Present day

Keira pushes me, fraying the edges of my control, which is something I’ve never allowed anyone to do.

I fucking slammed a door.

I don’t react in anger. Not anymore. All my actions are the result of cold, precise calculation.

But this woman has me slamming fucking doors.

I told myself it wouldn’t be a problem. I could have her, keep her, control her—and never let her become anything more than a possession. I promised myself I’d stay detached and indifferent, because the alternative never leads anywhere good. I learned that as a kid.

Treat everything like it’s temporary. That’s one thing that’s always true. None of us make it out of this life alive, so why bother to pretend otherwise?

Another thing I’ve always thought was true? That I have complete control over myself and my reactions.

False.

Keira Kilgore has become something I never intended, but I make the rules in my world, so there’s nothing fucking stopping me from changing plans now. The best part about being the king? I can do whatever I want.

Keeping her could be a mistake, but I’m not letting her go. Especially now that I have even more hold over her after paying off her bank loans and adding them to her tab.

I’ve never let myself want like this. I may rule an empire, but I’ve stayed at the top because I’ve never shown weakness.

She’s only a weakness if I allow her to be, and that shit ends right now.

I want to go back to her rooms and tell her exactly how I killed Lloyd Bunt, which would drive her away from me for good.

That’s exactly what I should do. But what’s the point of ruling an empire if you can’t have everything you want, even if you shouldn’t have it?

As the thought filters through my brain, I realize I’m on the verge of creating an exploitable weakness. Something I’ve fought all these years.

But I’m Lachlan fucking Mount. I dragged myself out of the gutters of this unforgiving city, changed my identity, learned to do whatever I needed to not only survive, but thrive. I became the weed that grows between the sidewalk cracks and refuses to die. I clawed my way up the ladder of this organization and took the throne by force. To the outside world, I rule through fear, intimidation, and the absolute willingness to back up every single fucking threat I make.

I have every material possession a man could want. At this very moment, I’m walking on white-and-gold Persian carpets between walls plastered by Italian master craftsmen, lit by 14K-gold-plated sconces and crystal chandeliers that cost more than I want to think about. I surround myself with the best of the best, and I don’t for one second pretend it’s not because I’m still trying to forget what it’s like to live in my own filth.

By the time I reach for the hidden latch that releases one of dozens of secret entries leading to a network of passageways connecting every single property I own on this block, I’ve managed to get my breathing under control.

Every encounter with Keira affects me more than the last, and this one is no exception. I can’t let it continue. I will regain the upper hand. It’s a vow I make as a floor-to-ceiling painting slides aside and leads into the maze.

Other than me, only three other people know every inch of this labyrinth: V, who Keira refers to as Scar; J, my second-in-command; and G, my tailor. All three have proven their loyalty to me time and again, but I’d be naive to ever trust anyone completely.

One thing I’ve never been is naive.

I take a few turns, barely glancing through the peepholes interspersed along the interior hallway to give me a view of what’s happening beyond the walls. They’re impossible to spot unless you know where to look.

Other men in my position would have guards with automatic weapons patrolling the house, but I refuse. First of all, I can fucking handle myself just fine, and second, why allow more possible weak links in my organization? Buying off a low-level guard is too easy. I’ve done it too many times to count myself. The people I employ can’t be bought because they owe me their lives, for one reason or another.

Besides, cameras are more effective, and my security feeds are unhackable . . . or as close as they can be.

When I finish taking the turns and climbing the stairs necessary to reach my inner sanctum, the room J refers to as my lair, I expect the remaining insurrection of emotions roiling through me to be put down as effectively as a revolt.

Not so, because when that fireplace spins and my library comes into view, I know I made a massive mistake thinking this refuge would insulate me from what I’m feeling.

All I can see is her. The first night she stood inside these walls, she pulled off that hideous trench coat to reveal her fuckable curves with that ridiculous henna tattoo, and the image is burned in my brain.

She held herself like a queen. Like a woman who could handle the intensity of the king that I have declared myself to be.

No weaknesses, I remind myself again.

My fingers curl into fists, and I’m tempted to put one through the wall. For the first time in longer than I can remember, doubt taunts me.

Maintain control. That’s what I do, and I can’t let Keira Kilgore change that.

I turn toward the table holding the decanters of liquor and reach for my favorite, only to still my hand in midair.

It’s a Seven Sinners whiskey, one I’ve had my associates appropriate from the distillery’s off-site storehouses upon my request, because it’s not yet available for sale to the public, except in small batches in the restaurant atop Seven Sinners Distillery, and I’m not a man willing to be denied. I jerk my hand away from the Spirit of New Orleans and reach for the Scotch. After all, my name comes from the Scots. Lachlan Mount sounded like a man who demanded power, and I was fifteen when I chose it.

For the two years I lived on the streets after ending that miserable fuck Jerry’s life, I didn’t have a name. No one could have cared less about another runaway. The rare nights I slept in shelters, I used a different fake name every time. I lied. I cheated. I stole.

I still do all those things, and what’s more, I do them without remorse.

I am not a good man. My soul is black. My heart is stone. My reputation isn’t legend or myth, but a collection of facts.

If there were a scale to determine the purity of a person, I would send one side crashing to the ground with the weight of my sins, and laugh while I watched.

I’m going to hell. I know that with full certainty, but there’s a long list of people I’ll send there ahead of me.

Keira Kilgore is the opposite. She’s pure. Innocent. Naive as fuck. She still thinks everyone plays by the rules, and good judgment paves the road to success. She’s wrong, but she would never believe me. I never should have brought her into my world, but I’m selfish enough not to care. Selfish enough to keep her here.

“I don’t want this. I didn’t ask for this, and I will never submit willingly. I swear it on everything that’s holy.”

She said those words as she stood naked before me, and her body betrayed her. I made a liar out of her too because every time I took her, she was more than willing. She wanted it as badly as I did.

I swear I can smell her in this room over the leather, old books, and cigar smoke, and it makes me want to stalk back to her room, rip open the door, and make a liar out of her again.

“Don’t you dare fucking touch me right now. Or ever again.”

She should know better than to throw down the gauntlet with a man like me. I win every time.

I clench my teeth and force myself to walk toward a bookshelf like there’s a chance in hell I’m going to read one of the volumes on it.

A whoosh signals the swivel of the fireplace entrance, and I spin around. I almost expect an enraged red-haired goddess, come to take me to task again. Which, in my filthy mind, would end with her bent over the arm of one of my chairs, me fucking her with her hands pinned behind her back.

But it’s not. It’s J, my second-in-command.

“We’ve got an issue, a sensitive one. I’d handle it myself, but I know you’ll want input.”

“What?” I ask, glad for the distraction.

“Lieutenant to one of the cartel jefes has already been warned once about the way he’s handling his girl for the night on the gaming-room floor, but the dumb fuck isn’t getting the message.”

The familiar coldness of purpose settles over me, bringing me back to center. This is where I excel. Something I can easily control.

J’s right. This isn’t a situation that needs my assistance, but I do want input. And tonight . . . maybe I’ll even handle it myself.

“Let’s go.”

I follow J as we leave my study and all reminders of Keira. We head back through the rabbit warren of passageways to the casino floor. Owning an entire block of the French Quarter has its perks, like being able to remove interior walls and turn the center section of half the block into an underground gambling establishment that produces more profit in a night than most men make in a year. Membership is exclusive, selective, and rarely granted. Only the very rich, very powerful, or very well-connected are allowed in, with the unspoken threat hanging over all their heads—if you talk, you die. If you cheat, you die. If you look at me wrong, you die.

When I say I rule over them with intimidation and fear, backed up by action, there is no exaggeration.

We arrive through the rear club entrance I always use, and it takes only moments to locate the private room where the lieutenant with a death wish is now playing high-stakes blackjack.

The girls who work this club are under my protection, and an offense against them is an offense against me. I don’t care that their dresses barely cover their tits, pussies, or asses, or that their makeup is thicker than the paint on my favorite car. It doesn’t matter that they’re working for their money in the world’s oldest profession. They don’t get manhandled in my club. That’s part of the rules, but drunk men sometimes forget. When they do, I have no problem with my staff reminding them of the consequences.

This girl, a skinny blonde with dark roots, is trying to discreetly disentangle herself from his embrace, attempting to avoid a scene. The dumb fuck, as J called him, isn’t letting her free. Instead, he fists her hair and yanks her down with such force, she hits her knees.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, but I ignore it as wrath fills my veins. The ones who fuck with the blondes always bring it out of me even more.

The lieutenant, who is at least six inches shorter than me and fifty pounds lighter, forces her face into his lap. “Suck my dick, bitch.”

“He dies tonight.” I say it quietly, but J doesn’t ask me to repeat myself. This is a foregone conclusion.

“I’ll take care of it, boss.”

I shake my head as I harness my rage and turn it cold. “No. I’m handling this personally.”

“You sure? I can—”

When I swing my stare to J, my second-in-command sucks in a breath.

“Of course you’re sure. Maybe it’ll be better coming from you anyway.”

J assumes I’m doing this myself because it’ll send a clear message to the lieutenant’s jefe, but that’s only part of it. Tonight, I need an outlet for everything raging inside me, and this piece of shit picked the wrong day and the wrong motherfucker’s place to cause problems. He won’t make that mistake again.

I stride into the room, drawing the attention of the three other players and the dealer as soon as I close the door behind me with a decisive click.

The dealer will never speak of what he sees in this room because he owes me his life. I stopped him from being murdered execution-style on a street corner by a crack dealer when he was sixteen. He also knows that breathing a word of what happens here would be a betrayal resulting in the same fate he escaped. Besides, he makes a healthy living, has a pregnant girlfriend that he’s planning to marry next month, and wouldn’t dare put her and the baby in jeopardy.

The other players are a dirty city councilman, a megachurch preacher, and an oil baron who has ruthlessly driven people out of their homes to expand his territory. With the dirt I have on each of them, they wouldn’t dare talk either.

As I cross the room, I don’t speak. Actions carry more power than words, and power is what I know. I stop a foot behind the lieutenant’s chair and grab him by the black braid at the base of his skull. I wrap it around my hand and, with a yank, jerk his head backward until his neck is overextended. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat.

When he drops his hold on the girl’s hair, I rip him out of his chair and drag him over the back of it. Using his braid as a rope, I lift him off his feet, watching them dangle inches above the floor as his expression morphs into shock.

I may be over forty, but I push my workouts to the max every day. I learned firsthand too damn young that sometimes brute strength is all that stands between you and your worst nightmare.

The skin of his scalp stretches until a chunk of his braid rips free, leaving a bloody patch of skin attached to the hair in my hand. His feet hit the floor first, but his legs give out and he drops to his knees in front of me.

Exactly where he belongs.

A stream of unintelligible Spanish follows, but it doesn’t matter what he says. No one crosses the line here, no exceptions.

He puts both palms on the floor, ready to jump up. Not happening. Before he can move, I slam a heel down on the hand that he used to touch her, crushing the bones beneath my handmade Italian shoes.

His pathetic scream won’t leave the room because of the soundproof walls and door.

I look at the girl, taking in the red marks that circle her throat from where he must have grabbed her before I arrived. Disgusted, I toss the braid on the floor in front of him.

I believe in street justice. Not only an eye for an eye, but that retribution comes threefold. When I grab him the second time, it’s by the throat, and I drag him toward the wall and lift again until his spine slams into it.

He tries to speak, but the pressure on his windpipe makes it impossible. His eyes bulge, finally showing a hint of fear, and I’m taken back to that night. The night that ultimately forged the man I am today. The call girl on the floor becomes Hope, and this piece of shit is the sick fuck who tried to rape her.

I release my hold for a moment, ignoring the constant buzzing of my phone in my left pocket as I reach into the right and slip my fingers into an accessory I’m rarely without.

He catches his breath, his hand cradled in front of him, and the begging in Spanish comes again. He should save his breath. He’s not walking out of here tonight, and everyone in this room knows it.

When I remove my hand from my pocket, my fingers curl into a fist around my 24K-gold-plated brass knuckles. I pull back and deliver a single punch to his throat, crushing his windpipe and snapping his neck. The raised letters on the brass knuckles leave an impression: Mount.

His body slides to the floor as I step back and return my knuckles to my pocket, flexing my hand.

“Have someone take out the trash,” I tell J before I reach for the door handle and pause.

I turn, meeting the horrified stares of each person in the room. I have no doubt they feel the brutality emanating from me, and I will have no problems resulting from this night. If anything, my legend and their fear will grow.

Satisfied, I open the door to the main room and shut it behind me before finally reaching into my pocket to pull out my phone.

I have eight texts from V, and six missed calls from the control center.