Black Hearts (Sins Duet #1)

by Karina Halle

  Black Hearts

  Sins Duet #1

  Karina Halle

  Metal Blonde Books

  Contents

  ABOUT THIS BOOK

  PREFACE

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Karina Halle

  First edition published by Metal Blonde Books February 2017

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Copyright © 2017 by Karina Halle Mackenzie

  Kindle edition

  All rights reserved

  Cover design: Hang Le Designs

  Photographer: Wander Aguilar

  Edited by: Kara Malinczak

  ABOUT THIS BOOK

  For Vicente Bernal, truth is all he’s known. The son of an infamous drug lord, Vicente was born to help run the family business, which means he’s been raised on a throne of sordid pasts and dirty laundry, violence and pride. But when Vicente stumbles across someone he’s not supposed to know about – a woman from his father’s checkered past – he sets out to California to find her behind his father’s back.

  What Vicente doesn’t expect to find in San Francisco is Violet McQueen, the woman’s twenty-year old daughter. Beautiful and edgy with a vulnerability he can’t resist, Violet tempts Vicente from afar and though he promised himself he’d stay away from her, curiosity and lust are powerful forces. Besides, Vicente has always gotten everything he wants – why shouldn’t he have Violet too?

  Soon his wants turn into an obsession, one that sweeps Violet into his games as they fall madly, deeply in love with each other, the type of first love that can drive a person mad.

  But it’s a love with tragic consequences.

  Both the truth – and the lies – not only threaten to tear them apart, but threaten their very lives.

  Someone has to pay for the sins of the fathers.

  And they’ll be paying the price with their souls.

  NOTE: Black Hearts is book #1 of the Sins Duet, with book #2, Dirty Souls, releasing March 17th. These books are a spinoff of The Artists Trilogy and the Dirty Angels Trilogy - however, you do not need to have read those books in order to enjoy or understand this one.

  If you do wish to read those books though, I recommend starting with Sins & Needles!

  ALSO NOTE: Black Hearts contains some violence and a whole load of naughty sex and bad language. IF you are a reader who is sensitive to any of the above, you have now been warned.

  PREFACE

  Once upon a time, a troubled young con artist fell in love with her mark, the drug lord with ties to the man who had ruined her life as a child.

  It did not end well.

  In fact, it didn’t really end at all.

  Years later, the con artist tried to go straight, live a good and pure life, free of crime and inner torment.

  That didn’t go well either.

  Instead, she got hopelessly tangled with her old childhood friend, a friend who never stopped looking for the good in her, never stopped loving her.

  Love is a funny thing. It can cause all our demons to go away.

  But there was one demon who wouldn’t.

  The mark.

  What followed was a reckless, raw and duplicitous journey for three people who were often more bad than good, people who let love and lust and revenge compete for the same space in their hearts, people who had to fight tooth and nail for their happy ending.

  But life doesn’t stop at a happily-ever-after.

  And as far ahead in the future as you might be, the past is never far behind.

  You just have to look over your shoulder.

  For the ones who love my black and tender heart

  I was doomed from the start

  Doomed to play, the villain’s part

  “Up Jumped the Devil”

  Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds

  Chapter One

  Violet

  SAN FRANCISCO - THE NOT SO DISTANT FUTURE

  Everything I know is a lie.

  That’s the thought that strikes me at night when the lights are off and my room is dark and my mind keeps tripping over itself, regretting how I wasted the day and worrying about the day to come.

  I know it doesn’t make a lot of sense. I mean, I know I’m not a lie. But if I was raised in a house of them, by people who aren’t who they say they are, what does that make me?

  It’s ridiculous. I turned twenty a few months ago. I know my parents love me and my brother loves me, even though we don’t always see eye to eye. I know I have a good life and a bright, if not uncertain, future. But that doesn’t erase this unease I’ve had since I was a young girl, that things aren’t quite what they seem.

  When I was nine, I remember catching my mother outside the house in one hell of an awkward moment. This was back when we lived above the beach in Gualala, just north of San Francisco. I shouldn’t say just north, like it’s a simple hop, skip, and a jump. It’s a long, winding, nauseating drive along Highway 1 to get there.

  Anyway, I remember this because I thought she had gone down to the beach to take pictures. I wasn’t allowed to leave the house on my own (the cliffs were a danger, so they said) and Ben was inside with my dad talking about something in the kitchen. My mom and dad just had a fight an hour before and I was worried about her, the way that daughters are when their mothers sulk off somewhere. The same kind of fear when you see an injured animal slink off to die.

  In general, my parents didn’t fight all that much, which is something I try not to take for granted. I’ve heard horror stories from my friends about the ugly divorces and custody battles, or the parents who stayed together for their children, even though their kids would have been happier with them split, rather than being exposed to a hellish home life. Though my parents are pretty odd, I know they’re happily married and have a lot of love for each other. Maybe too much at times.

  But that didn’t mean they didn’t fight, and when they did it tended to be about things I wasn’t privy to. It was never about me not doing my homework or Ben staying out too late or even that dad forgot to do the dishes. It was always over something whispered in the dark. Something that had my parents checking the corners of every room they entered. Something that sat above them like a dusty cobweb on the ceiling, always there, holding something ugly in its depths, ready to drop.

  When I saw my mom go outside that day, I’d never seen her so upset. Usually she kept everything bottled up inside, swallowed it down with a stiff smile. My mom is pretty hardened and cynical, for reasons I don’t always understand. But that time she was sitting on the ground by the side of the house, half-hidden by a manzanita tree, her knees up to her chest. Tears were streaming down her face, leaving black trails down her cheeks.

  I tried to hug her but she shooed me away, told me to leave her. But I couldn’t. I’d always sensed my mother’s vulnerability, even at that age, but had never seen it. To be honest, I felt nothing but awe.
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  So I stood there, watching her crumble inward. I was struck with the thought that I was terrible because I wished that she could be like this more often. I felt like I was finally seeing something real and true, a glimpse at a hidden self.

  “I’m a bad mother,” she said, and I remember it so clearly because the words sounded painful. “I’m nothing but a fraud.” She said this a few times between sobs, shaking her head until finally she began to calm down.

  Then she looked at me, warily, like a caged animal. Like she was afraid of me. The whole time I hadn’t said a word.

  “Why don’t you go inside?” she said with a forced smile. “I’m not quite myself right now.”

  And so I did. My dad asked me where she was and he immediately went outside after me. They talked out there for a long time. I wanted so badly to listen to what they were saying but Ben told me to mind my own business.

  A few days later I told my mom she wasn’t a bad mother. That she was the best there ever was.

  She flinched at that, and when I brought up the part about being a fraud, she said she didn’t remember saying that. Then she gave me a hug, smoothed my hair, and told me she loved me. There was such a strange desperation in her eyes that I dropped the subject and never asked her again.

  But it didn’t mean I never thought about it.

  A fraud.

  A fake.

  A liar.

  Then again, I’m starting to personally relate.

  It’s the end of September and school started a few weeks ago and already I feel over my head, that I’m in a program I don’t belong in, that I’m just pretending. It’s the second year of my photography degree at the Academy of Art University San Francisco and so far it’s a million times harder than I thought it would be. Maybe because the first year of anything is usually the testing period where the weak are weeded out, and I’m starting to think I should have been weeded out in the spring along with the mint in our tiny back garden.

  It probably has a lot to do with not measuring up to my mother. She’s a well-respected photographer with a small gallery of artsy portraits in the Mission district. Her work is heavy on depth and shadow, always in black and white, and she manages to get the truth out of the subject. She can be a chameleon sometimes, adjusting her personality to suit the person she’s talking to. I’ve seen it work on me, which is why it’s no surprise that she’s able to get the truth out of her subjects. You can see it in their eyes. She can capture their true selves like no one else can.

  And while I think I’ve majorly improved over the years, especially after starting school (I mean they don’t just take anyone), I feel like I’m faking my way through my assignments.

  Like this one. My friend Ginny (who is also in my class) and I are supposed to roam the city and take pictures of “absolution.” I know, it’s like total high school photography class bullshit, but it is what it is.

  But Ginny is somewhat of a genius, and she’s already snapped a million photos just standing in one spot at Union Square. It’s hot, sunny, and busy as hell, filled with tourists and shoppers alike. There’s nothing even close to absolution here.

  She peers at me out of the corner of her eye, not even taking her face away from the camera, her purple winged eyeliner glittering in the sun. “Vi, stop staring at me and take some goddamn pictures.”

  I sigh and look around again, the sun making me squint. My over-the-knee boots already feel too hot. I never learn. I live up in the Haight, by Golden Gate Park, and the row house is perpetually shrouded in fog. Every morning I dress like I’m heading out into a frozen cloud, and every afternoon I end up downtown and sweating buckets, hot and itchy. There are a dozen different microclimates in the city and I’m never dressed for the right one.

  “Tell me where the absolution is,” I challenge her. “It’s a city of greed.”

  Ginny lowers the camera and gives me her driest look. I can feel my soul shrinking away from it. She gives good glare, this one. “And you don’t think greed can lead to absolution?” She motions to the department stores. “Many people are finding their salvation right in there, among the shoes and the jewelry and the buy-one-get-one-free underwear.” She pauses and her withering look turns to an impish one. “Which reminds me, I should stock up. I’ve got another date tonight.”

  I take advantage of the distraction and haul Ginny into the store right away. I hate malls and department stores as a rule but the heat is killing me and I’m feeling all kinds of restless and distracted.

  Ginny notices. “Are you even listening to me?” she says, holding up a zebra-printed bra. “I told you that Tamara’s favorite print is zebra and you just ignored me like this bra won’t make all the difference in the world.”

  I blink and try to focus. For some reason the hairs at the back of my neck are standing up and I’ve got chills, but I’ll get worse than that if I don’t start paying attention to Ginny.

  She came out only last year and jokingly refers to herself as the longest closeted queer in San Francisco, even though she’s just a few years older than me. She’s been going kind of wild in the dating scene but recently fell in love with Tamara, a trans woman who’s also a stand-up comic in the Castro. She’s hilarious and sweet, though I think Ginny has fallen for her faster than the other way around. Hence why Ginny’s putting a lot of thought into a zebra-print bra.

  “You know, I’d gladly give you advice on what makes your tits look great if only you’d get out there and actually go on a date with someone,” Ginny says, throwing the bra over her shoulder and going back to sorting through the messy rack of lingerie.

  “And you know it’s not like I’m not trying. This city sucks for dating,” I remind her. “There’s no one…eligible in class.”

  “So then look outside the class.”

  I open my mouth to say something but she cuts me off. “Just because it’s art school and we’re in San Francisco doesn’t mean every guy there is gay. Trust me.” Her attention is quickly captured by a turquoise satin bra that matches the streaks in her shaggy blonde hair. “Oooh, I need this one too.”

  When I don’t say anything, she adjusts her camera bag and lets out a long sigh. “What about Ben? He has to have hot older friends. He’s pretty hot himself, you know. I’ve learned that hot guys tend to have hot friends.”

  I scrunch up my nose. “He does. But they have girlfriends. And they live in Santa Cruz, so even if one of them were single, and I happened to be attracted to them, and it wasn’t weird for Ben, and they happened to be attracted to me, it would be long distance. And there’s the whole fact that I’d be dating one of my brother’s friends and that’s bound to be a problem and a half.”

  “He still overprotective?” she asks. “He knows by now you can defend yourself, right?”

  I let out a soft laugh. “Honestly, I think he would be more worried for his friends.” I had way too much fun being the teasing, bratty younger sister to Ben while growing up.

  Though he’s just four years older, Ben has always been overprotective of me, even though our father had us both in martial arts from an early age, who knows why. We were so young when we started karate and judo that it just became our thing. As we got older and were able to make our own decisions about sports and extracurricular activities, we decided to stick with it, albeit in different ways. I did some Capoeira during high school and still do kickboxing. Ben got into MMA when he was a teen and he’s still training, even competing in state fights.

  I’m grateful for it though. While my friends were all forced to play the piano or football, my brother and I were out there after school, learning to kick ass. My dad’s in really good shape but when we press him about whether he did anything like MMA or some kind of fighting when he was younger, he says he was always a lover, not a fighter.

  “It’s a good skill to have,” he would always say. “You never know when you’ll need to defend yourself.”

  And he’s been right, unfortunately. It was only last year that I was attac
ked walking up our street, just around Buena Vista Park. It was some sketchy dude, high as a kite, trying to take my backpack, but I managed to deliver a kick to his face before I ran all the way home. At first I was too terrified to walk anywhere alone after that, but then I threw myself back into kickboxing and even had Ben train me in some MMA stuff. Now I feel ready for a fight, even though I hope the opportunity never arises again. It’s just good to feel confident that you can protect yourself.

  “Well, maybe we should stop hanging out in the Castro,” Ginny muses, now moving on to babydoll lace camisoles and teddies. “You’re never gonna meet a straight guy at drag queen bingo.”

  “Honestly, I’m fine being single,” I tell her, wanting to drop the subject. “I’ll live vicariously through you and Tamara.”

  Ginny raises her brows to the heavens. “Like hell you will. Look at you, girl. You’re twenty, you’re stupidly pretty, you have amazing hair, and your thighs and booty make anyone with a pulse want to give them a good ol’ smack. You can have anyone you want. You just have to meet them. And you have to want them.”

  “Suddenly I have the urge to get back outside and take some pictures,” I tell her. This sort of talk makes me uncomfortable.

  But after Ginny is done with her shopping, she heads out to her apartment in Emeryville and I get on the bus heading home, my mind flipping back and forth between the idea of absolution and thought of never finding the right guy, two entirely different trains of thought that somehow feel the same.

  I get off the bus on Haight, just before Ashbury, and my world is back to damp fog. I take my fringe scarf out of my messenger bag and quickly wrap it around my neck as I make my way toward my father’s tattoo parlor.

  Sins & Needles is the reason we moved down from Gualala to the city back when I was twelve. My father used to have a successful shop by the same name in Palm Valley in SoCal, before I was born. I imagine he must have sold it for a pretty penny back then and let the stocks grow, because sometimes I wonder how on earth my parents could afford to not only buy a business on upper Haight but a house around the corner. San Francisco housing prices have been the highest in the country for decades now and I know my parents do okay for themselves with their businesses, but they’re still artists, not traders or lawyers.