2. Lachlan
LACHLAN
The whiskey tastes like victory, smooth as butter, but there's a bite at the back of my throat that has nothing to do with the alcohol.
I stand at the floor-to-ceiling windows of my penthouse, far above the streets of Chicago, and watch the city spread out beneath me, this part of it now my kingdom.
Outside, lights flicker in the darkness—cars on the expressway and buildings lit up like beacons.
From up here, it all looks nothing like the streets I clawed my way out of to get here.
Nothing like the violence I've had to commit in order to get here.
I take another sip of the Macallan 25. Two grand a bottle.
I remember when I couldn't afford bottom-shelf liquor at a dive bar in any of the cities I made my way through after I ran from New York.
Twenty years old with broken ribs, a shattered hand, and blood in my lungs, dragging myself out of that city with nothing but the clothes on my back and a burning need to survive.
That was ten years ago.
It's been ten years since I left her behind in that house. Ten years since I promised I'd come back.
The city blurs in front of me, and I blink hard, forcing my vision to clear.
I don't let myself think about her during the day—not when there's work to be done, and I need to be sharp and focused and in control.
But at night, when the deals are done, and the blood is washed off, she's all I can think about.
Adriana.
Her name is both a prayer and a curse, and I've whispered it into the dark every night for ten years. Sometimes more than once, when the memories of that one night are particularly piercing.
My phone buzzes on the glass table behind me. I let it ring. Whoever it is can wait until I have myself under control again. I'm the one in charge now.
The buzzing stops, then starts again. I drain the whiskey and set the glass down with a sharp click that echoes in the silence.
"Boss." The front door opens, and Rian's voice carries across the open space of the penthouse. He's my head of security, loyal as a dog and twice as vicious when he needs to be. "They're here."
"Send them up."
I hear the elevator chime, then three sets of footsteps crossing the marble floor. I don't turn around until they stop a respectful distance behind me.
When I finally turn, my second-in-command, Tommy Reeves, is standing front and center.
He's thirty-five, sharp-eyed, muscled, and a crack shot, and he looks trustworthy right up until he puts a bullet in your skull.
Behind him are Jack and Cormac Murphy, brothers who've been with me since the early days.
Jack's got a fresh bruise on his jaw, purple and swollen. Cormac's knuckles are split.
"The Italians are getting restless about the shipment," Tommy says without preamble. He knows I don't like small talk.
"Let them be restless." I shove my hands into my pockets. "They'll get their product when I say they get it. Not before."
"They're threatening to go to the Russians."
I chuckle humorlessly, a low sound deep in my chest. "Then they're stupider than I thought. The Russians can't move product through the ports without my say-so. They know that. This is posturing. They're testing me because I'm new."
"You want us to send a message?"
I consider it. I learned long ago that weakness gets you killed. But so does unnecessary violence. To survive in this world, particularly as a boss, a man has to know which battles to fight and which to let simmer—which threats to answer with blood and which to answer with silence.
"Not yet. Let them sweat another day. Then we'll remind them why they came to us in the first place." I look at Jack, at the bruise blooming across his face. "What about the territory dispute on the West Side?"
Jack steps forward, rolling his shoulders like a boxer warming up. "Handled. The Latin guys won't be pushing into our blocks anymore."
"Any casualties?"
"Three of theirs. None of ours."
"Good." I move away from the window, and I catch a brief glimpse of my reflection, and the white scar running along my jaw. I look away. "And the shipment from Dublin?"
"Arrives Thursday," Cormac says. His voice is rougher than his brother's, scarred from a knife to the throat a long time ago. "We've got the warehouse secured and the distribution routes mapped. Should be smooth."
Should be. In this business, nothing's ever guaranteed. But I've built what I have now by calculating every step, and keeping as many of those steps as I can ahead of everyone else.
It's kept me alive this long.
I pour myself another whiskey, then gesture to the bar. "Help yourselves."
They do, the tension in the room easing slightly. I try to be firm but fair when it comes to my men, ruthless when I need to be, but I take care of my people. They're loyal because I've earned it, not just because they're afraid of me.
Though they should be afraid of me. I've killed men for less than betrayal.
"There's something else," Tommy says after a moment. He's watching me carefully, like he's not sure how I'll react—like this is different from the usual business. "You asked me to look into something personal."
Everything in me goes still. My hand tightens around the glass, and I have to consciously relax my grip before it shatters. "And?"
"It took some digging. The Santoros keep their business tight, especially family business. But I've got a contact in New York, a guy who used to run with one of their crews. He was willing to talk for the right price."
I take a drink, keeping my expression neutral even though my heart is hammering against my ribs. "What did he say?"
"Giovanni Santoro is dead. Heart attack, three years ago."
The glass stops halfway to my lips. Dead.
Giovanni Santoro—the man who beat me within an inch of my life, who would have killed me slowly and painfully if Adriana hadn't freed me that night… the man who ruined my life—is dead.
I feel a sharp sensation of satisfaction. There's a vindictive pleasure in knowing that the bastard who tried to destroy me is rotting in the ground. But just as quickly, I feel emptiness, right behind it.
His death doesn't change anything. It doesn't bring back the ten years I've lost. Doesn't undo what he did to Adriana and me, what he took from us. And it doesn't erase the scars on my body or the ones carved deeper in places no one can see.
"What about his daughter?" The words scrape against my throat like broken glass. "Adriana."
Tommy exchanges a glance with Jack. It's quick, barely a flicker, but I catch it.
"That's the interesting part," Tommy says carefully. "We figured she'd be married off by now, right? Daughter of a mafia boss, that's how it works. Seal an alliance, strengthen the family position. But according to my contact, she's still at the estate."
Except she was damaged goods, according to her family.
Not a virgin any longer. Even with the story I told her to stick to, that I raped her rather than her willingly giving me her innocence, Giovanni would have been hard-pressed to find a man who wanted her.
The thought sets my teeth on edge, that old banked fury flaring all over again, but it's true.
Still, I'd always thought he would have found someone, rather than keep the shame of a ruined daughter in his house. I hoped otherwise, but I couldn't let myself believe it. And I couldn't go back for her until I had the strength to go up against the Santoros.
I have it now, but I never let myself hope she'd still be unattached.
Even now, I can feel myself fighting against anything remotely like hope. But there's a flicker of it, all the same.
I set my glass down carefully. "Still there."
"Yeah. Never left. Never married."
"Why?" I ask. "Why would he keep her there?"
"My contact didn't know. Said the family keeps her locked down tight. She doesn't go out, doesn't socialize. It's like she's—" Tommy hesitates.
"Like she's what?"
"Like she's a prisoner in her own house."
I feel my lungs tighten, every part of me suddenly awake, alive, wanting to go to her.
She's been there this whole time. While I've been building my empire, fighting my way to the top, killing and scheming and clawing for every scrap of power, she's been trapped in that house with the ghosts of what we did and the memory of that night.
With her father, until he died. And then with—
"Her brother. Gio. He's in charge now?"
Tommy nods. "Yeah. Took over when Giovanni died. Word is he's even more of a bastard than his old man was."
My hands curl into fists, scars stretching over my knuckles. I can feel my pulse in my temples, in my throat, every pulse point in my body. "There's more. I can see it on your face."
Tommy takes a breath. "She has a kid… a son. Nine years old."
Everything goes silent—the hum of the city below, the sound of my own breathing, the clink of ice in Cormac's glass. All of it fades away until there's nothing but those words echoing in my head.
Nine years old.
The math is so easy it's automatic. Ten years since that night. Nine months for a pregnancy.
"Jesus Christ." The words come out as barely a whisper.
"Boss?" Tommy takes a step forward. "You okay?"
I'm not okay. I'm the furthest thing from okay.
I have a son.
Adriana has been raising my son for nine years, trapped in that house with her father and then her bastard of a brother, and I didn't know. I didn't fucking know.
"Are you sure?" My voice sounds scraped raw, and I can see my men looking at me curiously. I struggle to get my composure back. "About the kid?"
"Yeah. My contact's seen him. Said he's kept pretty isolated, like his mother. The family doesn't talk about him much. Doesn't parade him around. It's like they're ashamed of him."
Because he's a bastard. An illegitimate child born from what they think was rape. A stain on the Santoro name.
And he's my son.