Chapter 8: Pulse
1561 Words
The boat cut through black water.
Sinner’s head was in my lap. Blood soaked my jeans. His chest barely moved.
“Check his pulse,” Diablo’s text said.
I pressed two fingers to Sinner’s throat. Nothing. Too faint. Too slow.
“VP,” I said. Voice broke. “He’s—”
“Don’t say it,” VP cut in. Gun in one hand, throttle in the other. “Doc said blood loss. Doc didn’t say dead. Keep talking to him.”
I leaned down. Put my lips to Sinner’s ear. War paint smeared between us.
“You’re not allowed to die,” I whispered. “You made vows. Blood for blood. You don’t get to break them.”
His eyelashes fluttered. No breath. No movement.
The phone buzzed again. Same number.
*TOO LATE, WIFE. SONS DON’T SURVIVE MAMA’S WARS. -D*
Diablo’s hand was blown off. But someone still had his phone. Someone still had signal.
“Who is this?” I typed back with shaking fingers.
Three dots. Then:
*THE ONE WHO WATCHED YOU WED MY ENEMY. THE ONE WHO WILL WATCH YOU BURY HIM. -D*
VP swore. “Turn that off. He’s in your head.”
I couldn’t. Sinner was cold. Too cold.
I ripped my shirt. Pressed it to his chest. CPR. Pressed down hard. Counted. Breathed for him.
“Come back,” I begged. “You said no one touches me. That means you have to stay too.”
The boat hit the dock. VP jumped out, caught me as I stumbled with Sinner’s weight. We ran to a new cabin. Smaller. No fire. No witnesses.
VP laid him on the table. Started chest compressions. “Come on, boss. Don’t you dare die on her.”
Doc wasn’t here. No machines. No help. Just me and my hands and his blood.
Sinner’s lips were blue. The ring on his finger caught the lamplight. Mocking me.
I pressed my forehead to his. “Mine,” I whispered. “I’m yours. So you’re mine. You don’t get to leave.”
His chest didn’t rise.
The phone buzzed.
*PULSE IS GONE, ANGEL. BUT I CAN GIVE HIM ONE. MEET ME ALONE. DOCK 17. MIDNIGHT. BRING THE RING. -D*
Not Diablo. Couldn’t be.
Unless…
Unless his mother missed.
Unless Diablo had another hand. Another man. Another devil.
VP saw the text over my shoulder. “It’s a trap. He wants you.”
Sinner’s chest was still. Too still.
“One hour,” I said. “If I go, maybe he has medicine. Maybe he has a doctor. Maybe—”
“Maybe he kills you and wears your skin,” VP said. “Boss wouldn’t want that.”
“Boss is dead,” I said. The word cut me. “If there’s a chance, I have to take it.”
I stood. The ring felt like fire on my finger.
VP grabbed my arm. “If you go, I go. And if you die, I burn this city down to find your body.”
“Stay with him,” I said. Looked at Sinner’s pale face. “If he wakes up and I’m gone, tell him I came back for him. Tell him I kept the vow.”
VP didn’t let go. “He’ll kill you himself for this.”
“Then he’ll have to be alive to do it,” I said.
I left at 11:40. Took Sinner’s backup gun from the table. Took the ring off my finger. Slid it into my pocket.
Dock 17 was abandoned. Rusted cranes. Water slapping wood. Fog so thick I couldn’t see ten feet.
Footsteps behind me. Not VP. Lighter.
A figure stepped from the fog. Tall. Cut with Reaper’s wings. But the right sleeve was empty. Stump wrapped in bloody bandages.
Diablo. One-handed. Alive.
“Where’s my hand?” he asked. Smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Mama Blackwood took it. But she didn’t take my phone.”
“You said you could save him,” I said. Gun in my hand now. Steady. “How?”
Diablo held up a syringe. Clear liquid. “Experimental. Cartel grade. Restarts the heart. But only works if the blood matches. And yours does, Angel. You bled for him. Your blood is in him.”
He meant the transfusion. The cut palms. Blood for blood.
“You want my blood?” I asked.
“I want your vow,” Diablo said. “Sign over spousal privilege. Testify that Sinner killed your father. Then I give you the shot. He lives. You walk free. New life. No club.”
“You’re lying,” I said. “You’d kill him anyway.”
“Probably,” Diablo smiled. “But you’d get to watch him breathe one more time. Isn’t that worth perjury?”
My hand shook. Sinner was dying. This was his pulse.
I uncapped the gun. Aimed at Diablo’s chest. “Give me the syringe.”
He tossed it. I caught it.
Then he lunged. One hand, but fast. Tackled me to the dock. Gun skittered away.
“You’re just like him,” he hissed. Knee on my chest. “Stupid. In love. Dying for a man who’d do the same for you.”
I drove my elbow into his throat. He gagged. Rolled off.
I scrambled for the gun. Found it. Turned.
Diablo was on his feet. Knife in his good hand.
“You can’t win,” he said. “Even if you kill me, the shot won’t work without my blood too. Mixed. Three-way. Blood for blood for blood.”
“Then take it,” I said. “Take mine. Take his. But he lives.”
Diablo paused. Really looked at me. “You’d really do that? Trade your life for his?”
“Yes,” I said. No hesitation. “Because he’d do it for me.”
Something shifted in his face. Not mercy. Understanding.
He dropped the knife. “Fine. But know this: the moment he wakes up, he’ll kill me for threatening you. So you choose. The shot, or the man.”
He held out the syringe.
I took it. Ran.
Back to the cabin. Sinner still on the table. Still blue.
VP saw the syringe. “Don’t. Cartel s**t kills—”
I jammed it into Sinner’s heart anyway.
His body arched off the table. A violent, choking gasp.
Then breath. Ragged. Real.
Eyes opened. Gold flecks back. Gun-barrel hard.
He grabbed my wrist. Looked at the empty syringe. Then at me.
“What did you do?” he rasped.
“I saved you,” I said. Tears fell. “I traded—”
He sat up fast. Too fast. Stitches tore. Blood ran. He didn’t care. Pulled me into his chest. Squeezed until I couldn’t breathe.
“i***t,” he growled into my hair. “Wife. Mine. You don’t trade for me. I trade for you.”
I was crying. Laughing. Hitting his chest. “You were dead! You—”
“I’m not,” he said. Pulled back. Looked at my face. At the war paint. At my eyes. “But he is.”
He meant Diablo.
VP’s phone buzzed. He answered. Listened. Went pale.
“Boss,” VP said. “Mama Blackwood. She’s gone. Cabin blew with her inside. No body found. But Diablo’s signal just died at Dock 17.”
Sinner closed his eyes. One second. Grief. Rage. Then they opened. Cold.
“He’s not dead,” Sinner said. “Not yet. And he has my mother’s blood on his knife.”
He stood. Swayed. I caught him. He pushed me off gently.
“No more trading,” he said. To me. To the room. “No more deals. War ends one way.”
He walked to the wall. Took down another box. Not guns. Files. Photos. Evidence.
“My father’s murder,” he said. “Diablo pulled the trigger. But someone gave the order.”
He spread photos on the table. My father. Dead. Sinner’s father. Dead. Both killed the same night.
“Two presidents died,” Sinner said. “And two sons took their thrones. Me. And him.”
He tapped a third photo. A man I’d never seen. Older. Suit. No cut. No club.
“But there’s a third man,” Sinner said. “The one who started it all. The one who texted you from Diablo’s phone.”
He flipped the photo over. On the back, handwritten:
*THE ARCHITECT - WATCHES BOTH CLUBS BURN*
Sinner looked at me. “Angel. The war isn’t between me and Diablo. It’s between us and him.”
The cabin door blew open. Not with a grenade this time. With a keycard.
Agent Rivera walked in. FBI vest. Gun drawn.
But behind her—more men. Not FBI. Suits. Silent.
“The Architect sends his regards,” she said. “And his invitation. Both of you. Come to the table. End the war.”
Sinner stepped in front of me. Gun up. “The only table I sit at has my brothers around it.”
“Then your brothers die,” Agent Rivera said. “Last chance. The ring, the girl, and the president. Or everyone burns.”
Sinner didn’t answer with words.
He fired.
Chaos exploded.
And as I hit the floor, I saw it
The Architect’s photo had a signature in the corner.
My father’s signature.
- Writer
