His Saint, Her Sin©

His Saint, Her Sin © 2025 by Naomi All rights reserved. All materials, content, and intellectual property, including but not limited to text, images, graphics, logos, audio, video, and software, made available on publications, or other platforms, are protected by copyright laws and owned by the Owner unless otherwise stated

Trigger Warnings:

-Sexual assault

-Violence and murder

-Psychological trauma

-Religious trauma

-Torture/physical restraint

-Blood, guns, and mafia violence

-Dark, morally gray relationships

-Emotional manipulation

-Death

Let's get on with the story

Chapter 1- For Her

Chapter song: Requiem for a Tower- Clint Mansell, London Music works

Levi

September 3 2010

Winnipeg Manitoba- Courthouse

BANG! BANG! BANG!

The judge’s gavel slams down with brutal force, the sharp cracks echoing through the hushed courtroom like gunfire.

“Three years in youth custody,” the judge announces, his voice flat but firm.“With eligibility for review after one year, based on conduct, psychological evaluation, and rehabilitation progress.”

What the fuck...

The thought barely finishes forming in my head. I can’t even register half of what the judge is saying; he’s throwing out legal terms I don’t understand, phrases that feel more like knives. My heart’s pounding too loud to catch the words anyway.

Then I hear a screech. Like metal on tile. A chair? Shoes? Doesn’t matter.

Because my eyes lock on him, I stare, hoping, praying he’s lying, a cruel joke. That somehow this is a mistake. That this isn’t real.

Tears blur my vision, hot and burning.

I know what I did. I knew it would land me in serious trouble. But this? This isn’t justice. This isn’t fair. Not after what that monster did to her.

Before I can even blink again, before I can wipe the tears off my face, a voice slices through the room like a blade.

“No! My son is in a coma because of that pathetic bitch! And that’s all she’s getting? That’s like hitting a child with a belt! I want her charged with manslaughter—something harsher!” she screams.

I immediately whip my head in her direction. She’s on the other side of the courtroom with the rest of her family, all of them glaring at me like I’m not even human. Like they’re praying I get buried six feet under before the day’s over.

I feel my lawyer’s hand clamp down on my wrist. It’s a warning to stay calm.

But I’m past calm.

I know what she told me: keep quiet, stay composed, let the court process play out. But I’m done with that. No more silence. No more letting her play the victim when her son, her precious fucking son, is the real monster.

She’s dressed for the part, too. All in black, no makeup, looking mournful like she’s attending a funeral. When I lived in her house, she was always perfectly polished, with pressed skirts, pearls, and fake smiles. Now she looks devastated and raw.

And maybe she is grieving. Maybe she does believe what she’s saying. But that doesn’t change what happened.

I didn’t have a choice. I had to do it.

“Ma’am… sit down or…” the judge begins, but she’s not listening.

She hasn’t been listening. He’s already warned her two times, and she’s still at it, screaming over everyone, crying about her son.

The same son who…

I lower my eyes to my hands, and they’re trembling. I clench. Unclench. Trying to hold it in.

My chest rises with a deep breath, sharp and shaky. Then, slowly, I turn to her again. My knees feel like they might buckle, but the rage burning in me keeps me upright.

I turn to face her, the woman who raised him. The one pretending she didn’t know. The one who raised a monster and now cries for him like he’s the victim.

“You’re lucky I didn’t finish him off after what he did to my sister!” I yell, my voice slicing through the courtroom like a blade. Every word is sharp and unforgiving.

And honestly? I don’t care. My sentence is doomed anyway. I know that. Everyone in this room knows that.

Of course the judge didn’t finish his sentence, because he let this bitch keep going. Let her scream and cry and twist the truth like her son was some kind of angel instead of the monster he really was.

My lawyer hisses, “Levina, sit down.” She is pulling at my arm, but I don’t budge. I stare straight into her eyes.

“He was raping my sister! And I’d do it again, beat the shit out of him over and over until he couldn’t hurt anyone else. Until he was fucking dead!”

“Order!” the judge snaps. “Counsel, control your client!”

My lawyer grabs at my sleeve.

“Levina…please.”

The woman snarls, her voice venom.

“I’ll end you the day you’re released.”

The mother’s face twists into something animal.

“Bring it on,” I spit. “I’ll send you an invitation.”

The judge slams the gavel again.

“That is enough! Bailiffs, remove that woman from my courtroom immediately!”

“Wh…what…?” Her head snaps to the left and to the right. “No, don’t you fucking touch me!” she screams as the officers move in. “Levina Sarai De La Torre, I’ll kill you, I swear!”

“Don’t use my full name, you piece of shit!” I shout back, as her screams fade behind the heavy doors closing her out.

SLAM…

“Counsel…” the judge warns.

My lawyer immediately stands, practically launching to her feet.

“I apologize, Your Honour,” she says, her voice tight and controlled. Then she turns to me, seething through clenched teeth. “Levina, stop it, right now.”

I nod. Again. Not because I feel sorry. Not because I want to. But because no one else is saying anything, and that woman, that bitch, is finally gone.

Even though the rest of her family is still here, staring daggers at me. Wishing me dead with their eyes.

Silence falls like a curtain over the room.

I turn back to the judge, head high, eyes locked on his, but of course, he doesn’t flinch.

His expression is unreadable, but I see it, just behind the stern face, behind the robes and authority. Exhaustion. Frustration. Maybe even a flicker of something human.

He rubs the bridge of his nose, like he’s trying to push the whole day out of his skull, then exhales slowly.

When he lifts his head, his gaze meets mine dead on.

“Levina De la Torre,” he says, voice quieter now but no less serious, “What you did,” he begins, eyes meeting mine steadily, “many would see as an act of desperation, a response to protect someone you love in a situation no child should ever be forced to face.”

He pauses, voice lowering slightly.

“But as painful and complicated as it is, taking justice into your own hands has serious consequences. The law must still be upheld.”

He leans forward a little, just enough to make sure I hear every word.

“Should the victim not recover from his injuries, this case could shift into charges of manslaughter, or even second-degree murder. Do you understand that, Levina?”

Manslaughter. Second-degree murder.

I’ve heard those words before, on TV, in shows where the worst things always happen to someone else.

Never thought I’d hear them spoken in the same breath as my name.

But here I am.

I nod once. Just once.

Because what else is there to do?

“Very well,” the judge says at last, voice calm but firm. “As stated, you are sentenced to three years in youth custody, with eligibility for parole review after one year.”

He pauses, gaze steady.

“You will remain in a youth facility for the duration of your sentence, even after your eighteenth birthday, unless a review determines otherwise. A transfer to adult custody is only considered if there are serious behavioural or safety concerns.”

He leans back, eyes briefly flicking to the bailiffs.

“Let’s hope, for everyone’s sake, that young man survives. That is all. Court is adjourned.”

BANG.BANG.BANG.

I feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience.

With each bang of the gavel, the sound crashes through me like thunder in my chest. The judge rises, his robe trailing behind him as he steps away from the bench. But I’m not watching him anymore.

I see myself. Across the room. Standing tall, still, like a ghost version of me.

Looking at me with disappointment, but also proud. Because, like he said... I did this for someone I love, and yeah, I’d do it again.

No hesitation. No regrets.

But I took it into my own hands.

“I had no other choice..”

“Levina!”

I hear my name being called out again. Louder.

My face is wet, soaked, actually. I knew the tears had started, but I didn’t realize how bad it had gotten. I’m not just crying. I’m heaving, my whole chest is shaking.

Behind me, his family’s yelling again, getting escorted out by guards like animals being dragged away from a cage.

“Levi,” my lawyer says firmly, crouching down beside me, again, I didn’t realize I had sat down. “You need to calm down.”

But telling someone to calm down never works. Not when your whole life’s just been handed to a system that doesn’t know your story.

I’m just a kid going to jail. But the truth?

I’m not a kid anymore. I had to grow up too fast.

I finally meet her eyes. She softens, just for a moment, and hands me a Kleenex.

My hands are trembling as I take it. I wipe my face. Blow my nose. Try to look like I have some control left.

She leans in, voice quiet.

“You’ll be processed today, okay? Then transferred to a youth facility.”

I nod, wiping my nose.

“You’re not going to adult prison,” she adds quickly.

Yeah, ’cause that would be worse, I think bitterly.

She keeps going.

“Even after you turn eighteen. You’ll stay in youth custody unless something serious happens. Just keep your head down. We’ll review your case again at the one-year mark for parole.”

I nod again, slower this time.

“You won’t come visit me?” I ask, my voice cracking under the weight of everything.

“I will,” my lawyer says quickly. “I promise…” She pauses, then leans in."This isn’t over, Levina.”

“But what about my sister?” I whisper. “What’s going to happen to her? Where is she? …Where...?”

“Levina,” she interrupts gently. “Breathe.”

I know I have to talk fast; the guards are already closing in. I can feel them, their towering bodies moving steadily down the aisle toward me. The tension behind me grows heavier with every step.

My eyes dart between them and my lawyer, who’s now standing, hurriedly stuffing files into her bag.

She freezes for a split second too long.

“I’ll look into it,” she says, quieter now. “As soon as I know anything, I’ll come and tell you in person, okay?”

“Okay…” I whisper, the word barely making it out. It feels fragile. Like it might collapse before it even lands.

I haven’t heard a word about my sister since the day they locked me up. Four months. Four months of silence.

“When you find her…” I trail off. I know there’s no point finishing that sentence. No point asking questions, she probably doesn’t even have the answers to.

“Stand up. Hands behind your back,” one of the guards says sharply from behind me.

I nod. Slowly, I rise. My lawyer follows my lead, stepping beside me like she can shield me from what’s coming next.

I do what the guard says. My arms move behind me, stiff with resistance. I don’t have the energy to fight anymore.

The cuffs snap closed. The cold metal is sharp, and with the click, that’s it, it’s final.

Like they were always meant to be there.

A guard steps forward.

“Let’s go. Time to move.”

I shift slightly, looking back over my shoulder.

“Wait, please.”

“No,” the guard says flatly, already steering me toward the doors.

“We’ll fight this, Levina. You’re not alone. I’ll see you soon.”

I nod, in slow motion, as the guard guides me forward. The courtroom fades behind me, its echoes, its eyes, its judgment.

As we reach the doors, I hear it.

“You did good, kid…” the guard mutters, just low enough that I almost miss it.

I glance up at him. Maybe I misheard. Maybe I just wanted to hear something, anything, that didn’t feel like punishment.

But I’ll take it.

“You did good, Levi,” I whisper to myself.

Because deep down… I know I did.

I did what I had to do. I protected the only person who ever truly mattered to me.

“You did good, Levi…”

i repeat again, with the metal digging into my wrists and the world crashing behind me, I let myself believe it.

So, how did I get here?

Yeah, you’ve heard the gist by now. But it started way before the court. Way before the cuffs. Before the screaming.

It started back when everything in our lives cracked open.

My sister, Savannah, she’s only a year and six months older than me. People always said we were like twins because we were so close in age, and even closer in everything else. I used to tease her, tell her she got the “white girl name,” while I ended up with the name that screamed not-white.

Part of it was, well, we didn’t have the same dad.

Our mom used to say she was unlucky in love, first with Savannah’s dad, then with mine. After that, she just… gave up on love altogether.

Savannah’s dad was Canadian. While my mom was Colombian, born and raised here. But she gave Savannah his last name. Then there was my dad, Mexican. So yeah, De la Torre, that’s from the sperm donor.

“Watch your step…” The guard’s voice is a distant hum.

I just nod, remembering my past, remembering the simplest times, not the best but the better times.

See, we never stayed in one place long, we were always moving. Province to province, home to home. We were homeschooled, always packing and repacking, like we were running from something, even if Mama never said it.

We never asked much about our biological fathers. There didn’t seem to be a point. Honestly, if it were up to me, I would’ve just taken Mom’s last name and been done with it.

Even with her disappointments in love, life still had worse things in store for her.

Yeah, she died…

She died in a car accident. It was horrible. We were all in the car that night, my sister, our mom and me. We were on our way to Ontario.

I was eight years old. Savannah was almost ten.

I remember it like it just happened yesterday . The screech of the tires. The sudden jolt. A truck ran a red light and slammed into us. No time to react. No warning. Just steel and glass and a lot of chaos.

The car rolled. I don’t even know how many times. Maybe three. Maybe five. They said it was bad. Real bad.

Somehow… we survived. My sister walked away with a few bruises and a fractured rib.

Me? I lost my leg.

Yeah. You heard that right. Lost it.

I had to get a prosthetic, plastic and metal in place of what used to be mine. So not only did I lose my mother that night, but I also lost a part of myself. Had to adjust to a whole new life, and I wasn’t ready for any of it.

No eight-year-old ever is.

They said Mom died instantly. That she didn’t feel anything. Maybe that’s supposed to make us feel better.

But, it doesn’t.

That night burned a hole in everything because, after that, we got tossed into the system, foster homes, social workers, court papers, and strangers deciding what was best for us. They fought to keep us together. I couldn’t have imagined not having my sister with me. She was the only person I had left.

And we were lucky, at least at first. They let us stay together.

But getting our lives back on track? That was a whole other hell.

I had to go to therapy for my leg, physical rehab, mental counselling, all of it, and because we’d been homeschooled up until then, school was like landing on another planet. I started in third grade with no clue how to act, how to talk to people, how to be a what they called normal kid.

I was shy. I didn’t want to be seen. But the kids saw me anyway.

They made fun of my leg. Called me stupid names. “Captain Hook,” “robot freak,” “peg leg.” Real creative shit.

My sister didn’t have it much better. Homeschooling hadn’t exactly made her the most social either. She kept to herself, and that made her a target.

And when they started picking on her? That’s when I snapped.

I’d lose my shit, every single time. Anyone who touched her, mocked her, or made her cry, I beat the hell out of them. Didn’t care if I got suspended, detention, or written up, I wasn’t letting anyone hurt her again.

I got in trouble. A lot. But I didn’t care.

Then we got moved to another home. Our last home. And that’s where the real nightmare started.

We weren’t even there a full year.

My fifteenth birthday was just starting to peek over the horizon, five months away, to be exact.

And instead of celebrating my quinceñera, that kind of happiness my mom always wanted for us, even if it was just going to be the three of us, or being in high school, hanging out with friends like a normal kid, I’m cuffed, shackled, and on my way to fucking juvi.

“On the bus,” the guard says.

I blink, and suddenly I’m not in the courtroom anymore. I hadn’t even noticed the change of scenery. My thoughts were too loud, my memories too vivid.

I nod because it’s not like I can protest now. What would be the point?

I walk slowly up the steps, back onto the same bus that brought me here. It groans like it doesn’t want to carry me any more than I want to be on it.

I’m the only one this time. Just me. I slide into the cold gray seat. One guard sits behind me. Another upfront.

Like I could actually fucking escape.

I stare out the window as the engine roars to life. The bus lurches forward, and everything outside starts to slide past. Buildings, sidewalks, lives that don’t know or care about mine.

People walking. Cars honking. Families laughing. Smiling like the world never hurt them.

We had that once. A family without a care in the world. But that was taken from us. Fast. Brutal and worse forever.

I rest my head against the cold glass. The chill seeps into my skin. I know this ride’s going to be long. Might as well try to shut the world out.

I close my eyes.

But, unfortunately, all I see is him, and her, and the blood…all over again.

That day, I’ll never forget it.

I came home early from school. My stomach was a mess, cramps so bad I thought I was gonna pass out in class. My sister had stayed home too; she was getting over a bad cold, and barely had her voice back.

I knew it’d just be the two of us at the house. So on my way home, I stopped by that little bakery on the corner and picked up some chicken soup for her. It wasn’t much, but it was something warm, something that felt like care.

That bakery charged too much, but I didn’t care.

Our foster family gave us four bucks a week. Chore money. That’s it. Four dollars for scrubbing floors, doing dishes and keeping our mouths shut. We saved it like it was gold. Either put it away for the things we needed or stretched it for essentials when no one else gave a damn.

I knew my sister would be mad that I spent it on soup. She always said not to waste it, that we needed to save. But I figured… maybe this one time, she’d be okay with it.

I opened the front door, and the bag slipped out of my hands.

I heard crying. Faint, muffled, coming from upstairs, and a voice, low, angry, harsh.

I froze.

It wasn’t coming from her room. It was coming from his.

Their son. He wasn’t supposed to be there. He had just left for college, barely a week ago. They told us he wouldn’t be around much.

But he was there, and so was she.

The soup hit the floor, already forgotten.

I took off up the stairs, two at a time. My bad leg screamed with every step, but I didn’t feel it. Not with panic clawing up my throat, my heart slamming against my ribs like it was trying to break free.

I couldn’t think. I couldn’t breathe. I just ran.

I reached her door and pushed it open…And there he was.

On top of her.

His back to me, his body moving. Her voice, raw and broken, telling him to stop. Crying and pleading.

My brain short-circuited. There were no words. Nothing logical. Just rage. It surged up so fast, so hot I couldn’t breathe.

Everything turned red. I didn’t think, I fucking moved.

Like a beacon, I saw it. There was a metal bat in his room, leaning against the dresser like a goddamn trophy. Shiny, mocking and waiting.

I didn’t hesitate. I grabbed it and swung.

First hit, hit his shoulder. The crack echoed through the room.

“Get off my fucking sister!” I screamed, every syllable laced with fire.

He turned, finally, twisting in pain, wailing from the blow I’d just delivered, and he was still exposed. His pants halfway down, his body still disgusting and vile.

I didn’t think again, and I swung again, right into his face.

He shrieked, calling me crazy, scrambling backward, blood pouring, his voice cracked and panicked, but I wasn’t hearing it. I wasn’t in the room anymore. I was somewhere deeper. Darker.

He lunged, grabbed the bat.

So I kicked him. Hard. Right in the gut. He doubled over with a gasp, wind knocked out of him, and I didn’t stop.

I don’t know where that strength came from. I had never been in a fight like that before. But seeing that, seeing him on her, something rose inside me. It was like my ancestors lit up my spine and took over my arms.

He fought back. He was taller but scrawny. He was a guy after all. But I had something stronger than size.

Rage.

Rage like wildfire. It surged in my veins, and it was unstoppable.

When he faltered, when his grip slipped, I ripped the bat back and swung again.

And again. And again.

His face became nothing more than meat and blood. A blur of red and screaming and silence all at once.

His mother burst in, screaming. She pulled me off him, barely. I was soaked in his blood, screaming back. My sister was in the corner, crying, she couldn’t stop. Like she couldn’t breathe.

That was the last time I saw her.

I blink my eyes open, hoping…just hoping, we’re finally at the prison. But no. Just more endless farmland. Green everywhere. Like the world outside forgot how grey my life is now.

They took me into custody on the spot. No one asked what he was doing. No one asked why I did it.

Just the cuffs. Just the silence.

Then, finally, I see it.

My new home. The place I’ll be calling home for the next three years.

The gates wrap around the building like the arms of something that doesn’t let go. Guards everywhere, stiff in their uniforms, eyes blank, guns on their hips. The big metal gates groan open as the bus rolls through.

Well, I tell myself, this is it.

Time to play nice. Keep my head down. Be on my best behaviour, so maybe, maybe, I can get out early.

And pray that asshole doesn’t die.

Because if he does…I’m done for.