I shut my emotions down, one second at a time, preparing for the inevitable. The moment when Keira says she can’t be with a monster like me. I am the devil himself, and there’s no way she could want to be with someone capable of the things I’ve done.

It will shred everything left of my humanity to let her go, but I won’t keep her trapped against her will. Not now. We’re beyond that. If she says she wants to leave, I won’t stop her.

All remaining color drains from her face, and the glimmer of distress that flashes in her gaze guts me.

I don’t want her fear, but how could a man like me deserve anything else?

Heavy moments of silence hang between us until Keira, the queen I never knew I needed until we were both tricked into something we didn’t see coming, finds her voice.

“Tell me why.”

It’s not a question. It’s a demand, and one I didn’t expect her to make. I didn’t expect her to care about the reason behind it.

“Does it matter?”

Her nod is infinitesimal, but I catch it.

“It matters more than anything I’ve ever asked you. Please tell me why you would do something like that. I have to believe there was a reason.” The threat of tears underlies her tone, and I’d rather take another bullet than hear her sound like that again.

I don’t justify my actions to anyone. Ever. But I know this is one exception I have to make, or I’ll lose her forever.

I look away, not wanting to see her face as I tell the story.

“About ten years ago, there was a boy who tap-danced on street corners of the Quarter, near Jackson Square. I’d see him almost every time I left here. The same boy, day after day after day. People think that when you’re the boss, you don’t notice details, but that’s completely wrong. When you hold power like I do, you know details are the difference between life and death. This wasn’t one of those details. It should’ve meant nothing to me that I saw the same kid every day, but something about it twisted up my gut.”

I pause, remembering the expression on the kid’s face, and I force myself to continue. “Every time I saw him, he was more erratic. He should’ve been in school, or so I assumed. He couldn’t have been older than six or seven. I wasn’t sure. But he was more skin and bones than anything else.”

Keira sucks in a horrified breath at the picture I’ve painted, but I don’t look at her. I’m too lost in the memory.

“One day, I finally stopped and sat on a bench for six hours, watching him with his bucket in front of him where tourists would toss their dollars. Every couple hours, a man or a woman would crawl out of the gutters and empty it, and the kid would keep dancing. I’ve been around long enough to recognize addicts of every kind. Meth addicts aren’t hard to spot.”

“Oh my God,” Keira whispers, because she’s catching on to where this story is headed.

I keep my eyes fixed over her shoulder on the far wall of the room, because the rage that builds inside me when I remember isn’t something I want her to see.

“Please tell me they didn’t . . .” She trails off, and I wish I could tell her that this story isn’t going where she thinks.

“The high from glass, a more potent form of meth, can last for eight to twenty-four hours. When he’d start to slow down, they’d grab the bucket and carry him off for a little while. I followed them that day and watched as the woman, his fucking mother, would feed it to him.”

A sob tears from Keira’s throat. “No. How could she?”

“There are plenty of parents who do horrible things to their children, and there’s no way to save them all.”

“I can’t even fathom—”

“You shouldn’t have to. That kind of shit shouldn’t fucking happen, but it does.”

“So, what did you do?”

“I called a few of the crew. We grabbed the kid, the mother, and the asshole who was her piece-of-shit boyfriend and dealer.” I drag my gaze from the wall and meet Keira’s horrified expression as I confess just how fucking brutal I can be without remorse. “She made her kid dance on glass, and that’s what she earned for herself.”

Keira holds a fist to her mouth like she’s struggling not to vomit, and I don’t blame her.

“Street justice isn’t a slap on the wrist or a few days in jail. Street justice is more than an eye for an eye. It’s harsh. It’s brutal. That’s who I am, Keira. Harsh. Brutal. Without remorse.”

The disgust on her face makes me wish for a single moment that I had been born a different man. A man who deserves her. But I wasn’t. I was forged in the fires of the hell I grew up in. I survived the streets the only way I knew how, by climbing the ladder up Johnny Morello’s organization.

I tear my gaze away from her, expecting her to run for the door. Instead, she asks me a quiet and unexpected question.

“What was the boy’s name?”

“Rubio.”

I study the white sheet tangled in my fist, keeping my attention anywhere but on her. Still, she doesn’t run.

“What happened to him?”

I force myself to loosen my grip and keep my tone emotionless. “I made sure he was adopted by a good family. A family that would never hurt him again, because they knew what the penalty would be. I pay for him to go to a private school. He gets straight As. He’s already being scouted by D-1 schools for basketball, but he can go anywhere he wants, and he knows that.”

Keira’s hand covers mine, and I jerk my head up to look at her.

“You saved him,” she whispers.

“I watched his mother slit her own wrists.” My tone is harsh, just like me. “Don’t you dare make me out to be some kind of hero, because that’s the last fucking thing I am.”

Keira’s green gaze turns flinty. “I don’t need a goddamned hero, Lachlan. I need a man who isn’t afraid to stand up for the people who can’t defend themselves. You can call it whatever you want, but I call it justice and honor.”

I narrow my gaze on her. “You’re missing the point.”

She shakes her head, her stubborn chin rising another inch in challenge. “No, you’re missing the point. You don’t see it, but I do. I’m willing to bet everything I have that this kid isn’t the only one you’ve saved from a fate worse than death. How many other innocents have you exacted retribution for?”

* * *

Eighteen years earlier

Boss had sent me on a run to meet with one of the old guard, a former top cartel leader set up by the CIA in a cushy house in the Garden District as his retirement package. Anyone who thought the drug trade was started solely by those south of the border needed to look a hell of a lot closer to home. The war on drugs is a joke because it’s a war we started, and one that’ll never end.

I was supposed to drop off a package and pick one up in return. An exchange of cash for information.

One thing I’d learned from Johnny Morello was that information could be priceless. For the last ten years, I’d climbed the ladder of his vicious organization. Once you were in, the only way out was a body bag. But since I had nowhere else to go, I was content to shovel shit and haul myself up, rung by rung.

Now, I was in a position of trust. Morello took a shine to me for some reason I’d never understand. I was being groomed. I knew it. Everyone else knew it. And, apparently, so did this old man sipping tequila in his garden like he had all the time in the world and I didn’t have somewhere else to be.

“You have the package?” I asked him for the second time. Like Morello, I didn’t repeat myself often.

“Sit. I don’t like your hovering.” The old man’s English was still accented, and I had to wonder what he traded to the Feds for this sweet setup.

I took the chair across from him, my fingers thrumming against the Italian wool of my suit pants. You’d think in the New Orleans heat, I’d be sweating, but Morello’s tailor, Giorgio, only used the finest, lightest fabrics.

If someone had told me ten years ago that I’d wear a suit more often than ripped and stained undershirts, I would have laughed. I also would have been wrong. Five years ago, after I’d proven my loyalty to his satisfaction, Morello brought me into his inner circle, and Giorgio made me my first ever suit.

The feel of silk against my skin was one I never thought I’d get used to, but now, it was second nature. I finally understood why the men who wore suits seemed more confident and in control. Because that was exactly how I felt the first time I looked at myself in the mirror. That was also the day Morello hired a tutor to teach me to stop talking like the street kid I’d been, and how to sound like I had an education beyond blood and survival.

“You seem like a smart man, Mr. Mount. Morello has been grooming you to become his second-in-command, has he not?”

“Sir, respectfully, I’m here for the package. I have somewhere to be.”

The old Mexican shook his head. “I will never get used to some of your American ways. In my culture, things are different.”

“Here, we don’t have all the time in the world to wait around. At least, not in Mr. Morello’s organization.”

The old man reached for the envelope beside him, one that held the information we were purchasing in order to seize control of the drug supply into the city to keep the cartel out. For now, anyway. I was smart enough to see the writing on the wall. Their power would continue to grow, and eventually, we’d have to strike a deal with them. Morello probably didn’t agree, but sometimes his arrogance interfered with seeing things clearly.

When the old man held out the envelope, I reached for it, but he kept it tight in his grip.

“Tell me, Mr. Mount, are you a good man?”

I reared back at the question. “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

“Just satisfy an old man’s curiosity.”

I looked into his faded brown eyes and told him the truth. “No. I’m not.”

For some reason, this must have pleased him. A smile spread across his face.

“I respect your honesty.” The smile disappeared as quickly as it came. “But I do not respect your boss’s. He rules with fear and intimidation. Not with respect. True power, and the ability to keep it, requires all three.”

His statement hit me hard, and I recognized the truth of it. Still, I kept my face expressionless because I knew where my loyalty lay, and it wasn’t with the old Mexican.

“Whatever beef you have with Mr. Morello has nothing to do with me.”

The old man tilted his head to one side. “What if I told you that he likes his girls young.”

My teeth clenched together. It was like this guy knew my triggers. “As long as they’re legal and willing, it isn’t a damn bit of my business.”

I knew what Morello liked. The younger and blonder, the better. I’d done my due diligence, though, and I made sure they were all legal and that none appeared to be forced. I might not be a good man, but I did have limits.

“And if they weren’t legal and willing?”

I shoved out of the chair and stared down at him. “Get to the fucking point, old man, because I’m not here to play twenty questions.” The respect in my tone was gone, and so was my patience.

He nodded at my suit. “Your tailor, he has a daughter. She’s young and blond. How old is she?”

The fact that he knew this kind of information gave me a hint of why the CIA pandered to him like he was a freaking king.

“What’s your point?” I ground out the words, not liking where he was going with this. Part of me thought he was just fucking with my head to see how loyal I really was. Maybe this was a test. Maybe this was something he and Morello had concocted together.

“Keep an eye on your tailor’s daughter if you give a shit about her. Because, apparently, legal is too old for Morello these days.”

The thought of Morello touching Greta—a fourteen-year-old girl, the same age Hope was when Jerry tried to rape her—sent the same kind of killing rage I felt that night through me again.

“What the fuck do you know? And why are you telling me?”

The old man shrugged. “Maybe I don’t like men who hurt children. Something I hear we have in common.”

He couldn’t know about my past. That was impossible.

I ripped the envelope from his grip and tucked it under my arm. “Nice doing business with you.”

“And you, Mr. Mount. I expect I’ll see you again soon.”

* * *

The old Mexican’s words haunted me for days.

I turned over the envelope to Morello, but I said nothing about the accusations. Instead, I watched and waited. Hoped like hell the old man was full of shit.

When Morello sent Giorgio to Italy to handpick new material, an ominous feeling settled in my bones. Greta and Giorgio lived on the premises. Giorgio was a widower, and Morello had assured him that Greta would be looked after in his absence.

I was sent on run after run, making it impossible to keep an eye on her the way I used to sleep outside Destiny’s door, and then kept watch over Hope.

I wanted the old man to be wrong, but my gut said he was right.

By design, I returned early from an errand, using the secret network of internal hallways to reach Morello’s office. It was the one room with no peepholes, and I entered without permission—a move that could cost me my life.

But my gut told me I had to.

I didn’t want to believe what I was seeing. Morello’s big hand was buried in Greta’s hair as he bent her over his desk. His dick was out, and her shirt was torn. Her cries and his taunts filled my ears before the rush of blood took over.

I saw Hope and Jerry. Not Greta and Morello. The killing calm slipped over me, and I didn’t stop to consider the consequences of my actions.

I pulled the gun from the holster that never left my side and silently crossed the room. With ice water running through my veins, I pressed the barrel against the back of his balding head before he could make another move.

“Take your fucking hands off her.” My tone was low with harnessed rage.

“What the fuck are you doing, kid?” Morello demanded, his voice harsh. “Get the hell out of here, or I’ll fucking kill you myself.”

“Take. Your. Hands. Off. Her.” I spoke each word deliberately.

“You’re gonna die, kid. And I had such high hopes for you.” Morello shoved Hope—I mean, Greta—away. From the corner of my eye, I saw her tearstained face frozen in fear.

“Tell me this is the first time you’ve ever touched her, and all I’ll do is put a bullet in your head.”

“Fuck you, kid. Don’t you dare fucking question me. I’m gonna have your head on my desk as a paperweight.”

“Greta?” I asked, not looking at her, but keeping my attention and gun on Morello.

She sobbed, not answering.

“Tell me now, Morello. Make me believe you’ve never fucking touched her before, or your head is going to be the paperweight.”

My boss finally stilled, realizing exactly how serious I was. “I barely touched the girl. She asked for it. Came in here begging for it. She wanted a taste of a real man.”

“He’s lying,” Greta said, her voice breaking. “He told me he’d kill me if I ever told anyone.”

“How many times?” I asked, my tone low and deadly.

“Every time Dad leaves.”

“Don’t listen to that stupid cunt. She just wants attention like—”

I cocked the hammer on the revolver, and Morello went silent.

“You’re going to wish I pulled this trigger by the time I’m done with you. Greta, get the hell out of here. Go to your room and lock yourself inside. Don’t let anyone in.”

She scrambled to her feet and dashed for the door, fumbling at the handle, which I now realized was locked.

The old Mexican was right. I didn’t care why he wanted me to kill Morello, but he knew I would. I was being played, but that was the least of my worries.

Keeping the gun to the back of Morello’s head, I palmed the wicked-sharp six-inch switchblade in my pocket. It had spilled plenty of blood for him, and now it was going to spill his.

“You’re going to die slowly, you fucking piece of shit.”

“You’ll be next, Mount.”

I pressed the button and the blade slid out. When I jammed it into one of his kidneys, Morello squealed in pain.

“No. That’s where you’re wrong, Morello. Because I’m taking over. As of today, this organization is mine. Anyone who disagrees will die just like you.” I yanked out the blade and shoved it into his other kidney, blood already darkening his otherwise pristine suit.

This wouldn’t be quick or pretty.

When I finished with Morello, his severed head sat on the corner of his desk, on top of a stack of papers. The rest of him sat in a chair across the desk from me. The visitor’s chair, not the boss’s. Then I called in each of the top members of the organization to tell them about the changing of the guard.

Revolution is not without bloodshed, and neither is vengeance.