Consent (The Loan Shark Duet Book 2)

by Charmaine Pauls

  “Please, Valentina.” I beg for forgiveness. I beg for her to fight harder and not to leave me. “Fight,” I whisper.

  For all her brave efforts, things are going wrong. The nurses are tense, and the doctor’s instructions are strained.

  “The baby’s not descending,” the obstetrician says.

  Valentina wails when he pushes a forearm on top of her abdomen and works it down. I want to tear the motherfucker’s limbs apart. I want to rip the cause of her pain away and crush his skull against the wall. It’s only sheer willpower that prevents me from stabbing him with the scalpel. My anger is directed at the wrong person. The root of all this agony is standing next to the bed, clutching her hand.

  “Emergency caesarean,” the doctor declares with a new note of urgency.

  One of the nurses lays a hand on my arm. “Please move aside, sir.”

  I jerk free. “I’m not leaving her.”

  “Mr. Louw,” the doctor’s voice is stern, “for the sake of your wife and child’s lives, leave. We don’t have time.”

  Grabbing her face, I kiss her like I may never kiss her again. There’s too much to say, but no time, because orders are being called, and Valentina is pulled from my arms onto a gurney. I strain to hold back when they take her. Walking next to her, I keep one hand on her stomach and grip her fingers in the other.

  I press her palm against my mouth, stifling the emotions that won’t let me speak, because I have to say this.

  “I love you.” Each word is broken. Each word is meant. Each word is beautiful in its own, ugly, wrong way.

  We approach the operating wing doors.

  “You can wait in the visitor’s area, Mr. Louw.”

  “Wait.” Valentina grips my wrist. “What’s his name?”

  “Connor,” I say, fighting to keep my voice from breaking. “His name is Connor.”

  And then she’s gone.

  The doors to the operating wing swing shut, and I stand alone in the long hallway with the bright lights.

  Tearing out of the hospital clothes, I pace and pray, repeating my vow. I feel like dying. Is this punishment for my sins?

  Rhett and Quincy arrive. They’re here more for Valentina than me, and I can’t blame them. She has that effect on people.

  “How’s Charlie holding up?” I ask Rhett.

  “He’s fine. Kris is cooking dinner. You don’t have to worry about him.”

  “Val?” Quincy looks as if he fears my answer, but couldn’t stop himself from asking.

  “I don’t know,” I say honestly. I give them a brief explanation of the situation.

  “Fuck.” Quincy clenches his hands together and flops down in the nearest chair.

  “Coffee?” Rhett asks.

  Sensing he needs to keep busy, I agree.

  Armed with dark, bitter coffee, we nurture our fears, thoughts, and blame as we wait. When I can’t stand it, any longer, I limp up and down the hallway. It’s taking too long.

  I’ve lost count of time when the door at the end of the hall opens and a doctor exits. Quincy and Rhett get to their feet. They stare at the doctor as if he’s grown horns. With sure steps, he walks over, stopping short of me. His look is direct and factual, void of emotion. Standing––praying, hoping, despairing––I await the news. The stones are grinding on each other in my chest. Every breath I take hurts.

  He looks at the three of us. “Mr. Louw?”

  “That’s me.”

  “It’s a boy.”

  15

  Gabriel

  “It’s a boy,” I murmur.

  I’m a dad.

  Rhett, Quincy, and I stare at the doctor. None of us speak. We wait in the worst silence of my life.

  The obstetrician gives me a tired smile. “Your wife pulled through.”

  The earth tips under my feet. I have to grab the chair back to stay upright.

  She lives.

  A boy.

  Thank you, thank you.

  I’m conflicted and raw, knowing the sacrifice I’ll pay for her life, but my joy far outweighs the torment of giving up my child and the woman I love.

  “He was born at thirty-six past three,” the doctor continues. “One point one kilo. Thirty-nine centimeters.”

  My voice is gravelly. “How are they?”

  “They’re both doing well. You can see your wife in an hour, when she comes to. Your baby has been placed in an incubator. A nurse will take you to see him.”

  “He’s only twenty-nine weeks. What complications can be expected?”

  “Anything, but, statistically, survival rates for his age are above ninety percent and disability less than ten.”

  I swallow past the lump in my throat. “Thank you.”

  He pats my back. “Wait here. And congratulations.”

  Rhett is at my side the minute the doctor is gone, grabbing my arms as if he senses my physical weakness. “Congratulations, Gabriel.”

  A smile transforms Quincy’s face into a goofy mask. “You have a son.” He pulls me into a hug and slaps my back. “Well done.”

  “She’s alive,” I say, still needing to convince myself. “She’s going to be all right.”

  There’s a note of pride in Rhett’s voice. “She gave it a good fight.”

  “She’s a strong one,” Quincy agrees.

  They wait with me until the nurse returns to take me to my son. I stop in front of the incubator that separates us. For now, this is as close as I can get to him. He has patches on his tiny chest, a pipe in his nose, and an IV in his leg. Damn, he’s small, drowning in the white diaper. So fragile. So perfect.

  I place my palm on the glass. “Connor.” I ache to touch him, to hold him against my chest and feel his heart beat in his brave little chest. “You made it. You’re going to grow up big and strong. A good man.” With a mother like his, he won’t have a choice.

  Big, shameless tears run through my beard into my smile. They’re happy tears. Tormented tears, tears to welcome, and tears to say goodbye.

  He looks just like me, at least the me before my scars, but he has Valentina’s full lips. I don’t know for how long I stay like that, drinking in his features while he sleeps like only the innocent can, but my hip is aching from the long stand when a nurse touches my arm.

  “Would you like to see your wife?” she asks in a bright voice. “She’s awake.”

  Would I like to see my wife? What kind of question is that? I don’t bother to reply. I don’t even have flowers or a stuffed toy. No balloons or diamonds. Only lies, deceit, and freedom.

  The nurse stops in front of a door in the maternity wing. “Here you go. She suffered blood loss and is still weak, but you can stay as long as you want. No visiting hours apply. Don’t tire her, though.”

  That’s part of the advantage of a private clinic and room. I brace myself and push the door open. Valentina is surrounded by white sheets. Her eyes are closed, and her lips slightly parted. Her breathing is even, but her skin reflects the color of the sheets. My gut turns inside out. It’s hard to see her like this.

  I make my way over quietly, trying not to disturb her, but her eyelashes lift when I reach the edge of the bed. For three hammering heartbeats, she stares at me, her soft eyes awash with emotions. Fuck, that look unsettles me. The twisted, tormented expression coils around my chest and squeezes the air out of my lungs. The single tear that slips from her eye and spills down her cheek is a stake in my heart that leaves a hole that can never heal.

  I grab her fingers and squeeze. I want to climb on top of the bed and hug her to me, but I don’t want to disturb her wound and hurt her. Instead, I will myself to be content with perching on the edge.

  I stroke the hair from her brow and trace my thumbs over the fragile skin under her eyes. “How do you feel?”

  “Did you see him?” she croaks.

  “He’s perfect, Valentina. So perfect.”

  She lets out a gush of air that makes her shoulders sink back into the mattress.

  “Rest.”
I kiss her cracked lips. “I’ll be right here.”

  Her eyelids flutter close, and her breathing changes. In a second, I lose her to sleep. It’s the anesthetic still in her system. Unable to tear away, I lie down next to her body and carefully pull her to me. I watch her until a new shift of staff comes on duty and a nurse pops her head around the door.

  “The doctor is going to examine her, now, if you’d like to go home and have a shower,” she offers in a curt manner. “Maybe you’d like to eat something, too. You’ll need your strength to support your pretty young wife and that handsome son of yours.”

  Dragging a hand over my beard, I look down at my crumpled shirt and suit. I must look a mess. My mouth tastes foul, and my throat hurts. Hunger hasn’t crossed my mind, but I feel unstable as I get to my feet. I’m reluctant to leave her, but get out of the staff’s hair so they can care for the precious creature on the white bed.

  On my way out, I check on Connor. After washing and warming my hands, I lay them on his back. He’s so small my palm envelops his whole upper body. Dearness, pride, protective instinct, and love hurt my chest.

  I pass my first diaper changing test, and when I place Connor like the nurse shows me, he holds onto my thumb with his fist, his grip surprisingly strong. It physically aches when I have to pry his miniscule fingers loose.

  I put my fingertip on his heart. “I love you, son.”

  No cell phones are allowed in the maternity wing. Outside, when I switch my phone on for the first time again, there are ten missed calls from Kris. Damn. In my panic, I completely forgot to let her know the status of events.

  Quincy sits in a chair against the wall when I enter the reception area. He jumps to his feet when he sees me. “How are they doing?”

  The smile that cracks my face is a string tied to a helium balloon. I’m going to float right up to the clouds. “Good. She’s tired. He’s perfect.” I take in his disheveled hair and five o’clock shadow. “What are you still doing here?”

  “Wasn’t going to leave without you. Rhett went home to check on Charlie. Kris was going ape shit. She freaked out when she couldn’t get hold of you, so Rhett told her the news. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Thank you.” I mean it like never before. I don’t know what I would’ve done without these two men. And Kris.

  “You’re welcome. You look like shit. I’ll drive you home.”

  It’s nearly six in the morning. A new day has dawned. The rays of the sun wash over the windowsills like the hands of a clock, marking my time that’s running out. It feels as if I spent ten thousand nights in here, and every step I take toward the sunlight is heavier than the one before. Each mile I put between us is a mile closer to never. I swallow the knowledge of what I have to do, putting it away to deal with later, alone. For now, we need to celebrate life.

  At home, an excited Charlie and Kris meet me at the door.

  Kris embraces me, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Congratulations. I was going out of my mind. Tell me everything. I made breakfast.”

  She leads us to the table by the kitchen and makes me relay everything that happened over eggs, bacon, and toast. I only focus on the medical aspects and go into a long and detailed description of Connor, leaving out the part of how this is going to play out. When they’ve oohed and aahed, I kick-start myself into action. Kris can’t afford to close the practice for the day and knowing how little sleep she got last night, I offer to organize a temp through Dial-a-Temp for the day, but she stubbornly refuses. We still have to talk about Valentina’s maternity leave and how it will impact Kris’ practice, but I put it on the backburner for now. The priority is for Valentina and Connor to rest and grow strong.

  Feeling better after a shower and changing into a clean suit, I dial Michael and inform him of the news. I have five days of paternity leave, but will swing past the office later this afternoon to tie up a few loose ends.

  Five days to say goodbye. That’s what I give myself. I’m not going to brood over it. Not yet. There are shitloads of things to do in five days. The nursery isn’t ready. Except for a few outfits and a box of diapers, we haven’t gotten around to the baby shopping. Valentina needs a crib, pushchair, carrycot, car seat, breast pump, and various other devices that babies require. After doing some shopping, I want to go past the clinic again. Eager to get on with the chores so I can get back to the two people I care most about in the world, I get some of the cash I stashed for the baby shopping in the safe from my study. I’m about to walk out of the room when my open laptop catches my attention. I always keep it closed when I’m not using it. It’s a security thing, knowing how easy a hacker can access the webcam and study what’s going on in our house. Every hair on my body bristles. Someone snooped around. There’s information on that computer that can implicate me in crimes and murders. Deliberately, I haven’t erased the evidence of financial embezzlement and bribes we made for Magda’s business. You never know when you may need it, like to blackmail yourself out of a dire situation when your life is threatened.

  Treading carefully around the desk, I study the top for signs of disturbances, but all the papers and files are in place, painstakingly neat and square, just as I left them. I hit a random button to repower the screen. A folder I don’t know appears. The name sets my heart racing. I nearly go into cardiac arrest when I open it and read the file names.

  Fuck. Shit. No.

  My eyes fall on the black stick with the Louw Unlimited logo inserted in the USB flash drive.

  Magda.

  Magda told Valentina. She told her what I did. According to the files staring back at me, she did more than that. She gave Valentina the fucking evidence. Throwing the pile of bills on the desk, I clench and unclench my hands. I do this several times to prevent myself from hitting something. Valentina knew. She had our baby knowing what I did to her. Magda had no right. Why? I never meant for Valentina to suffer the awful truth. Goddammit! I take my anger out on the chair, kicking it until a sharp pain rides up my leg and lances into my hip.

  What did Magda show Valentina? A recording of my conversation with the doctor? I open the file with a shaking hand. Just as I thought, an audio file of my call to Engelbrecht opens. I listen to the whole, dire speech, hearing what Valentina heard, trying to imagine what she felt, what she thought. I kind of guessed what the content of that file was even before I clicked on it, but I have no clue what the so-called Evidence folder contains. What other proof is there of my deceit?

  A nasty foreboding sits in the pit of my stomach. This feels heavy. Dirty. Suddenly, I’m impatient. In my haste to open the file, I miss-click and have to do it again. What opens is a video clip. A blurry picture fills the screen. It looks like a low-quality home movie. As the images unfold, ice-cold dread fills my veins. The dread turns to boiling hot, melting fucking lava. Anger explodes in every blood vessel of my body. Rage makes me shake. My organs tremble as I witness a younger version of Valentina in her worst nightmare. I recall the uncontrollable shiver of her body as she knelt before me and told me her secret. I feel her pain and see her humiliation as six grown men caused those feelings for their pleasure. I want to kill them like I never wanted to kill. I want to make them suffer a thousand times more. I want to chop off their limbs and throw them at Valentina’s feet. I will drag them through stones and thorns until they don’t have an inch of skin left on their bodies. I simmer in my fury, forcing myself to watch every cruel second, wishing that every second is the last of her torture. It’s gruesome to behold and sheer agony to witness, but I push on, because the video contains something I’ve been after for the better part of a year––the identities of Valentina’s assailants.

  Somewhere in the back of my mind a warning pops up. Something is familiar, but I can’t place it. When one of the fuckers speaks again, the fog lifts from my mind. I know that voice. Barney. He was—oh fuck. No. One of my father’s cronies. One by one, their ugly faces drift onto the screen. The whole damn team. If my father covered up their crime, if he sho
veled dirt over the despicable act he’s no better than them. Then the camera turns, and I look into the eyes of the man who raped Valentina—the man who gave me life.

  Sweet mother of Jesus. Shocked and sick, I fall into the chair, staring at the black screen. Several facts pierce my mind like burning arrows. One, my father raped Valentina while his friends held her down. My own fucking father. Two, Magda knew. She knew about the rape, and she never told me. Three, this has something to do with why Magda wanted Valentina dead. The debt was only a smokescreen. And four, what Valentina saw in this folder triggered a shock big enough to set her into labor and risk both her and my baby’s life.

  Charcoal flecks of burnt-out ashes drift in front of my vision. Slowly, determinedly, I rise to my feet. I lock the USB stick in the safe and take my keys. Magda works in Brixton today. The drive there takes too long. It’s mid-morning when I park in front of the loan office. Only the Merc is outside, meaning Scott is my only obstacle before I get to Magda.

  I slam my hands on the glass doors and push them open. Scott, who sits behind the front desk, jumps to his feet, reaching for his gun. Before he can grip the shaft sticking from the hip holster, I plant a kick in his stomach and a fist on his jaw. He falls backward, his body connecting with the wall. I use the momentum to grip his hair and throw him face-down on the floor. With a knee in his back, I restrain his wrists and wrestle the pistol from his holster. I flick off the safety, cock the gun, and push it against his temple.

  He stops struggling, knowing he’s as good as dead. “What the fuck, man?”

  “Where’s Magda?”

  He grunts as I push up his arm. “Back office.”

  “Who’s with her?”

  “She’s alone.”

  She usually is. The office is soundproof. She won’t hear me rough up Scott unless she walks through the door.

  “Why did she go to my house, yesterday?”

  “I don’t know.” He curses and whimpers in pain. “You’re breaking my arm.”