Original Sin (Dark Saints Motorcycle Club Book 1)

Los Angeles—1990

“Victoria, get in the closet.”

“Mommy, what—”

“Do as I say and get in the closet, right now.”

Gazing up at her mother's steely gray eyes, eight year old Vicky Platt felt her lower lip start to tremble. She had no idea what was going on—there were sirens and loud noises outside—and men were shouting. Her daddy had gone out a few minutes ago to talk to whoever had come to visit them, and he hadn't come back yet. So now, it was just she, her older brother, Darren, and their mother; and Michelle Platt looked none too happy with the evening's events. When the men in black jackets had arrived at their house about an hour earlier, the young woman had greeted them cautiously, telling them that her husband was going to be home soon, and they should come back later if they wanted to speak with him.

And so they'd left.

Moments later, a barrage of bullets had sprayed in through the front windows of the house. As quickly as she could, Michelle had ushered her children into the master bedroom and locked the door.

The shooting hadn't stopped, and now Vicky could hear men moving around inside their house, scaring her.

“Darren,” she said, tugging at the hand of her brother, who was five years older. “Come with me. I can't go in the closet alone. I'm 'fraid.”

But, the boy was too busy arguing with his mother to even pay attention to her. “Momma, let me go out there and fight them.”

“Darren!” The alarm in her voice was enough to make Vicky wince. “Get in the closet with your sister,
now
.”

“No!” The young boy's voice cracked—on the cusp of adolescence. “They already got Dad! I'm not going to sit here and let them get us, too!”

“You're
thirteen.
Do as I say before I throw you in there myself!”

“No!” However, before Michelle could do anything to stop him, her son yanked his hand from his sister's and shoved her aside, flinging the door open wide. Almost immediately, he was greeted by two men in leather jackets, one with lanky blonde hair and the other with a dark buzz cut. Both wore sunglasses, despite the fact that it was long after sundown.

Without hesitation, the men raised their guns.

“
No!
” There was a flurry of movement and a burst of gunfire. Vicky watched, wide-eyed, as her mother fell to the floor, Darren clutched tightly in her arms.

There was red. Red everywhere.

And then Darren screamed, “
Momma!
”

More gunfire.

By now, Vicky was sobbing. She was confused, scared, and she wanted her daddy. Where was he? And why was there so much red all over mommy? She wasn't moving! Darren was shaking her
really
hard, and she wasn't moving.

Then, from outside, there came the sound of whirring propeller blades. Bright lights shone in through the windows, and the men in leather jackets stopped shooting to look.

“This is the LAPD,” said the voice from the helicopter, magnified one hundred fold. Vicky winced at its volume. “Come out of the residence with your hands up.”

The two men looked at each other, fear evident on their faces. Then, they turned to the doorway of the bedroom and saw the body there and the two children beyond.

They began to advance, and Vicky screamed.

From behind her came the breathtakingly loud sound of gunfire once more, and this time it was the two jacket-clad men who stopped in their tracks, red blooming on their shirt-fronts.

Shocked, the little girl turned to see her brother holding their father's pistol in trembling hands, his mouth set. The men in the hallway crumpled to the floor, groaning in pain, and still, Darren stared. One cheek was smeared with blood, and tears streamed down his cheeks; but, his teeth were bared in a fierce grin.

Vicky did not like that look.

“Darren,” she whispered, her own tears dripping onto the floor. “What did you do?”

Her voice seemed to snap him from whatever trance he'd been in. He glanced at the weapon in his hands before tucking it into his back pocket. Then, furiously, he dashed the tears from his cheeks. When he looked up again, his blue eyes were cold and just as steely as their mother's had been moments earlier.

“Come on, Vicky.” He held his hand out to her, and the little girl merely stared at it. “We're getting out of here. We're leaving, and we're never coming back.”

“But…but what about momma?” Vicky's voice was rife with hiccups, as she continued to sob. “We can't just leave her here.”

For a moment, Darren's eyes showed a pain far beyond his thirteen years. Then, he reached out to take his sister's hand. “Vicky, Momma's dead. She's gone, and she's never coming back.”

Vicky tried to stifle her wails at his blunt statement. “But…but—”

“No buts.” Darren leaned down to stare directly into her eyes. “Are you gonna be weak and cry about it? Or are you gonna be strong?”

Vicky didn't want to be strong. She wanted to go into the closet like her mother had told her and cry until she fell asleep. When she woke up, everything would be alright again. Momma would be making dinner, and they'd all be eating happily at the table.

But Darren said she shouldn't cry.

Darren always protected her, and he knew what was best. If her mother and father were really gone, then he was all she had left in the world. Curling her fingers around her brother's, she let him lead her across the hall, down into the basement, and through the secret tunnel they'd always played in. When they emerged, the sky was dark and starless, and they were close to the storm drain two houses down.

When Vicky looked back, she could see search lights hovering over their house, and what seemed like a hundred police cars. She knew they couldn't go back; and so, she followed Darren into an uncertain future.

Present Day

“Are you
fucking
kidding me?” Feet planted firmly against the carpet, hands on her hips, and a glare to rival that of an avenging angel, Vicky stared down the man in front of her. He might have filled out over the years with brawn and muscle, as well as grown a few feet, but to her, he was still her only relation. She'd be damned if she'd stand by and let him pull a stunt that would get him killed. “You are not going.”

“Please, Vicky. You need to sit your ass down. This doesn't concern you.” His icy-blue eyes filled with warning, as Darren withdrew a beer from the fridge in his messy kitchen before popping the top and taking a deep swig. He always drank when they got into arguments—a habit that annoyed Vicky. However, if he wanted to prove her case even more by disrespecting her, far be it from her to stop him.

“Doesn't concern me? It just concerns my only brother, the front guy for over twenty kilos of raw coke. Christ, Darren. No way the cops aren't all over that.”

“The Saints have it handled.”

“Oh, is that it then?” Vicky threw her hands into the air, feigning an expression of relief. “Your precious Saints have it all in hand. Not like no one ends up dead in those deals. No one gets fucked when
that
kind of money is involved.”

“Hey. You watch your fucking mouth.
That
money has paid your way your entire life, you brat.”

“Watch
my
mouth?”

Darren was just too goddamn much. For years, she'd followed him into every exploitative, crazy, dead-end opportunity they'd had to take to stay alive, and now he was telling her to watch her mouth? That was a laugh. Darren spent his days with men foul-mouthed enough to melt the hair off a skunk—it seemed to be a signature trait of each and every member of the Dark Saints, her brother included.

“Darren, I'm not just going to sit in my apartment and wait for you to not come home. It kills me every goddamn time.” Her expression became pleading and, sensing that she was going to try to wheedle him into seeing her way, Darren's walls came up.

“See, this is why I shouldn't be telling you about this shit. It's none of your goddamn business anyway.”

“It's my business when it's my brother,” Vicky shot back immediately, her gray eyes narrow.

“Listen, girl.” Coming close, Darren took her upper arms in a harsh grip. “When I got into this, I swore that you would have no part in it. I'm not breaking any promises.”

His little display of bravado may have hurt, but it didn't faze her. Victoria Platt had been dealing with her pushy older brother her entire life and displays that might cow others didn't make her bat an eyelash. At least, most of the time. “When
we
got into this, Darren. We. Why do you shut me out like this?”

“Because the Saints is no place for a woman.” Darren shook her slightly, his expression incensed. “You hang out at the den far too goddamn much already. Christ, Vicky. Do you know what I would do if something happened to you?”

“Why can't you see that I feel the same way?” she implored, her eyes beseeching. “Just because you're the Saint and I'm not doesn't mean that I think you're invincible, Darren. I fucking know better.”

Grunting at the low blow, Darren let her go before turning away and raking his hands through his short raven waves. For a moment, Vicky thought she might have won a small victory; but, when her brother turned to face her once more, his expression was no more giving than it had been previously.

“You're not coming anywhere near the den for the deal—even if I have to lock you in your goddamn closet.”

Enraged, Vicky immediately bellowed, “You fucking bastard! I—”

“Say one more word.
One
more goddamn word and I swear to God I will gag you and tie you up, right here.”

Left with no other options, Vicky could only fume, glaring at him as she crossed her arms over her chest in a huff. When she fell silent, Darren breathed an audible sigh of relief before crossing the room to her once more to take her shoulders in his hands. “I only do this because I care about you. If something happened and someone got a hold of you,” his eyes took on a dark, manic gleam that was frightening in its intensity, “I'd burn down half the city to get you back, Vicky. You know I would.” When he bent to place a kiss on her forehead, she drew back, leaving him to stare at her, his expression slightly hurt.

Then, in a split second, his mouth and eyes hardened. “Fine. Fucking be that way. Just stay your ass in this damn apartment until I get back.” With that, he grabbed his leather jacket from where it hung over the back of a kitchen chair, as well as his keys, before leaving the room without a word.