my heart is gold and my hands are cold {teva and tate

He needed a fucking drink. There were nails digging into his brain and he couldn’t focus properly. In his line of work, he couldn’t afford to be distracted; one mistake could lead to lost profit, or in the worst case, a new scar. As much as he wore skin decorations with pride, he was not eager to add another one. He had finally finished healing the bullet wound in his thigh. Over a week of Tate’s version of rehab had resulted in bed-ridden days when he either refused to swallow his assigned dose of morphling pills, or had forgotten. He always wanted to be the badass who could handle what he dished out, but it was stupid. All he found was misery.

Now the skin was scarred over, pink and soft and rounded like a coin with ridges to make it unique. It had been dangerously close to the prized jewels (although not much of a prize, joked Bouncer, to which Teva responded with a foot to his ass), and despite how glorious a new scar could be, it was a little too awkward to show off. He hadn’t meant to instigate a shootout and endanger his own crotch to the merciless gunfire of enemies, but he was positive he had spotted one of them withdraw first. If he hadn’t acted, one of his brothers could be dead. He could be dead.

What happened that day was a risk he was always willing to take, even if everyone bitched at him afterward.

That was his identity: impulsive and loud. He didn’t play by the rules. Hell, no gangster did, but Teva could be twice as reckless. Sometimes it was completely idiotic, but he always had his reasons. Tate didn’t understand half of them. It was fucking frustrating having a brother who didn’t understand jack shit about his own twin’s perspective, but he was done trying to fight it. He accepted the fact that only two people on this damn planet could ever get on his level.

Calcifer was one.

Yet Calcifer had one of the most miserable jobs in the District, and they all had to watch helplessly from the sidelines as it nibbled away at his sanity. A legal contract had him chained to that place like a prisoner and a slave. One night it had gone too fucking far, but this time they wouldn’t be helpless.

Tate was hell-bent on finding him. As eager as Teva was to corner that bastard and make him cry for his fucking mother, his brother was in no condition to be hunting. Apparently he had been stabbed the night of Cal’s attack, and returned the next morning with a pretty massive scar across his abdomen. He was weak, and Teva had warned him not to be stupid. But when the fuck did Tate ever listen to him? He was out there somewhere, and hopefully he wouldn’t get himself killed because that newly-formed scar was proof that the streets were as treacherous as ever.

It didn’t stop them from making a profit.

Wad of cash stuffed into his wallet, he returned to the warehouse with bags etched under his eyes. There were nights when he could sleep, and nights when he couldn’t stop thinking about Cal and his attacker. It was fucking haunting.

Tate called for him before he could think too deeply about it. He was being an absolute creep, but he decided it was best to investigate whatever this “surprise” was.

”Is it actually important?” he asked, raising a brow.