by Meghan March
“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
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.
Keira
Present day
I see it in his face—he’s expecting me to reject him and everything he is. But Lachlan Mount doesn’t know me as well as he thinks, and apparently, I didn’t know myself as well as I thought either.
The story Magnolia told me made me sick to my stomach. The story Lachlan recounted made me want to vomit even more, but for a completely different reason.
I don’t fear him at all. Not a single bit.
Finally, I’m starting to understand who he is at the most basic level. Lachlan Mount will never be a storybook hero, but I guarantee Rubio would call him a savior. I’m sure there are plenty of others who would as well.
Lachlan Mount lives by his own code, completely unapologetic about his actions, but that doesn’t mean he lacks honorable motives.
“You deal out justice as you see fit, but I don’t think you ever hurt an innocent intentionally.”
“Don’t lie to yourself and pretend that me saving a couple of kids offsets everything else I’ve done. You couldn’t find a soul blacker than mine if you dug into the depths of hell.”
He truly believes his own words. I see it on his face, but I think he’s wrong.
“You want me to say I’m repulsed by you? Then look me in the eye and tell me that you would sacrifice me to save yourself.”
Lachlan’s dark gaze goes wide before he reins in his shock. “What the fuck are you trying to prove?”
“Tell me.” My demand is as rigid as the man beside me. “Make me believe it.”
His face twists into a mask of disgust. “No fucking way.”
The triumphant smile that tugs at my lips is probably as twisted as the feelings coiling through me, but I don’t care.
“You’d die for me. You’ve already shown me that. You’d walk into a hail of bullets to save me from one. You wouldn’t let the doctors touch you until they finished with me, even though you needed them far more than I did. If you want me to believe that you’re a monster, then you’re going to have to do a hell of a lot better, because all I see is a man worthy to stand at my side.”
Shock flashes across his face. “I fucking terrorized you. Don’t make this out to be a goddamned fairy tale, Keira. That’s sure as hell not what it is.”
He looks away, and this time, I reach out and mimic one of his favorite moves. I cup his stubble-roughened cheek in my palm and turn his head back to face me.
“I don’t want a fairy tale. I thought I had that once before, and look how it ended. I want real, and you’re the most real person I’ve ever met in my life. You don’t hold back a single one of your sins. What you do hold back is the motivations behind them, and those motivations make all the difference in the world.” I pause, watching as a flicker of disbelief creases his brow, and then . . . hope, maybe?
He doesn’t realize yet that he doesn’t need hope. He already has me.
“You didn’t terrorize me. I might’ve been a little terrified of you, but I wanted you just as badly, if not more. Magnolia was right about a few things, including the fact that you’d fuck with my head and make it go to war with my body. But she was wrong about what matters most. She told me I couldn’t afford to let you get to my heart. The truth is, I can’t afford not to, because it would be my biggest regret. It’s already yours whether you want it or not.”
Lachlan’s eyes close for a single beat. When they open again, it’s like I’m staring at a different man. “Thank Christ, because I have no fucking clue how I could force myself to let you go.”
“I wouldn’t let you.”
“I don’t deserve you.”
He believes what he says. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to change his mind, but I’m going to do everything I can to show him he’s wrong.
I lean in closer to him. “Luckily, that’s not up to you. It’s up to me, and I’ve already made my decision.”
His arms slide around me. Carefully, mindful of our injuries, he guides me back into bed beside him and holds me against his battle-scarred body. My cheek to his chest. His chin resting on the top of my head.
Lachlan Mount may think he’s a cold-blooded monster, but I hear and feel the steady rhythm of his heart beating against my ear as I drift off into sleep.
Mount
As Keira’s breathing slows to an even pace, her words play on repeat in my head. For all the sins I’ve committed, I don’t deserve this woman, but I’m not giving her up. I’m not that honorable, even though she seems to see something in me I don’t. Hell, after the story I told her, there’s no way she should be sleeping peacefully in my arms. But here she is. Maybe, just maybe, there’s some truth to what she believes.
The lives I’ve taken are many. And before mine ends, I know I’ll take even more.
But something she said resonates with me.
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