SIX
911 Words
*Vivienne*
The safehouse smelled like dust and bleach.
Not the restaurant. Not the blue door. Somewhere new. Third place in six hours. Mateo drove with one hand, gun on his lap, and didn’t talk. When we got here — a concrete box above a laundromat — Lucien was already waiting.
No cuffs. No feds. Just blood on his shirt and a split lip.
“How?” I asked.
He didn’t answer. Just looked at my mouth. At the blood I hadn’t wiped off yet. His blood.
Mateo left. No goodbye. Door locked from outside.
Then it was us.
Lucien sank onto the edge of a stripped mattress. The only furniture. He peeled his shirt off slow. The bandage I’d tied in the restaurant was soaked through. Red to black.
He needed stitches. Again.
I didn’t ask if he wanted help. I just got the kit. Same army green. Different place. Same blood.
His skin was colder this time. He was losing too much.
I knelt on the floor between his knees. Not romantic. Practical. Couldn’t reach from higher.
The scar on his ribs was right there. Pink, new. From my nails. Last night felt like a different life.
“You’re shaking,” he said.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
I was.
I threaded the needle anyway. Hands knew what to do even when my head didn’t.
The first stitch pulled his skin together. He didn’t hiss. Didn’t move. Just watched my face.
“Your father,” he said. Quiet.
My hand stilled.
“I didn’t kill him because he stole money,” Lucien said. “Everyone steals.”
The needle hovered.
“He was going to sell me to the federales,” he said. “Whole cartel. Names, routes, bank accounts. He had a deal. Witness protection for him, your mom, you. We all die. He walks.”
I pushed the needle through. Skin parted. Blood welled.
“Liar,” I said. But it came out small.
“I have proof.”
“Then show me.”
“I will.” He exhaled. First time I’d seen him tired. Not sleepy. Bone-tired. “But you won’t like it.”
I tied off the stitch. Started another.
“My mother,” I said. My voice shook now. Couldn’t stop it. “She begged. You said she begged.”
“She did.” His eyes were black in the bad light. “Not for him. For you. She knew what he did. She tried to stop him. Came to me. Too late.”
The room went sideways. Not really. Just felt like it.
I remembered my mom. Not her face — that was blurry. But her hands. Always cold. Always holding mine too tight at night. Like she was scared.
I thought it was because of money. Because we moved a lot.
What if it was because she knew we were living with a dead man?
“You’re lying,” I said. But I was already doing math. Ten years of hate. Ten years of sharpening myself into a knife. What if I’d been sharpening it for the wrong throat?
Lucien caught my wrist. Stopped my hand.
“Look at me,” he said.
I did.
“Your dad was my brother,” he said. “Not blood. Choice. I loved him. That’s why it had to be me. Anyone else would’ve made him suffer.”
His thumb brushed over my pulse. Once. Then he let go.
“Finish,” he said. “Before I bleed out on your shoes.”
I finished. Four more stitches. Clean. Even. Better than the last time.
When I was done, he didn’t move. I didn’t either. We were still too close. His knees on either side of me. My hands on his thigh, keeping balance.
His breathing was easier. Mine wasn’t.
“You hate me less now,” he said. Not a question.
“I don’t know what I am,” I said. Honest. First honest thing I’d said to him.
He nodded. Like that was answer enough.
Then he stood. Too fast. Swayed. Caught himself on the wall.
“Lucien—”
“I’m fine.” He wasn’t. “There’s a floorboard. Under the mattress. Loose one on the left.”
I moved the mattress. Found it. Pried it up with the scissors from the kit.
Inside: a book. Ledger. Leather, cracked.
My father’s handwriting.
I knew it before I opened it. The way he made his R’s. Like knives.
I opened it.
First page. Dates. Names. Amounts.
_Federales – Contact: J. Reyes. Deal: Full immunity. Trade: Moretti, all operations._
My dad’s signature at the bottom.
The room went quiet. No sirens. No city. Just my heart, too loud.
Lucien was watching me. Not smug. Not vindicated. Just... tired.
“He was going to kill you,” I said. The words tasted like ash.
“He was going to kill us all,” Lucien said. “You included, Vivienne. Witness protection doesn’t take eight-year-olds with memories.”
I closed the ledger. My hands weren’t shaking anymore.
They were numb.
Ten years.
All for a man who would’ve sold me too.
I looked up at Lucien. At the scar I gave him. At the ones I didn’t.
“Why did you keep this?” I asked.
“Proof,” he said. “For you. Someday.”
Someday was today.
From outside, downstairs, the laundromat’s buzzer went off.
Then glass broke.
Then someone screamed.
- Writer
