Tempted by the Sinner

by Hamel, B. B.

  I pulled my phone from my pocket and decided to start a goddamn war.

  15

  Mona

  It was like a waking dream. His tongue between my legs, the orgasm rolling through my body in earth-shattering waves. I’d never come like that before, never in my life. I nearly blacked out, nearly lost myself entirely. My eyes rolled back and his tongue, God, his tongue did that thing, and I just went wild.

  After, I hid in my room. He brought me tea at some point, set it down on the nightstand, and left without a word. I sipped it, tasted the whiskey, just a splash. I drank it all down and fell asleep, the world turning into black.

  I don’t know how long I slept. It was late when I woke up again. I looked at the bedside clock with bleary eyes and took a few sharp breaths, clearing my head. The clock said it was fifteen after midnight, which meant I’d slept all the rest of the day.

  My stomach rumbled, so I got out of bed and headed downstairs.

  I figured Vince would be asleep, so I wasn’t thinking as I staggered through the living room. I stopped in my tracks and blinked as I realized there was a light on and Vince was sitting at the kitchen table, his feet up on a chair, a drink in his hand. He stared at me, wearing a tight black V-neck t-shirt, his hair messy, bags under his eyes.

  “Hey,” I said, suddenly very self-conscious. I was still in the same clothes from earlier, hadn’t bothered getting changed.

  “Hey.” He tilted his head. “You just waking up?”

  I nodded. “Hungry. You can’t sleep?”

  “Not really.” He looked at his drink, sipped it. “Never can after shit like that.”

  I bit my lip, wrapped my arms around myself. Flashes of screams, of gunshots flitted through my mind. I didn’t see most of what happened, I was too busy hiding on the floor of that car with glass shards all around me, trying not to breathe too much, praying a stray bullet didn’t come and end me.

  Then he pulled me out, brought me into the daylight, and let me see the corpses on the pavement.

  “Yeah.” I pulled out a chair and sat across from him. “That sort of thing happens often?”

  He frowned at his drink, sipped it, shrugged. “Not like that,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s usually more warning.”

  I nodded a little and stared at the table. “Why would they do that?” I asked. “I mean, why would they do something like that?”

  “I’m not sure,” he said. “I’ve been trying to figure it out all day. Made a lot of calls, talked with my father, with Dante and Steven, but I got nothing. Steven reached out to his guy in the Jalisco, but his guy wouldn’t respond, so something’s going on.”

  “You said… it has to do with the Russians, right?”

  He nodded. “We’re working on an alliance with them,” he said. “I think the Jalisco want to break that up.”

  “That was barely a day ago.”

  “I know.” He narrowed his eyes, shook his head. “That’s what I don’t understand. If they wanted to change our minds, it makes no sense to come after us so hard like that.”

  I chewed on my lip then reached my hand out. “Drink, please.”

  He hesitated then handed his glass over. I took a sip, winced at the hard liquor, and handed it back. The warmth of the whiskey quieted my rumbling stomach a bit at least.

  “We’re arming up,” he said. “And now I won’t be heading back to the city for a while.”

  “Really?” I asked.

  “Really. My crew there, they’re fine. They aren’t involved with the Jalisco, they’ve got other connections. NYC’s a whole different beast.”

  “You’re needed here then,” I said.

  “Right.” He took a deep breath. “But I need to be honest with you.”

  I looked away. I knew what was coming. He was going to kick me out, maybe threaten to kill me if I told anyone what I knew. Having a journalist in his life was risky enough, but having a journalist in his life in the middle of a war was even worse.

  I could still feel his hands on my hips, his tongue on my pussy, his fingers deep inside of me, and I didn’t want to leave. It was irrational and stupid, and I knew I’d be safer if I could just go home and forget I was ever involved in any of this, but I didn’t want that.

  I wanted to stay. I wanted to make mistakes.

  I felt like I’d lost my mind.

  “You can just tell me,” I said, staring at the table. “I understand.”

  He leaned toward me and put his glass down.

  “If my father had this way, you’d be dead already,” he said, his voice even and low. “But I’m not letting that happen. I won’t force you to stay, but I also made a deal with you, and I plan on following through. So the choice is all up to you.”

  I looked up and blinked a few times, not sure what to say. I opened my mouth then shut it again as I fidgeted in my seat.

  “You’re not kicking me out?” I asked.

  “No,” he said. “And I’m not letting anyone else do that, either.”

  “Oh,” I said, at a complete and total loss.

  “My father won’t really hurt you,” he said. “Don’t worry about that. He’s a bastard, but he’s not a monster and he’s not stupid. We start killing civilians and we all get locked up for a long time.”

  “Wow, that really makes me feel better.”

  He laughed, bitter and cold. “I know this is a lot,” he said. “You should sleep on it, okay?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I can sleep on it. But Vince, why would you want me here? I mean, I’m a liability.”

  “I know,” he said, his head tilted. I looked up and met his eyes as he smiled. “But I got a taste of you today, Mona. And not just your body.”

  I blinked a few times and took a breath to steady myself.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Look, what happened today, most people would’ve gone to pieces.”

  “I kind of did,” I said.

  “Not as bad as you’d think. I’ve seen worse, to be honest, I’ve seen hard men lose their shit, curl up in a ball, and sob for hours. Instead, you let me go down on you, then went upstairs and slept.”

  I ran my fingers over the wooden table, feeling the cracks in the wood. I hadn’t thought about it, not really. I’d just been reacting, just venting my feelings, but he was right, it was strange that I kissed him, that I let him touch me, that I let him get me off.

  It was strange that I even could get off in that moment.

  “Maybe there’s something wrong with me,” I said.

  “I don’t think so,” he said. “You’re just made of harder stuff than you realize.”

  I looked up at him and shook my head.

  “I used to think this was what I wanted,” I said. “You know, hunt down danger, find the real story.”

  “I know what you mean,” he said with a distant little smile. “I used to want it too. Wanted the fighting, the blood, the glory, back when I was young and stupid.”

  “But it’s not fun or good, is it?” I asked. “I mean, it’s not the sort of thing you can just keep doing without it changing you.”

  “That’s right,” he said. “It always changes you.”

  “So how do you deal with it? What do you become?”

  He stared at his glass, sipped it, looked at me. I felt a chill run down my spine at the distance in his eyes, like he wasn’t really seeing me, but looking deep inside of himself.

  “Someone better,” he said and leaned closer, blinking a little, his eyes focusing on me. “If you need to find someone to talk to, then you go and you talk. If you need to bottle it all up, then that’s what you do. But you find a way to survive, to cope, to become stronger. If you let them come at you and break you, then you’ve lost, then next time you’ll freeze up and you’re dead. That’s what I’ve learned over the years, those that survive in this game learn to push aside the fear, the guilt, all that fucking regret. They learn to be better.”
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br />   “You think that’s what I have to do?” I asked, my lip trembling just a little bit.

  “Maybe,” he said and shook his head. “I don’t really know. What’s the difference between a journalist in a war zone and a soldier fighting the war? They’re both getting shot at.”

  “The soldier’s shooting back,” I said.

  “Good point. But the journalist is doing her job too.” He cocked his head, swirled his drink. “I think if you want to keep being a part of this, you’re going to have to learn how to cope. Maybe you’ll have to become a little bit like me.”

  “Yeah,” I whispered. “Maybe.”

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s not so bad. I’m not as much of a monster as you think I am.”

  “But you are a monster,” I said. “Just a little bit, at least.”

  He shrugged a little, let out a breath. He slumped forward a bit and looked like exhaustion hit him over the head with a shovel.

  “You have to be,” he said. “Because your enemies are monsters too, except they’re worse, they’re the kind of monsters that don’t care who you are or what you are, they’ll pull you under the bed and devour you whole.”

  “I’m not sure I’m ready to change,” I said.

  “You’ll have to be,” he said. “Or else maybe you need to get the hell out of here before you don’t have an option anymore.”

  I nodded a little, staring into his eyes. He almost looked sad, but there was a hardness to him, like he couldn’t let that sadness get under his skin. For just a brief moment, I saw the Vincent he used to be, before the mob took everything from him and molded him into what he is now.

  I saw the little kid, the innocent kid behind it all.

  But that kid was dead and gone, and Vincent was the man before me, ice water in his veins, steel in his spine.

  “I’m going to bed,” I said, and pushed away from the table.

  “Sure,” he said. “You go do that.”

  “Are you going to be okay?”

  He nodded and smiled. “I’m fine, little journalist,” he said. “I’m always fine.”

  “If you ever need to talk—”

  “I don’t,” he said and threw back the rest of his drink. “I never do.”

  I nodded a little and turned away.

  I could feel his eyes on me as I walked to the steps. I looked back, just for a brief moment, as I started up. He smirked a little, his head tilted to one side, and the mask was back up, the walls put back into place. I wondered if I’d ever see that side of him again, tired and battered, angry and guilty and sad all at once.

  Probably not, or at least I hoped I never did.

  Because that part of him probably only came out after he’d killed a bunch of men, after he’d nearly gotten me killed in the process.

  I headed upstairs and into my room. I shut the door behind me, walked to my phone, and picked it up.

  I typed out a single text, chewed on my lip, and hit send before crawling under the covers and closing my eyes.

  16

  Mona

  The sun was bright as I sat on the familiar bench in Clark Park. Kids played on the swing sets, their parents laughing and talking with each other nearby. Teens on roller skates rolled past, nudging at each other, grinning like the world was just fine and nothing bad could ever happen.

  My ears rang from the gunshots the day before.

  I stretched my legs out and tried to keep myself centered. It wasn’t easy, not with the images still running through my brain. I barely slept the night before and even after I’d gone back up to my room, I couldn’t seem to shut down. I heard Vincent head up to bed not long after me, stumbling in the dark, stomping on the steps like he didn’t have a care in the world.

  In the morning, before I left, he was up and already making coffee. I poured some in a to-go mug and told him I was running some errands.

  He only smiled and told me to have fun.

  I wondered if I was making a mistake. Thomas was a mentor to me, an important person in my life, but what happened yesterday went way beyond anything we’d ever talked about. I witnessed multiple murders, even if they were in self-defense. I saw an attempted mob hit go down right before my eyes.

  That wasn’t the sort of thing you could just talk about with anyone.

  But before I could decide this was all a horrible mistake and run back to Vince’s house, I saw Thomas ambling down the path toward me. He wore dark khaki pants with a navy shirt tucked into them. He had on a Phillies baseball cap, pulled down low over his eyes, and a newspaper was tucked under one arm.

  He sat down on the bench next to me with a sigh.

  “Nice day,” he said.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Really nice.”

  “I have to admit, I didn’t expect your text,” he said. “You were up late last night.”

  “I had a lot of thinking to do.”

  He grunted and nodded. “I bet. How’s the story?”

  “It’s coming along,” I said.

  “And the subject?”

  “He’s… good,” I said. “I’ve been spending a lot of time with him.” I tried to look at him, but couldn’t bring myself to do it. Instead, I stared straight ahead at the asphalt and tried to take deep, calming breaths.

  “Good,” Thomas said. There was a short silence, then he said, “but you’re okay?”

  “I don’t know.” I let that hang in the air, adjusted my position, gripped the seat and dug my nails into the wood. “I saw something yesterday. I was… a part of something. It was really bad.”

  He took a breath and let it out. “Huh,” he said.

  “I don’t know what to do now,” I said. “I haven’t gotten enough for this story. But now I’m in this so deep, and I’m starting to question if I’m doing the right thing.”

  “You think you want to walk away?” Thomas asked.

  “I’m not sure,” I said.

  “Let me ask you something,” he said. “If you walk away, will anyone tell this story?”

  I shook my head. “No, definitely not.”

  “And is it a story worth telling?”

  “I think so,” I said.

  “So maybe you need to stay, then,” he said. “Sometimes this job isn’t good or nice or fun. Sometimes you’re stuck witnessing horrible things, and you feel powerless and angry and broken. But the witnessing is important, Mona. Even if you can’t change anything, someone needs to witness it.”

  I nodded a little. “He’s not so bad, you know,” I said, not sure why the words tumbled from my mouth.

  “They never are,” Thomas said. “I don’t think anyone’s truly evil. Even Hitler loved his dogs.”

  I let a breath out through my nose. “I don’t mean it that way,” I said. “I don’t mean he’s evil but has some good qualities. I’m saying I think he’s a fundamentally good person.”

  “Interesting,” Thomas said. “Can a person be in that line of work and still be good?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Probably not,” Thomas said. “What does he think?”

  “He thinks he’s a monster,” I said, then finally managed to turn and look at him, my eyes wide and shining with tears. I hated myself for those tears, but I couldn’t make them go away. “I saw him do something horrible yesterday, something so horrible that I hope I never see it again, but he had to do it. That’s the really messed-up thing. He saved me, kept me safe, and if he hadn’t done it…” I trailed off.

  “What did he do?” Thomas asked, his voice soft. He leaned toward me, his eyes hard, his tongue licking his lips.

  For a second, I felt a jolt of panic run through my gut. He looked at me like a hungry lizard, like all he wanted was a piece of information. I was a story to him all of a sudden, and if I spoke, if I told him the truth, he could take it from me and do whatever he wanted with it.

  But then the look was gone and the feeling passed. His hunger turned into real concern, and I thought maybe I had imagined it to begin wit
h.

  I looked away, back down at the ground.

  “We were attacked,” I said. “Men with guns. There’s a war starting up, Thomas.”

  “You witnessed a shooting?” he asked.

  “I witnessed multiple murders,” I said. “Murders in self-defense, but… still murder.”

  He was quiet for a long time and I couldn’t bring myself to look at him. The teens rollerbladed past again and I watched them go, wondering if I could ever feel that free and easy again in my life, deciding I probably couldn’t.

  “You should call the police,” he said.

  “I can’t do that.” I shook my head and let a mad laugh bubble up from my throat. “I really, really can’t.”

  “I didn’t think so.” He let out a breath. “Are you in danger, Mona? Be honest with me.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “I mean, I am, but not in any more danger than I was before.”

  “Because you think he’s going to protect you.”

  “He did once. He’ll do it again.”

  Thomas sighed and I heard him slap the paper down onto his knees. I looked over and saw that it was the Inquirer.

  “You need to be careful,” he said. “Can I tell you a story?”

  I nodded and kept my eyes on the newspaper in his lap.

  “When I was a young reporter, I was sent to interview this woman in jail, her name was Bethany. She was this pretty young woman, maybe in her mid-twenties, just a couple years older than I was. She’d been tried and convicted of killing her children, and since she’d admitted it in court, there were no real doubts about her guilt.

  “That wasn’t the problem. Turns out, she was pretty and charming. When I went to speak with her, she made me laugh, she kept my attention. I’m not ashamed to admit that I really, really liked her. We had long conversations after that first brief interview where she talked about her children, about killing them, about how she’d lost her mind, had a psychotic break. She convinced me that it was her illness that made her do it, and that she didn’t belong in prison. She said she was on drugs that made her stable, and you know what? I bought that, I believed it, and I wrote about it.