’t my decision to make. It was hers.

Fuck.

I had to let her go.

Jesus Christ, Decker. Pull yourself together.

“Now listen up, because I need to tell you something, too.” I pressed my forehead to Hope’s and inhaled freshly washed hair. “You’re an intelligent, brave badass of a woman, and you’ve got more strength and courage in your pinkie toe than your father will ever have. But when the siege starts, I don’t want you to do anything foolishly heroic, okay? I mean it, Gatita. Be smart, play your role, and then I’ll come find you. I promise.”

Hope’s eyes turned glassy, and goddammit, mine were blurring up, too. But there was nothing more to say. Nothing left to do.

So I kissed my soulmate’s warm lips one last time before watching her walk away.

It would’ve hurt less to stick a fucking knife through my chest.

18

HOPE

The Acapulco sun beat down on my skin as I pushed open the church’s iron gates and entered an immaculate courtyard fringed with palm trees and manicured hedges. The grand stone building, accented with archways and columns, had been well maintained since my last visit almost twenty years ago. Far better than the neighboring properties, with their crumbling stucco and faded roofs. My father used to make sizeable donations, and I wondered if his regular installments continued to fund the church’s costly upkeep.

My legs had the consistency of jelly, and my stomach churned with the same unease I’d experienced when I’d handed myself over to Alvarez. My sweaty hands slipped before gaining purchase on the handle of the large ornately carved door. It closed behind me with an ominous thud, making my skittish heart pound even faster.

After a moment, my eyes adjusted to the church’s dim interior. It looked mostly how I remembered it. Two sections of wooden pews split by a central aisle that led to the candle-laden altar. On the wall straight ahead, Jesus on the cross oversaw the room.

My footsteps echoed off the tall arched ceiling as I took steady steps toward the altar. Colored light filtered through the stained glass windows that each depicted a different scene from the Bible.

This house of God provided me no comfort. My memories were tainted by the funerals I’d attended as a child, almost all of which were the direct result of the deceased’s association with the Pacific Coast Cartel. Colleagues of my father, two uncles, a cousin, and lifelong family friends.

Worst of all had been attending the funeral of my mother and little brother, Rafael. At the time, I’d felt such anger and confusion. The car bomb had been meant for Carlos. How different might my life have been if the explosion had reached its intended target?

An overwhelming sense of isolation hit me. Daphne and Titan were far away, and for the first time in over a week, I didn’t have Vaughn at my side protecting me. It was strange how reassured I’d become with the constant presence of my lethal guardian angel.

But I wasn’t truly alone. Vaughn and Brandon were a block away, watching and listening in their surveillance van. The rest of the team waited in cars nearby, ready to come to my aid should I need it.

Mamá, Rafael, Simon, Natalie, Mari. Standing in front of the altar, I silently recounted the names of those I’d lost, reminding myself why I was here. Why this important task had fallen to me.

Given where I was, I figured now was a good time to pray, not that it’d ever done much good. I made the sign of the cross, pressed my palms together, and bowed my head.

Before I had a chance to ask for my loved ones’ safekeeping, a man appeared, wearing black pants and a button-down shirt with a slash of white at the collar. Heavier than he’d beentwenty years ago and with gray hair, he was the man I’d hoped to find. Father Bernardo.

He aimed a warm smile at me but didn’t interrupt my prayer.

This was it. Showtime.

I turned toward him. “Padre Bernardo?”

“Yes?” With a nod, he stepped closer and shifted the pile of books he was carrying under one arm.

“Do you remember me?” I asked.

He placed the books on the first pew, then raked his gaze over my features. His attention lingered on my scars, but there wasn’t a flicker of recognition in his expression.

Father Bernardo shook his head, giving me an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. Are you new to the parish?”

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