Page 2 of Tainted Saints

“What the fuck is your cock doing on my phone, Forest?” I ask in a low growl, but the fucker just laughs.

“I know you love it, Daddy,” he teases back, his Louisiana accent thick when his voice drops that low. Fuck, that boy knows how to get me hard with just a couple of words.

“Was there a reason you called?” I grit out, adjusting myself as I watch the cop car drive off.

“Oh, shit, boy! I almost forgot!” He exclaims, and my lips threaten to tip up at the sound. He’s just a ray of fucking sunshine that makes the world a little bit brighter, has been ever since he came to Fairview as a kid, regardless of his shitty parents. “Blaine’s been arrested.”

Just like that, my almost smile drops. “What? And you didn’t think to start with that? Jesus, Forest.” I huff out a breath before pinching the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger. “What was it for this time?”

It doesn’t surprise me that Blaine has been arrested again. Our boy has so much pent-up rage, always simmering under the surface, which is unsurprising given his damage and the way his shitstain of a dad beat him and his mom. It just bursts from him every so often, usually when someone smaller than himself is being threatened.

“Some pimp was threatening one of his girls and Blaine made him see the error of his ways. It was beautiful, son, blood splatter all over the sidewalk.” Forest’s tone deepens, and I know he’s sporting a hard-on right now, violence gets that fucker off. So does fucking in public, and he always seems to get away with it.

I go to tell him to meet me down at the precinct but pause, a plan forming in my mind as a smirk tilts my lips upwards. “Let’s leave him there. Our little Duchess has just been carted off for an overnight stay at our glorious jail so he can keep an eye on her.”

Forest whistles. “What for? Why would she be taken there? Surely daddy dearest could stop that kind of shit?”

“Not when she’s out alone, stealing,” I tell him, and for once, silence greets me. This time, I do smile. It’s not often I can surprise Forest.

“What the fuck she stealing for? She’s as rich as living in high cotton!” he exclaims, and I chuckle at his Southern turn of phrase. Fuck knows what it means, but it just makes me love him more.

“Probably some kick that she gets from robbing us poor folk,” I growl, all humour draining away from me whilst remembering the look of horror on her perfect features when she was discovered. The tears that made her eyes gleam and shine tugged at something within me. Something that recognised another being trapped by a thing that is beyond their control, but they can’t help doing it anyway. Shaking my head as if to dislodge any kind of thoughts about how I might relate to Her Highness, I grip the phone tighter in my hand. “I’m heading back now. Let’s have some dinner, get some sleep, and pick up Blaine first thing.”

“Roger that, Daddy,” Forest sasses before hanging up.

Giving a rueful chuckle, I place the phone in my back pocket and stride out into the crisp winter night. It’s even colder now that the sun has set, and I stand there, letting the light breeze trace across my face as I gaze out at Fairview Heights, my home and the place that a part of me is desperate to escape from.

Working my jaw back and forth to ease the tension that’s gathered there, I sigh, knowing that leaving Fairview is unlikely. I have too much responsibility here, too much to do to ensure my boys and our families are safe from the reach of my uncle and the Cosa Nostra. That’s if the poverty doesn’t get to us first.

Fuck. When did life get so fucking exhausting?

Scrubbing a hand over my face, I stroll towards my pride and joy, the one thing that my father left me that brings pure bliss. I run my hand along the matte black paint of my Papa’s old Chopper, remembering all the time we spent restoring it when I was a kid. A lump forms in my throat, my jaw clenching tight in a bid to stop the flashback, but it’s no use.

“Quick, Lan, hide under the bench!” my dad hisses at me, the whites of his eyes showing as he pushes me into the small space. “Don’t come out, no matter what.”

I nod, my heart thudding painfully in my chest as I do as he says, shuffling to the back behind a box of spare motorcycle parts. I jump, my hand over my mouth to stifle my scream when the door crashes open.

There’s a rapid conversation in Italian, too fast for me to follow even though I know the language having been raised to speak it. At first, I think the loud crack in the air is just whoever is here knocking over one of the many piles of parts that litter the garage, but then my father’s face comes into view, his eyes open but somehow I know that they can’t see me.

My lips tremble as blood begins to pool underneath his head, and even though I remain silent, just as he told me to, my ears are full of the screams of a little boy who just lost one of the most important people in the world to him.

Being connected to the Italian mob has brought nothing but heartache and death to my family, and when their enemies killed my Papa in a bid to send a message to my uncle, I vowed that I would never become a Made Man. That I would sever all ties to the mafia and I would take Mama far away from here.

So much for that plan. It’s been a decade and we’re still here, trapped by a lack of fucking money with no honest way out. Sure, Papa’s restaurant doesn’t do too badly, just enough for Mama to get by really, but nothing on the east side of Fairview does that well. The people are just too poor and struggling to make a difference. We’ve had to resort to less than legal means, accepting the scraps that my uncle gives us, even with Forest’s job at the Pound and me helping my mama at the restaurant some weekends.

My hand clenches around the handlebars, the touch bringing me back to the present and the fact that my worn hoodie is now soaked through and clinging to my skin, the sudden winter shower quickly becoming a downpour. Throwing my leg over, I sit down in the moulded seat, not bothering with a helmet as it’s an expense I can’t afford. Plus, a part of me enjoys the thrill of riding without one, especially in the rain.

Starting the old girl up, she roars to life with a deep rumble that’s enough to make any man a little hard, and I tear away from the West Side Mall, the one that’s just across the river from DC. I head in the direction of home, the place where more people are crammed into a space half the size of the richer side of town, where the Ambassador and his beautiful daughter live, despite them having a full fucking mansion on Embassy Row in the city.

I gun the throttle, the sound loud over the pouring rain as I sail down the streets, the change almost unnoticeable in the dark, but I know from living here my whole life that the sidewalks here are cracked, the buildings tired and more run down the further I go. People don’t have time to look after the outside when they can barely feed themselves.

All the while, I can’t get the image out of my head of a blonde-haired Duchess, tears streaming down her face as she begs me with her soulful green eyes to save her.

ChapterTwo

“Dying on the Inside” by Nessa Barrett

ASPEN

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