A Taste like Sin

by Sky, Lana

  I don’t even need to see his face to know it’s the truth.

  “Why would you do this for me?”

  “In some ways, it’s selfish, Ms. Thorne,” he admits, meeting my gaze directly. “I’m doing this for him. We had our bargain, after all.”

  Make Damien earn my forgiveness—not if but when he hurts me.

  “I need a favor,” I say, changing the subject.

  “¿Sí?” Instantly, he stands to his full height, crossing his hands over his front. “Say the word.”

  “I can explain on the way there.” I head to the door. “The first favor, though, may test your skills…”

  “Oh?” He follows, raising an eyebrow. “How so, if I may ask?”

  I look him over, biting my lower lip. “Well, I’ll need you to pretend to be my publicist, for one.”

  Standing in front of a sea of reporters, I can’t escape an overwhelming sense of irony. It’s the world my father cherished. The world I thought he’d forsaken me for. A world of glitz, and glamor, and deception.

  Despite being hastily compiled, my “news conference” has attracted enough reporters to ensure broadcast coverage—yet, in some ways, I feel no different than I did lying naked in front of a theater of strangers at Damien’s discretion.

  On display, yet…

  In control.

  “Good morning,” I say, speaking into a microphone affixed to a small podium. The ballroom of the Lariat looms behind me, a perfect gilded backdrop. “My father and I would like to thank the well-wishers and those who have kept us in your prayers during this difficult time. I admit that, in the chaos, my family has been quiet, and I thank the media for respecting our privacy. However…” I clear my throat as doubt creeps in.

  I could be wrong. With Daddy’s life on the line, I could be placing him in more danger. I could be gambling everything with nothing at all to gain.

  “After much reflection, my father and I have decided that we welcome all inquiry into the Borgetta case. There was evidence that admittedly wasn’t allowed to be presented to the jury. Other suspects that deserve to be questioned. This terrible ordeal has helped my family to realize that Mathias Villa also deserves justice, no matter where its harsh light may shine. In that event, on behalf of my father, I suspend his campaign for mayor—as well as withdraw any endorsements that may have been granted on our behalf.”

  An audible gasp rises from the crowd.

  “My father’s record may not be perfect,” I add, forcing myself to keep going. “We thought he was a hero, but he is only human. Therefore, I’m calling for an inquiry into all his past cases, extending to his time as a defense attorney. I think it was his intention before his health failed. The truth must come out into the open, no matter who it may touch. My father may be human, but some men become monsters. Thank you.”

  I turn away as the throng of reporters erupts, issuing a barrage of questions. It should be harder than it is to ignore them. Luckily, Julio serves as an effective barrier, falling into step behind me as I escape via the residential wing and enter my suite.

  “I’ll be out front, Ms. Thorne,” he warns before retreating to his chosen end of the hall.

  I enter my suite and shrug my coat off, tossing it aside. Sighing, I move to the couch, observing the view. From here Damien’s painting is a chilling distraction from even the breathtaking landscape of the city stretched beyond it. The woman eyes me warily, her empty gaze a warning. This is what he could do to you.

  Hollow.

  But wait… Her irises are darker, swollen, her lips bitten red. Long, dark hair cascades down her shoulders as she writhes upon a bed of tiny white flowers. Oleander.

  The painter exposed her entire body in microscopic focus. Her breasts. Her hips. The jagged scar along her thigh. Vulnerability exudes from her, matching the rigid posture of his previous muses. But there’s a strength to this woman that sets her apart. A stubborn tilt to her chin. A sternness in her mouth. The artist tried desperately to capture as much of her soul as he could—but it was only a fraction. She holds on to her secrets, daring him to capture what little he could. Daring him to crave more.

  It’s so beautiful. So raw…

  I don’t realize I’m not alone until it’s too late. Footsteps rush toward me as pain rips through my throat—the result of a hand clenching tight from behind.

  “You little bitch.” Chief Harrison sounds more amused than angry—but fury leeches into his fingertips. They dig into my skin so hard that the world goes black for a second. Gurgling noises die in my throat as I claw at his grip. I succeed in loosening it only a fraction, peeling one of his fingers from my windpipe. “How long have you known?” he wonders, eerily calm even as I resist. “How much did that spineless little bastard tell you?”

  His grip loosens enough for me to croak, “My father?”

  He laughs. “How did he spin it?” he wonders, shoving me forward, toward the glass doors leading to my balcony. “Him, the wonderful, doting father. You, the naïve innocent he had to protect from herself. When, in reality, he was a fucking coward.”

  “You told him about me,” I say hoarsely. “You gave him my name—”

  “I gave him a chance at redemption.” He tightens his grip, drawing tears from my eyes. “A chance to bring a monster to justice. The man who killed your little friend… Heyworth represented him. Took his money and then helped him walk. And he went right across state lines and did it again.”

  “So you gave Thorne my name,” I say, standing on tiptoe—the only position that loosens the pressure on my throat enough to breathe. “Why?”

  “So he could find the abandoned little victim,” Harrison says coldly. “Pump her damaged brain for information. Feed her what she needed to know, enough to form convincing testimony. Then get her into a foster home where the parents could be easily ‘convinced’ to force her to testify. If they lived in my jurisdiction, I could claim credit for the collar, and Thorne would have his guilty conscience wiped clean.”

  I picture the plan as he relays it. That traumatized little girl would have been easily manipulated. But forced to face Simon again, she would have shattered.

  “He was too soft,” Harrison hisses, following the same thread of logic. “Too weak.”

  “He adopted me instead,” I surmise. “As my guardian, he refused to let me testify without hard evidence.”

  And in some ways, he’s sheltered me ever since. Justice demanded a cruel solution, but he was too selfish. Not out of pride, but because he loved me too much.

  “The prick was terrified of Thorne,” Harrison says with a chilling laugh. “He taunted his other victims, but never you. Not the precious Juliana. You were his special one—”

  “Who was he?” I wince as his grip tightens.

  “Who?” He laughs again, which raises goosebumps over my skin. “You really are that naïve? Think carefully. Your father whored himself in front of any donor with money, but there was one in particular he never paraded you around. Do you remember?”

  No… Not at first. Then, suddenly, a name comes to mind like a light flipping on.

  “Gerald Wellington,” I say hoarsely.

  “Yes.” Harrison nods. “A sociopathic degenerate with too much money and time on his hands. Rumor has it that he liked to test the innocent. Play little games. Like cornering two weak little girls, perhaps? Then making one of them choose who got to die.”

  The world transforms for a split second. I’m there again, trapped in the woods, running for my life. Running from Simon.

  “Thorne knew who the bastard was from day one,” Harrison says, chuckling at the irony. “He made sure Wellington knew as much too. Thorne ensured the man was all but a recluse, but he still played with his victims. He couldn’t resist. The ones who weren’t you at least.”

  Like Lynn McKelvy.

  “So you reminded me for him,” I rasp, horrified. “It was you. All this time, it was you.”

  The police department supplied my father’s security, e
ven during the time he was mayor, giving him unfettered access. To my room. My homes. My life.

  “A little reminder in case Thorne ever changed his mind.” He laughs, grinding his grip into my windpipe but not hard enough to obscure it entirely. “He may have forgotten, but you never would, Daddy’s little princess.”

  “And the Borgetta murder?” I choke out. “You made my father suppress the evidence that could have acquitted Mateo Villa. Why?”

  “Thorne told you that?” He shoves me forward and reaches out with his free hand, unlocking the sliding glass door. Cool air blows the hair from my face and I instinctively stiffen, resisting his grip even though it’s futile. I have no chance in hell of overpowering him. “I should pay him another little visit—”

  “Kyle killed her, didn’t he?” I say in a rush, hoping to keep his attention on this topic. “His name was among the list of suspects. Suspects you refused to have questioned in full. He killed her—”

  “Shut up!” He wrenches me around, using his size as leverage to drag me out onto the balcony.

  I reach out blindly, grasping the railing before I can fall over the edge.

  “I think it was your precious Damien Villa,” he declares. “Murdering the key players. Killing your father with oleander. Causing your suicide. In fact, I’ll make sure there’s enough damage to your skull to obscure the bruising on your throat.” He tugs me closer to the railing. Below, my coveted view looms, desolate this time of the morning.

  “But it’s too late. My father kept the evidence,” I say. “I’ve already had it sent to the news—”

  “Hearsay,” Harrison says. He lets me go, his lips quirked, his smile chilling. “We both know that, as your father feared, nothing sticks without fucking evidence. So I suggest you jump on your own. It will be more conclusive that way.”

  “Evidence,” I rasp, cradling my throat. “Like a voice recording? Of you confessing like some cartoon villain.”

  His smug expression slips, his eyebrow raising. “What?”

  I nod to the interior of my suite. “You’re smart. You’ve monitored me undetected for over twenty years. But someone else took up your game. He’s played it better. My apartment’s been bugged for four years. He’s captured everything. Every gift. Every henchman you’ve had break into my suite.”

  “Villa?” He scoffs. “The bastard isn’t untouchable. You think you matter to him? I have enough dirt to bury him and his fucking empire. No. I think he’ll sit back and watch you die.”

  And maybe he’s right. Maybe this was all another layer of a twisted, sick game?

  Damien will get his revenge threefold and no one would ever be the wiser.

  I almost believe it…

  Until I hear him.

  “I don’t believe that will be the case, chief.” His accent rides the gathering wind, more cutting than ever.

  I turn, my heart stopping at the sight of him looming over the threshold of the balcony.

  His hands are outstretched on either side of him, a subtle clue that he navigated here without his cane. “Step aside. Your men should be arriving any minute to take you into custody.”

  Chief Harrison chokes on a sound between a laugh and a growl. “Are you playing the hero now, Villa?” he wonders. His eyes cut to me, his smile dastardly smug. “Did you tell her? How you advertised her little show to the members of your club?”

  My thoughts slow, my heart clenching like a fist over any blood flow.

  “Oh yes,” he murmurs, eyeing me lewdly up and down. “The bastard told everyone who you were. Fucking yourself like a whore—”

  “Lies,” Damien says simply. “You know I would never betray your trust. Never.”

  Even though he lied to me. Even though he let a monster creep into my life every single year for so damn long.

  “It was quite the show,” Harrison says, inching forward a step. “I’ll be sure to leak it to the press. I’m sure that’s what he wanted. They all know, you little bitch. And if you think this blind bastard can save you…”

  He lunges, his hands reaching for my throat.

  But they never make contact. A horrible gurgling noise mingles with a crack sharper than any I’ve heard as Chief Harrison’s head jerks. The angle is too odd. Unnatural. His eyes stare blankly ahead, his body slumping…

  As if from far away, I hear my own high-pitched whisper, “Oh my god—”

  “Breathe,” Damien snaps. It’s his hands releasing Harrison’s throat. His body that captures the massive officer as though he weighs nothing. Even without his sight, he pivots, navigating his way into my living room, the body in tow.

  A chill renders me numb as I remember his confession from all those nights ago. I worked hard to change the man I was.

  A man who moves with a predatory grace as he dumps a dead body beside my coffee table and prods the black device sticking from his ear. “Julio.” He says a stream of Spanish. Then he breaks off and turns to me. “Juliana.” His soft tone triggers the tears trapped behind my eyes until now.

  I blink and they fall, painting my cheeks.

  “Sweet, dulce niña.” He takes a step forward and then hesitates. “I’ll take all responsibility,” he says. “I will turn myself in to the police. I will reveal my part in Harrison’s deception. If that is what you want, I will do it now. Julio is with the police… I will.”

  He should be lying. It should be so easy to doubt him now. God, I want to. I need to.

  “The bastard was lying,” he adds, cupping his ear again, ready to dish out another series of commands. “I would never reveal you to them. Never—”

  “He was there,” I croak, finally placing the odd smell I sensed in the air. Cigar smoke. Harrison, lingering somewhere in the atrium during my exhibition. Damien even warned me himself: The chief knew to keep quiet about the club. Perhaps because he was a member all along. “He knew about my scar.” And now his pointed mentioning of it makes sense. “He guessed…”

  Relief visibly robs Damien’s body of tension. Only belatedly does he seem to remember his promise. “Julio,” he murmurs into his headset. “Send up the police. Tell them—”

  “No.” I don’t even know where the refusal comes from. It’s wrong, going against everything my father taught me about justice. But if I’ve learned anything at all from recent events, it’s that sometimes heroes are the worst kinds of monsters. And sometimes their victims are inherently selfish. Could my father survive his ordeal and then outlast a murder trial with his decades-old secrets at the heart of it? No. “I…I want him to disappear.”

  “Are you sure?” His posture changes in the blink of an eye.

  I’m too exhausted to nod or give some kind of nonverbal agreement. I have to say it. “Yes.”

  He nods and prods his headset. “Julio. Tell the police Harrison has escaped the suite. Possibly through a back stairwell. Ensure the cameras malfunction and then make the arrangements. You know the ones.” He turns back to me, his head cocked, picking up my rapid breathing. “Did he hurt you?”

  I can’t lie. I can’t seem to speak anymore, either. I stand, moisture rolling down my face, my body swaying.

  “Mierda.” He crosses to me, capturing me in his arms before I can fall. “Stay with me, sweet girl.” He runs his fingers along my shoulder, inching toward my throat. When his thumb nudges my throbbing windpipe, I wince. “The flesh is inflamed. You’re wheezing,” he deduces, drawing his hand away. In response, his grip around me only tightens, drawing me into his chest. “If he did lasting damage, I’ll resurrect the bastard just to kill him again—”

  “Stop,” I rasp, too limp to physically fight him off. “Just…”

  “I know, sweet girl,” he murmurs, bringing his mouth against the crook of my shoulder. “I’ve frightened you. But I’m not leaving. Not now. Not until I know you’re safe.”

  With him? A man who killed someone in front of me? A man who smells like sin and perfection despite the persistent stench of Harrison’s cigar scent permeating the air? A m
an who tightens his grip even further when my knees buckle and I’m in danger of falling once again?

  “Easy.” He guides me back and eases me onto the couch. “This is a dream,” he tells me, his voice taking on a polished calm. It’s colder. Harder. Broken. “I will handle everything. Just sleep, sweet girl. Sleep.”

  Sunlight streams in through my bedroom window, painting the muted color scheme in a golden glow. It’s as if nature itself decided to conspire with the whims of Damien Villa. He told me to forget—but I remember resolutely.

  For now, the dark, grisly images are mere snippets, but they linger in my mind as I stagger into my living room. Unsurprisingly, reality contradicts nearly every single one.

  There is no dead police chief lying on my carpet. The sliding glass door to my balcony is closed. Every item and piece of furniture is perfectly in place. When I scan the top news stories on my cell phone, only my father’s improving status makes the headlines. The only flaw in the design I notice is when I pass the fridge and spot my distorted reflection.

  Gasping, I brush my fingers along my throat. The violent, purplish discoloration could be a trick of the light—but the agony I’ve been ignoring with every breath I take isn’t.

  A part of me giggles internally as I slump against the counter, my face in my hands. New memories to torment me. A new monster to haunt my nightmares. I brace my hands over the marble in front of me, and by accident, the fingers of my left brush something unfamiliar: a folded piece of paper.

  On it, someone scribbled: Julio is stationed on you twenty-four-seven unless you decide to revoke him. I’ve taken the liberty of removing your garbage and it has been disposed of. I’ll set up meetings with any remaining mutual acquaintances. If you need me, you know where to find me, dulce niña. Otherwise, I will respect whatever boundary you set. Adios, Damien.

  Some claimed that the bigger a man was the harder he fell.