Page 4 of Captured Heart

He shoves me toward the hood of the squad car. “It is.”

“You should try crocheting. I hear it’s very relaxing.”

“Maybe you should take it up because the way I see it, you’re gonna have nothing but time on your hands for the next few years.”

For all the bravado and indifference I’m trying to show, those words hit me like a sucker punch to the gut. The sharp click of the cuffs biting into my wrists stings more than I want to admit. Not because of the pain, but because I know what comes next. A trial. Prison. Victor cutting ties because I’m now a liability. It’s over. Everything I’ve been fighting for, scheming for. Gone in an instant.

My mother’s face flashes in my mind, pale and worn, the lines of worry etched deep in her forehead. So much was riding on tonight. The money from this job would’ve paid for her next round of treatment, maybe even given her a real chance. And now? Now I can’t do a damn thing to help her.

I feel the weight of it settle in my chest, heavy and suffocating. Every decision I’ve made, every risk I’ve taken, it was all for her. To fix what I couldn’t when I was younger. To make up for the times I wasn’t there. And now, because of one stupid mistake, I’ve failed her again.

Collins’ voice cuts through the haze as he reads me my rights, his tone smug and unsympathetic. But his words barely register. All I can think about is her sitting in that dingy apartment, waiting for me to come home, hoping that maybe I found a way to make things better.

Instead, she’ll get a knock on the door. Two officers will tell her where I am. And that’s all she’ll have left of me. A son who couldn’t even keep a promise. A son who let her down when she needed him most.

The weight of it all crushes me. I can never be the son I should’ve been, the son she deserved. I can never give her the lifeI wanted to give her. And now I’ll never have the chance to make it right.

1. Aleksandras

Present day

The roar of the engine is music to my ears. I wipe the grease from my hands, admiring the purring machine beneath me. Working on cars has always been the only thing that made sense to me. Metal, engines, and horsepower—they didn’t lie, didn’t cheat. Unlike people.

Cars are simple, and I allow the whirring sound to soothe me. There’s a weird feeling in the pit of my stomach, a mixture of worry and anxiety. I waited so long to be free again, yet I’m not free at all. I’m a slave to the system now, and it feels like I’m just counting the days before they slap a shiny pair of handcuffs back on my wrists.

My mom’s medical bills have always been a constant source of stress for me, and they continue to haunt me now, even after she’s passed. They’re like a shadow, always there, following me everywhere. I took on the financial burden, so she didn’t have to deal with the stress and put all of it in my name. I figured I’d handle it, one way or another. But I didn’t handle a damn thing.

Even four years in prison hadn’t erased the debt. If anything, it had ballooned with interest, penalties, and collection fees. The number keeps growing, and no matter how hard I try to ignore it, it’s always there, waiting to crush me. A few days ago, I got a letter of demand. I have two weeks to come up with one hundred and sixty-two thousand dollars, or they’re taking me to court.

I thought about filing for bankruptcy, but Morty shut that idea down fast. He said the courts would dig into my entirefinancial history. They’ll try to find the source of every dollar I’ve ever made, every deposit, every transaction. There are things I was never charged for, money I can’t explain, and the last thing I need is some forensic accountant sifting through my past. That door is closed.

So, I have to pay it. Legally. The problem is, ex-cons like me don’t get a lot ofhonestopportunities. No one’s lining up to hire a guy with my record. Even if I found a job, it’ll be minimum wage. I’d barely make enough to cover rent, let alone six figures in medical debt.

Maybe I should just accept the inevitable. Let them sue me, drain whatever little I have left, and when it’s all over, I’ll be stuck with a wrecked credit score, no chance of ever owning a car or a home, and banks slamming the door in my face the second they see my name. I’ll spend the rest of my life working shitty jobs just to scrape by, with no way to build a future.

Sounds great. A dream come true.

A car door slamming shut pulls me out of my thoughts. The crunching of gravel alerts me to someone approaching, and the sun glinting off his shiny black shoes catches my eye before he does.

“Hello, John.”

That familiar voice grates my ears like nails down a chalkboard, and an icy shiver runs down my spine. Just hearing that name hauls me back five years, dragging me through the sludge and muck of the past I’m trying to leave behind. I shut my eyes, taking a deep breath before I shut the hood to look up at him.

Victor Salazar. He hasn’t changed one bit. Although graying on the sides, his black hair is still slick and combed back. His goatee is still expertly trimmed. His suit is still perfectly tailored for his tall, muscular frame. Most people find his presencecommanding, intimidating even, but right now his presence is unnerving because I don’t know what the hell he wants from me.

“Don’t call me that,” I reply through gritted teeth, unable to hide my growing aggravation. “That’s not my name. That’s not who I am anymore.”

He laughs, a cold, mirthless sound that only serves to mock me. “And who are you now? Did you go back to being Aleksandras Kazlauskas? The poor Lithuanian boy trying to earn an honest living just to make ends meet? That boy died a long time ago...about the same time as his mother.”

His words are like a kick to the stomach. My hands clench, and it takes everything in me not to punch that smug smirk off his face. He’s not alone. I can bet my last dollar that there are two, maybe even three, armed goons in the black limo parked not even ten feet away. If I so much as look at him wrong, they’ll take me out without hesitation.

If Bowman is still his right-hand man, I know exactly what to expect. He’ll make sure I suffer before he ends me. The motherfucker is ruthless. I’ve done enough jobs with him to know that pulling the trigger is usually his last resort. He prefers to useeveryother weapon first.

It’s in my best interests to remain calm but, fuck, hearing him speak about my mother so callously instantly pushes me to a point where taking on all his goons doesn’t seem like a bad idea. I did everything I could to save my mom. I worked three jobs, and when the medical bills still kept piling up, I sold my soul to this cunt for a few more months with her. But in the end, it wasn’t enough.

Victor’s right. When she died, that poor Lithuanian boy died, too. If I think back to my childhood, that little boy is unrecognizable to me now. I was only seventeen when I met Victor. I was working as a mechanic at my uncle’s auto repair shop in Richmond, trying to save money to go to college. Backthen, I was naïve enough to believe that one day I’d have enough to study automotive engineering and design. And when Victor handed me my first thousand dollars to fix a car, I truly believed it was the first step toward achieving my goals.

Little did I know the car was stolen, and I didn’t get a thousand dollars for doing a great job of fixing it. Nah, that thousand dollars was to keep my mouth shut when the cops came by the next week asking questions about it. I didn’t say one word to anyone.

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