Santiago’s house is filled with bikers, hookers, and drugs. Music blasts from hidden speakers. His wife and children are off visiting the wife’s parents for a week, leaving him free to entertain in a way he can’t when his family is around.

I’m in his living room, which stretches across the front of the house, with my back against a wall. Silent. Watching.

Two members of the Devil’s Kin motorcycle club approach, a woman between them. She’s a curvy blonde, and for half a second I think she’s Quinn and my heart stops. The men are holding her up, her head drooping.

I step out and block their way. “She’s had too much to drink,” one of the men says. “We’re just gonna take her upstairs to lie down.”

I lift the woman’s head. Up close, she looks nothing like Quinn. Her gaze is bleary, unfocused; when I release her, her chin drops to her chest again. “Put her there,” I say, indicating an empty armchair nearby. “I’ll keep an eye on her.”

The men glare at me, which is proof enough of what they really planned to do to her. I stare them down, unmoving. Finally, they dump her in the chair, none too gently.

“Fuckin’ Monk,” one of them mutters, loudly enough for me and anyone nearby to hear, as they stomp away. I acquired that nickname by refusing to sample Santiago’s wares, both the drugs and the women.

I arrange the woman in the chair in as comfortable a position as I can manage, putting a pillow under her head and covering her with a throw. Then I resume my place against the wall.

Quinn. Fuck.

I shouldn’t think about her at all. But if I shove her out of my consciousness, she surfaces in my dreams--long, vivid dreams that turn my nights into torture. So I let her fill my mind in idle moments.

That kiss was stupid. But the moment she touched me, letting her go was impossible. If Kosta hadn’t interrupted us I might have fucked her right there on the spot.

Not that she would have minded. She kissed me back like it was our last night on earth. I’m hard right now, remembering her soft skin, her silky hair, the taste of her. The way her soft curves molded themselves against me, welcoming.

Inviting.

Against all reason, Quinn Callahan wants me. And after that kiss, I’m done with protecting her from my particular brand of fucked-upness.

Once this business with Santiago is finished, she’s mine.

Across the room, Santiago’s surrounded by a crowd of bikers. “A toast,” he says, raising his bottle of beer. Tall and debonair, he’s traded his usual expensive suits for black jeans and a black button-down shirt, more in line with his guests’ attire.

“To profitable partnerships.” The men roar in approval and chug their beers. A few of them are drinking tequila straight from the bottle.

Bill Kelleher, aka Killer, president of the Devil’s Kin, starts making a speech. Santiago listens politely, attentively. He’s careful to hide the contempt he feels for his partners in crime.

When Kelleher finishes, there’s more cheering and applause, along with hearty slaps on the back all around. The group breaks up, several of the bikers heading upstairs, accompanied by their hookers of choice. A few of them send me sneering looks as they pass. To their way of thinking, it’s strange and unnatural that I don’t take a free fuck whenever one’s on offer.

The women don’t understand it either, but they appreciate the fact that I look out for them when I can, and try to curtail the worst abuses of Santiago’s associates. Santiago lets me do it because I convinced him that mistreating his whores is bad for business in the long run.

Santiago crosses the room to join me. “They’ve drunk more than a dozen fraternities put together,” he says in an undertone, taking another sip of his beer. He prefers wine.

“These guys can hold their liquor. They’re not even that drunk yet.”

He doesn’t respond. On paper, Bruno Santiago is a legitimate, prosperous importer. His store in the state capital, which is run by a former museum curator for an extra dash of authenticity, really does sell goods from countries around the world.

It also launders some of the cash Santiago makes smuggling drugs and guns and running the state’s largest prostitution ring. During the day, his whores make porn films that he streams online. Through a series of shell companies, he owns nightclubs and bars that clean more of his dirty money.

The Devil’s Kin transport drugs and weapons throughout the state for Santiago. Not into my home town, though. The Adamos keep them out, along with Wolf Calhoun and the Firestorm MC.

That’s why Santiago wanted the Callahan farm, for a base of operations up there. Being thwarted in that attempt is what’s put him on the warpath against my family.

Not that Santiago knows I’m an Adamo, of course. If he ever finds out my real identity, I’ll be dead by sunrise. To him, I’m not Matteo Adamo but Adam Matthiesen, military vet, general badass ... and his chief of security.

“No signs of trouble?” he says.

“It’s been quiet. I’m about to go up and do a check.”

I’m responsible for the security system on Santiago’s family compound and his businesses, as well as his personal routines. When the Russians were working to establish a foothold in my home town a while back, they tried to muscle in on Santiago at the same time. Indirectly, I’ve saved his life more than once.

It’s an irony that preys on my mind late at night, but it’s also why he trusts me as much as he does. None of us has his complete confidence, but I know as much as anyone about his overall operations. Only Tony Rodriguez and Tommy Escobar – his top two lieutenants, whom I privately call TNT – get more day-to-day details about his plans.

I prefer keeping some distance. To get closer to Santiago, I’d have to do things that would rot what’s left of my soul.

* * *

Upstairs, I stop at a door midway down a long hallway; the family’s rooms are in a separate wing of the house. I punch in a code, then lay my hand on a panel set into the wall so it can scan my palm. The door beeps open and I go in and shut it behind me.

This is the nerve center of Santiago’s security. His low-level soldiers take it in shifts to watch the monitors, which cover every inch of the grounds here, as well as the buildings inside and out. They also show the exteriors of his businesses, each of which has its own system and security staff.

“Anything noteworthy?” I ask, though if there were they should already have notified me.

“No.” One of the soldiers, a kid no more than twenty, glances at me and away again. Santiago’s guys don’t know how to treat me. I’m outside the command structure, answering directly to their boss, but with no formal rank. It makes them nervous.

I make them nervous.

Moving to the unattended monitor in a corner, I enter a password and pull up a written summary of activity recorded by the system, all noted in a shorthand code I invented. It lets me scan quickly for anything the soldiers might not recognize the importance of ... and also for things that don’t matter to them, but do matter to cops.

One entry catches my eye – a visitor to one of his nightclubs – and I make a mental note to follow up on it later. I read the rest of the log until I’m satisfied that there’s nothing I need to tell Santiago about, then sign off and go downstairs again.

Santiago’s lounging on a sofa, watching the bikers carouse with the hookers. The woman in the armchair is still passed out. “All’s well,” I inform him.

“Good.” He scans the room. “They’ll be partying for hours, but there’s no need for you to stay. Go home and get some rest. I need you sharp.”

In truth, there was no need for me to be here at all, not from a security perspective. I spend as much time around Santiago as I can because it lets me glean extra scraps of intel.

“I’ll have my phone if you need me,” I tell him. Crossing to a couple of the women, I indicate the one in the armchair and say, “Can you watch her, make sure she’s okay, or do you want me to take her home?”

A platinum blonde with huge fake tits who goes by Cookie looks over at the unconscious girl. “I think they roofied her. One minute she was fine, and the next she was out of it.”

Anger flares hot and bright inside me, but I don’t let it show. “She needs a trip to the ER, then.” Santiago has a doctor on retainer who does regular health checks on the girls--another thing I talked him into--but the doc’s not here tonight.

“Yeah. I’ll see if Tommy will let us take her in.” She pats me on the arm. “Thanks, Monk.”

It’s not enough, but Tommy Escobar is officially in charge of running the whores and would not appreciate any interference on my part. It’s a constant balancing act, trying to bring a shred of humanity to bear without inflaming tensions between myself and Santiago’s men any further. I can’t afford to make the boss think I’ve outlived my usefulness.

“Good night,” I tell them, and head out. As I go, I pass Steve “Snake” Tyson, a top Devil’s Kin lieutenant. He glares at me. I glance at him as if he’s of no more interest to me than a week-old newspaper lying in a gutter.

Tyson’s the one who gave me the scar on my face, right before I beat the shit out of him. He’s known as one of the most vicious members of the club. Kicking his ass when he picked a fight earned me the grudging respect of Santiago’s men and the permanent enmity of the Devil’s Kin.

Santiago likes infighting. With the paranoia that accompanies his line of work, he doesn’t want any of his people getting too cozy with each other. They might get ideas to take him out.

I’m eager to be away from the compound, but when I reach my Harley I check it carefully for any signs of tampering before climbing on.

It’d be a damn shame to get myself killed before I get another taste of Quinn Callahan.