The Dirty Dozen: Damsel Edition
Page 90
Not bothering to look back at him to see if he’s headed my words, I stride out of the building, determined to get home to my little family. Part of me can’t blame Ford for holding onto hope where Sophie’s concerned – she’s one hell of a woman – but no one is worth the torment he’s putting himself through. Unless it’s Farrah, and then I would walk through hell barefoot if it meant I could have her in my arms every night and wake up with her every morning.
On second thoughts, I wish Ford all the luck in the world if he plans on ignoring me and chasing after Sophie. Why? Because he’s going to need it.
I’ve been where he is, feeling as if a piece of you is missing when they’re not around, and it’s not a good place to be. In fact, it’s downright unbearable at times. There were moments when I considered packing up and moving just to get away from the memories of Farrah that assaulted me wherever I went, but I couldn’t bring myself to follow through with it. She had made a home in my heart, so no matter where I went, how far I ran, or how long I was gone, the truth is, I would never get over Farrah. She was so deeply embedded inside me that there was no forgetting her either, not that I would ever want to.
Just thinking about her and our son makes my heart ache. They are my entire world and I don’t know what I would do without them. The good thing is, I’ll never have to find out.
Years ago, Farrah claimed my soul, but I’m the lucky bastard who got to claim her heart.
Black Hearts Bleed
THE DIRTY DOZEN – DAMSEL EDITION
K.A. Hillman
Black Hearts (a Black Hearts Bleed Novella)
Copyright © 2019 Kylie Hillman
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.
This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to the seller and purchase your own copy.
Thank you for respecting the author’s work.
Editing: Ellie at My Brother’s Editor
Proofreading: My Brother’s Editor
Author Notes
Black Hearts is the origin novella for the Black Hearts Bleed series. This is the beginning of Angelo and Jen’s love story and contains elements of Hooligan and Maria’s early relationship as well. It is set in the mid-1990s.
Elements of this story may be triggering for some readers. Please click here if you wish to learn more about the content of this story.
This story is set in Australia, uses some local slang and grammar, and is written in UK English. Please note: these characters were originally introduced in my now unpublished Black Hearts MMA series (see dedication for a longer explanation).
Dedication
To second chances.
“Rewinding time may not be possible, but thankfully do-overs exist.” ~Unknown~
Dear reader,
This dedication section is my apology letter to you.
For the past two (plus) years, I’ve been battling a severe Crohn’s Disease flare. As you can imagine, it’s been a chaotic time for me and my family. Half a dozen operations, too many hospitalisations to count, and medication failure on a monthly basis. Yet, during that time I was determined to continue publishing come Hell or high water. I released some books. Pushed back others. I broke promises and half-assed my stories.
And in the process, I ended up making a dog’s breakfast of my career.
Then in August 2019, less than a year after finishing treatment for cervical cancer, I was diagnosed with bowel cancer and forced to stop publishing. Thankfully, it also forced me to evaluate what I was doing to my career and the outcome was that I unpublished some of the books I was unhappy with so I could rewrite them.
The Black Hearts MMA series is one of those stories. What seemed on the surface to be a simple MMA romantic suspense series morphed into so much more as I continued to write the later books. In fact, it became so convoluted in the end that I’ve now decided to split it into two series—Black Hearts Bleed and 4Freaks.
Black Hearts Bleed introduces Angelo and Maria Carlucci, Hayden Harvie, and Jennifer De Luca as teens. They were the “older” characters in the original Black Hearts MMA series. Originally their stories were supposed to bookend the series, however as I dove deeper into the original series I became overwhelmed by the need to tell the story of their early years and how Black Hearts MMA came to be.
Unfortunately, at that time, I was in a very “head’s down, bum up, just get it done” state of mind. I didn’t want to deviate from what I’d promised my readers so I tried to overrule my characters by pushing ahead with the four books I had planned in that series and shelving the other plot ideas to explore some other time (ie: never).
This decision had instant ramifications that I ignored. Loss of inspiration. Lack of motivation. Avoidance of my laptop. My mindset was all skewed, yet I couldn’t even acknowledge to myself how bad I’d become. Instead of enjoying writing, I was focused on 30-day sales cliffs, putting out ten books a year since Author A was doing that and they were making a killing, and keeping my stories under 70,000 words because Author B commented in an author group that this was the sweet spot for ROI in my genre. I had a publishing plan and I was sticking to it, damn it! It never registered with me that I had monetized my creativity and it was killing my spirit.
An author’s muse is a capricious being. Push her needs aside and she’ll wreak havoc until she gets her way. I guess it’s little wonder my immune system was out of control.
Pushing ahead as planned, I wrote Conflict, Dissent, and Execute as a follow up to Brawl and was determined to release them to readers in their current state. Then I became sick(er) and spent almost three months in hospital with various infections – which forced me to ghost on the release of the final two books. The diagnosis of bowel cancer I mentioned early quickly followed, and I was forced to reassess my entire career.
Being honest with myself is something I usually pride myself on. Turns out, I’m actually pretty damn good at burying my head in the sand and deluding myself into believing that everything’s all right. At the time of my diagnosis, I’d been doing it for over two years without coming up for air; ignoring the signs from my body and my declining mental health.
I kept telling myself that the books I was sending out into the world were as good as they could be.
They weren’t.
Deep down, I knew it.
In reviews and book groups, it was clear that readers knew it, too.
It took being forced by cancer to slow the fuck down for me to stop and smell the bullshit I was peddling.
And that brings us to this story.
Black Hearts Bleed is my fresh start. It’s my second chance after spectacularly falling on my arse in front of my beautiful readers. Told the way it should have been in the beginning; the Black Hearts MMA series will now become two series. Black Hearts Bleed will feature full-length novels from Angelo, Maria, Hayden, and Jen which will then spin off into a second series—The 4Freaks. In this series, I’m excited to expand on Nate/Amy and Jep/Zali’s stories plus properly introduce readers to Taz and Drew.
If you own the original books, don’t despair. I PROMISE that these stories will be so much more than the originals. You ARE NOT being tricked into buying the same stories twice. I understand that y
ou may be mistrusting of my promises after I’ve let you down.
That is 100% your right.
All I ask is that you consider giving me a second chance to give you the stories you deserve.
Love, peace, and jellybeans.
Kylie x
“Second chances are not given to make things right but are given to prove that we can be better even after we fall.” ~Unknown~
PLAYLIST
Music is my main inspiration.
Check out the playlist for Black Hearts Bleed on SPOTIFY.
Prologue
“She kissed me.
She kissed the devil.
Only a beautiful soul like hers would kiss the damned.”
~Daniel Saint~
It’s said that the Carlucci Clan owns Sydney. Drugs. Prostitutes. Weapons. Protection. They have their finger on the pulse of it all. They rule with an iron fist and offer no second chances.
I know it’s true.
I was supposed to be one of them.
If my father hadn’t screwed up his life, I would be the only son of the next Boss, instead I’m spat on whenever I cross paths with anyone who hears my last name. In the shadows, they accept my allegiance. Publicly, I’m the one who pays for my father’s failure.
The price they demand for his mistakes is my soul.
It’s a price I’m happy to pay.
Because it’s my job to keep my little sister’s head above water. My sole goal in life is to make sure she escapes our parents.
My fists keep her fed. My mouth keeps her safe. My dirty deeds finance her future.
My feet walk a tightrope that could give out beneath me at any moment.
I need to balance it all for one more year.
Once my sister is sixteen, we’re free.
Until then, I’ll keep using my fists and my fury to fight our way out of here. If that means I build my own list of sins as I go, then I’ll gladly accept the consequences.
After all, isn’t sinning what the spawn of the Devil does best?
Chapter One
Angelo
“Where’s the food in this fucking hovel?”
My father’s slurred voice jolts me from my sleep. Rolling over, I prop myself up on my elbow and tilt my radio clock so I can read the time. It’s just past three in the morning.
“For fuck’s sake,” I grumble to myself before yelling over the sound of the fridge shelves rattling, “There’s nothing to eat. Go to fucking sleep, old man.”
A series of inaudible mumbles rumble through the quiet night, but he refrains from wreaking further destruction. With my ears pricked, I flop on my back and rest my forearm over my eyes while I wait to see which way his arrival home is going to play out. I need to know if he’s going to give up on the empty fridge and stumble to bed or if this is going to be one of those nights.
Silence invades the tiny brick shell we call home and the jagged breath that leaves my barely parted lips is laced with relief. While I mouth a prayer that he’s going to go to bed without causing a fight my eyelids droop. I’m so bloody tired, and I need the next hour of sleep to get me through my pre-dawn training session before my full day of work starts. Since my father has been on a bender lately, rowdier and more violent than ever, exhaustion is nipping at my heels.
The extra dollars he’s using to feed his habits are both a boon and a bane.
He’s away from the house for longer, but when he returns he’s meaner than ever.
Of course, like most things in my shitty life, this is my fault. His sudden cash injection comes from my fights. My father, exemplary paternal example that he is, broke into Maria’s bedroom and stole the charm bracelet I’d saved for a year to buy for her thirteenth birthday and pawned it. I’ve given her a new charm every birthday, Christmas, and Easter since then, so it was worth more than enough to get him in good with one of the bookies running bets on our local fight ring.
And with my reputation as the ‘Knockout King’ well established, the odds might’ve been short, but his payouts were assured.
When I win, he wins, and when he wins, I get the dubious honour of spending my early mornings keeping his fists off my mama and his vile words from my little sister’s ears. Needless to say, his recent lucky streak is an occurrence I’m hellbent on rectifying the next time I step in the ring.
If I lose, he loses. And that’s a win in my books.
The sound of wood splintering interrupts my half-arsed attempt to get back to sleep.
“Angelo!” Mama’s voice is shrill and filled with fear. “Help me. Angie. The door—”
Another day, another early wakeup call courtesy of the Father of the Year.
I’ve thrown my covers off and taken three long strides down the short hallway when Mama screams again.
“No. Gio. Don’t touch me. You’re drunk.”
When I kick the busted door out of my way, I find him pinning my mother to her bed. Mama’s hampered by her covers, although she’s hardly fighting him. She never does. It’s been the same old routine since I was strong enough to defend her. I don’t try to understand them anymore.
Their relationship blazed right past toxic a decade ago.
My feet are frozen to the spot while I watch them act out their poisonous version of love. Papa forces sloppy kisses all over Mama’s lips and chin, and she puts up her usual token resistance, even as she cries loudly from beneath him. It’s a sham. Bystanders would have to be blind to miss how she arches beneath his beefy body and never quite moves far enough away to elude him.
No, she hedges her bets perfectly by always making me the bad guy.
“Angie?” Maria’s voice breaks me out of my stupor. Flexing my tightly fisted fingers, I realise I’m still standing at the end of the double bed that dominates the small master room watching my parent’s never-ending dysfunction unfold once again. “Are you goin’ to help Mama?”
“Yeah. I’m gonna.”
I ruffle her dark hair, biting back my laughter when she grumbles under her breath. Jutting my chin toward her room, I wait while Maria gets out of the danger zone. When the lock on her door engages, I stride to the end of the bed and seize hold of the back of Papa’s shirt.
Pulling him off my sobbing mother, I toss his beer sodden form toward the door and step between them both. While Mama curls in a ball in the middle of the bed, my father’s arms windmill in circles as he stumbles around to find his balance. Crossing my arms over my chest, I watch him with a dispassionate gaze.
It’s hard to believe this man was once feared and respected in equal measure.
Everything about him now is clownish. The few wisps of hair on his head are standing on end. His once-white shirt is haphazardly buttoned and he’s missing a shoe. Unshaven and dishevelled. I can’t believe I’m related to him.
Until he finds his feet and whirls around to take a swing at my head, and the one thing we have in common becomes apparent.
We share a killer right hook.
Thankfully, he misses and the punch I throw in return knocks him straight on his arse.
“Goddamn it,” he slurs, rolling on his back with all the finesse of a stranded cockroach. Pointing up at me when he can’t push himself upright, Papa splutters, “Help me up, you little fucker.”
“Seriously,” I scoff. “I put ya down there. You really think I’m gonna pull you up?”
With a groan, he crab-crawls to the end of the bed and uses the edge of the mattress to drag himself back to his feet. Blood runs from one side of his mouth. Papa wipes it away with the back of his hand, then he motions for my mother to come to him. She starts to crawl to him; her white nightshirt tangling around her legs.
“No.” Mama stops at my command.
She looks between me and my father with tired, swollen eyes. The left side of her lip is split. Drunk off his arse, he must’ve mistaken her hollow refusal for something genuine and reacted the only way he knows how—with sloppy violence.
Mama moves again. When she reaches his side, he winds her long, bleach blonde hair around his fist and jerks her head to the side. A tiny gasp escapes her lips before she presses them together and surreptitiously shoots a scared glance my way.
“Don’t you look to him for comfort.” Papa must tighten his grip because the cords on her neck strain and Mama goes out of her way to avoid my gaze. “I’m your man. I give you everythin’ ya need. He’s nothin’ but the Devil’s spawn.”
I catch my bottom lip between my teeth, so I don’t remind him that he’s the Devil in this scenario. It wouldn’t help. All I can do is wait for Mama to pick her side.
It’s over—game, set, and match—when Mama pushes up on her knees and nuzzles his unshaven neck.
“I know, Gio,” she purrs her words at him in a sultry tone. When he loosens his grip, she presses her chest against his side and runs her hand down his beer gut to the top button of his trousers. “You’re my big… strong… man.”
Each word is punctuated by a wet sounding kiss and I decide that’s my cue to leave.
“Well, I’ll leave you two to it,” I quip. When Mama’s eyes flick my way, guilt in their dark brown, drugged-out depths, I tilt my head to the side. “Holler if you need anything, Mama. I don’t have to leave for work just yet.”