Chapter 30
Chapter thirty
Scarlett slept wrapped around me like a koala bear, her cheek pressed to my chest, one hand fisted loosely in the sheets.
Carefully, I slid my arm out from beneath her and eased her onto the pillow. She murmured once, shifting, and I froze.
“Shh,” I breathed, kissing her temple, and she settled again.
I pulled the covers up to her shoulders, tucking them around her as if she were something breakable. She wasn’t. She’d survived more than most men I knew. But she was still healing. And I’d just made her come apart in my arms.
I hadn’t meant for that to happen tonight.
There were things I’d needed to handle. Debts to collect.
But when she’d looked at me and called herself a whore, the fury in my bloodline burned red hot, and every protective instinct I had hardened into something lethal. Those who broke her were no longer entitled to breathe.
She deserved to feel treasured.
She deserved to feel chosen.
She was so touch-deprived it bordered on cruelty, and I planned to make up for every stolen moment—to hold her, to care for her, until every fiber of her body and every corner of her soul recognized she was loved by me.
And if it took the rest of my life to prove that to her, I would.
I sat up, watching my beautiful little bird sleep. Her lips curved in a faint smile as she lay relaxed and perfectly content. Whatever twist of fate had dropped her into my life, I didn’t question it. She was mine now—to care for, to protect—for the rest of our days.
The thought made me wonder if my own Da had carried that same certainty about Mam.
I shut the door on that line of thinking. Sentiment wouldn’t change what needed doing when there was still work to finish.
Nik had sent the dossier not long after we landed in Madrid.
Names. Addresses. Habits. Financials. A thread that led straight to the man who’d bought her virginity—and to the woman who’d manipulated her from the moment she stepped into that church-run charity, handing her life over to the very vultures she’d tried to escape.
álvaro Ruiz de la Torre was a private equity magnate with political connections that stretched across Spain.
He was short, thick around the middle, and revered in Catholic donor circles as a pillar of morality.
In private, he frequented exclusive clubs that catered to men who preferred their indulgences discreet and young.
Dolores “Lola” Alcaide worked the front lines of one of the church’s outreach charities in Madrid, serving food and offering shelter to the unhoused and desperate.
To the public, she was compassionate, devout, and tireless.
In reality, she was a recruiter. A broker.
The woman who identified vulnerable girls and fed them into a pipeline disguised as salvation.
El Privilegio was the endpoint of that pipeline—the so-called elite casa de citas where Scarlett had been coerced into auctioning her virginity and forced to work to survive.
It operated under polished chandeliers and privacy rooms, but beneath the luxury, it functioned as a holding pen for men who believed access to women was their birthright.
The charity. The monastery. The club. They weren’t separate institutions.
They were a system.
And the money from Andrew Hayes had continued flowing in the entire time, each payment made under the belief that his daughter was safe, sheltered, and obedient. He never knew what they had done to her.
Or perhaps he never cared to know more than that she’d left the monastery and was living her own life in Madrid—out of his hair.
Scarlett had been cornered—hungry, undocumented, and alone in a foreign city.
Within hours of her arrival at the church-run charity, Lola had found her and placed a call back to the monastery.
From there, a plan was set in motion to keep Scarlett in Madrid, keep Andrew Hayes paying, and ensure she never returned to Manhattan to ask questions about ledgers, missing girls, or the financial records she’d found.
Hayes had left the girl to survive, however she could.
My hands curled into fists.
I’d told her that today was judgment day.
I hadn’t been speaking in metaphor.
I leaned down and brushed a curl off her forehead. “Stay asleep, little bird,” I murmured.
Worst case, she’d wake and find me gone. She’d worry. She’d be curious. I could handle that.
What I couldn’t handle was letting those two see another sunrise.
This would be the first time I took a life for vengeance.
Not in defense. Not because I had to.
Because I chose to.
The realization sat heavy in my gut for half a second.
I wasn’t killing for sport.
I was killing her demons.
I reached for my phone and sent Katya a short message.
Need eyes on my hotel door while I step out.
The response came within seconds.
Two men in place in ten. One outside. No one gets near her.
Good.
I dressed in silence, stepping into my trousers and buttoning my shirt before slipping the shoulder holster into place and settling my firearms at my sides. With the straps adjusted, I pulled on my jacket and rolled my shoulders, fully assembled.
I gave the room one last scan.
Scarlett hadn’t stirred, and for a moment, I stood there and watched her breathe.
I wanted to give her the world.
Tonight, I’d start by eliminating a couple of the demons that haunted her thoughts.
Then I slipped out, closing the door without a sound.
It was three in the morning, past time to end the motherfucker who’d brutalized my little bird.
Nik’s tracking app had brought me to El Privilegio, and I’d watched from the shadows, waiting for the right opportunity.
And opportunity didn’t knock. It smoked.
I’d watched álvaro Ruiz de la Torre slug down a shot of tequila, then move through the club out the back door to the alley to take a smoke.
He’d gone into a private room for nearly an hour, and when he came out, loose-limbed and satisfied, he headed back to the bar.
Later, sipping on a beer, he pulled out a pack of smokes and knocked it against his palm a couple of times.
This was my chance, and I wasn’t about to blow it.
I headed out to the alley before him. The bass pulsing through the brick wall provided enough cover for what I needed to do.
I scanned the darkened passageway, searching for a makeshift weapon.
Sure, I had the guns at my ribs, but that would be noisy and the ballistics traceable, so I wanted to avoid using them.
Sitting next to the wall, beneath a grimy grate, was a tire iron. Yes, that would do nicely. I picked it up and slapped it against my palm a couple of times, getting a feel for its weight.
The door banged open, the music along with it. I waited until smoke rose above the other side of the trash bin I was standing behind.
I stepped forward.
The tire iron connected with the side of his knee first, bone cracking. He dropped hard, confusion wiping the smirk off his face before he even saw me.
The second strike scattered teeth across the brick pavement.
He tried to scream, but the music swallowed it.
I grabbed his collar and dragged him deeper into the alley, away from the spill of light, away from any chance of interruption.
He clawed my arm. “Do you know who I am?” he slurred.
I drove the tire iron into his ribs. The air left him in a wet grunt.
“I know exactly who you are,” I said.
Blood ran down his chin as he tried to focus.
“You’re a fucking rapist. A man who thinks money allows him the right to grab women by the pussy. To sexually assault young girls. To violate and abuse virgins with your sick tastes.”
“What? You some girl’s brother?” he asked, attempting to stand.
I kicked him in the chest, and he fell back on his ass.
“I’ve got lots of money. You look like the type of man who appreciates a good bargain. If the 10k euros in my wallet isn’t enough, we can take a stroll to the bank machine for more.” He actually thought he had a chance to negotiate. Stupid bastard.
“Shut the fuck up,” I snarled. “The only reason you’re still breathing is that I want you to feel a fraction of the pain you’ve caused.”
He grabbed the knee that I hadn’t busted for just enough support to keep from falling back.
“So which of the cunts was yours?”
The tire iron fell from my hand. I yanked a hold of his shirt and pounded my fist into his face, needing to feel the retribution I was unleashing on him. The blood from his nose splattered on my shirt.
He had the audacity to laugh.
“Oh, I bet it was a little sister whose virgin pussy I fucked,” he laughed, spitting out the blood flooding his mouth. “Yeah, they’re my favorite. I like to split them open and drink their coppery wine. Always a—”
The alley went silent in my head.
I shoved him back onto the ground, his skull cracking against the pavement. I pinned his sternum with a knee, then drove my knuckles into his face again and again until the structure of it changed beneath my hands. His cheek collapsed inward. His eye swelled shut.
He tried to shield himself.
I tore his hands away and broke two fingers without breaking rhythm.
He begged, but none of it mattered.
This wasn’t chaos.
This was controlled justice.
Growing up on the farm, killing had been practical.
Chickens were slaughtered for supper. Pigs in autumn.
Cattle in winter. My Da had taught me to kill with a sharp blade.
Quick. Respectful. An animal deserved no more suffering than necessary.
You used every part. You valued the life you were ending.
That rule did not apply here.
He coughed up blood and tried to squirm out of my grasp.
The rage in me didn’t blind me. It focused me.
I shifted and gripped his jaw.
“You touched what was mine,” I roared. “You hurt something that didn’t belong to you.”
His breath came shallow. Panic replaced arrogance.
I brought my fist down on his throat.
Once.
Twice.
He gagged, hands clawing weakly at my forearm.
I struck again.
His breathing collapsed into a wet rasp.