Page 45 of The Bane of a Sinner
Nurses moved in and out of the room, monitoring vitals and jotting notes, but the gentle hum of activity felt distant, muffled by the enormity of what had passed and what still lay ahead. I wanted to reach for them, to hold them, to trace their tiny fingers and promise them safety with words I barely believed myself.
The hours blurred together, marked only by the shifting sunlight and quiet murmurs from staff. I watched as my boy curled closer to his sister, the bond between them already fierce and unyielding, something elemental and unspoken. Dr. Franks lingered, her kind eyes meeting mine above her mask. “You did good, Vivian. You fought for them. Have you picked out any names yet?”
I thought about August, about the tattoo on his arm. How the thorns appeared not only to protect the roses but cut into the wordTraitor,causing more damage than the knife.
“Thorne August Peterson and Rosebud Brianna Peterson.”
Dr. Franks smiled as she wheeled the trolleys close to my bed before she left me alone with my two miracles.
I tried to smile, but it trembled at the edges. Sleep claimed me in fits and starts, each time returning to the steady pulse of monitors, the soft breaths of my babies, and the slow, stubborn healing of my own body. Somewhere in those days, the worldoutside began to press in—questions, forms, visitors that came and went, their faces a blur at the periphery.
When I was finally strong enough to leave the hospital, the sky was low and gray, promising rain. I wrapped my daughter and son each in blankets, carefully and reverently, and stepped into the world as if for the very first time. Every detail was sharper, every fear more acute, every bit of resolve fortifying itself against what might come next.
I didn’t know what waited beyond the hospital doors, or how I would protect them. I only knew that I would. Whatever storms were brewing, whatever darkness lingered on the horizon, I was not alone now. I had them, and they had me.
Chapter Twenty-Four
August
Soulless Sinners’ clubhouse, twenty years later...
“Son of a bitch,” I cursed, flipping through the pages that sick son of a bitch had acquired and fabricated over the years. It was all there. Every little fucking detail of my life in black and white.
If that fucker wasn’t already dead, I would kill him myself!
I fucking knew as soon as the intern mentioned the club records; I knew that was what I’d been searching for all these years. I fucking knew that somewhere deep in the bowels of this godforsaken place, I’d find the answers I’d been looking for.
And I was right. The second Pippen broke into the ghost file, I ordered him to print my entire file.
“How the fuck is the first girl I ever kissed relevant to the fucking club?”
“What?” Silver asked, walking over to me as I handed her a sheet of paper. It was information regarding me at age seven, when I kissed a young girl named Sarah Malone on the playground at the elementary school I attended. There was even a picture attached.
The club’s intern, Pippen, walked into the main room carrying another box, placing it in front of Malice. “Here ya go, Malice. That’s all your information. Silver, yours is printing now.”
Ignoring the couple, I searched page after page. I fucking knew that fucker kept a record somewhere of all his dealings, and from the looks of things, he kept detailed records. Staringat the box before me, I knew she was in there somewhere. Piled beneath the mounds of paper, I knew I would find her. I had to believe she was still out there somewhere, living her life with our child. She had to be, because I refused to think of the alternative.
“That motherfucker!” I roared, jumping to my feet, with a sheet of paper in my hands. “That sick son of a bitch caused the accident!”
“What?”
“The accident that killed my sister. It wasn’t Montana’s fault.”
“What do you mean?” Malice asked, placing a piece of paper back in the box.
“It was George!” I seethed, facing them. “He orchestrated the accident. The roads were clear. He hired a crew to wet the bridge, knowing that the frigid temperatures would freeze the road overnight. And to ensure the car went over the bridge, he tampered with the brakes in Montana’s car. That fucker wanted his sons and my sister to go into the cold water. He planned it all!”
“Does it say why?” Silver asked.
I shook my head, reaching into the box for the next sheet of paper. Reading it quickly, my face paled. Staggering back a few steps, I stuttered, “She was pregnant. My sister was pregnant with George’s kid. He tried to murder my sister to cover up his mistake.”
Walking over to my box, Silver reached in and grabbed the next sheet. Scanning it, she looked at Malice. “According to this, after the accident, the Lansings whisked Amy away for treatment and to protect her. While in a coma, she delivered the baby. George showed up demanding the kid and paid the Lansing’s five million to keep quiet. Oh God,” she gasped, looking at Malice, who slowly got to his feet.
“What?” both Malice and I asked.
Gulping, she looked at both of us and whispered, “George Stone sold the baby, but it doesn’t say to who.”
“What the fuck is going on?” Montana roared as he stormed down the stairs of the clubhouse. “I can hear your fucking mouths all the way upstairs!”
