Chapter Three #2
The best FBI agent in the country, one of the most decorated Marines.
Still, I didn’t think his father would appreciate his little love fling.
Haley was beaten and kidnapped by men, then stripped nude and strung up in my torture room like a piece of meat, ready for inspection and approval before shipment.
Bile rose in my throat.
Romano kept secrets from me after everything I had done for this empire. This was only pushing me to pull the fucking trigger, one I had been hesitant to pull.
Haley Austen would have been sold if she hadn’t been brought here, but I wasn’t her salvation. I wasn’t her hero. Her lover would come for me, no doubt. He would try to kill me, but he wouldn’t succeed. I would have to kill James Garner, and in turn that would put Haley in hell.
The phone started ringing again, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention. I released a steady sigh as I reached for the device, answering it on the third ring.
“Yes, sir,” I drawled. I loathed his phone calls, and he seemed more irritated since the death of his son.
The line was silent. A test.
“I see we need to have another lesson, boy,” he said, his voice similar to the chill of death. I knew this was coming; it seemed I would need multiple lessons by the time he returned state side.
I was just about fed up with my lessons.
“Yes, sir,” I pushed out, even though my tongue wanted to tell him to fuck off. I pinched the bridge of my nose as he began rattling off orders.
The secrets I'd been keeping from the man who taught me everything I knew were piling up, and soon, the dam would burst. It was getting harder and harder to avoid them. He was speaking to me, but my ears didn’t want to listen. Instead, all I heard was my erratic heartbeat.
My king had been keeping secrets from me too.
First, it was the fact that Dean Connors wasn’t rotting on a riverbank somewhere. Instead, the snake worked his way into some of the mafia’s most trusted circles, and in turn, earned the respect of Romano—respect that was owed to me.
My lip curled up in disgust at the thought.
Ray Romano saw Dean Connors as his son, the favorite.
Meanwhile, I was the one who had been doing all his dirty work for the last five fucking years.
Not to mention that, before the dinner, Ray couldn’t even bother to give a shit about his actual son, Tony.
But there was another secret that dug a hole into my soul, one darker than the rest.
Sex trafficking.
My jaw tightened at the thought. I may kill mercilessly and enjoy hearing the cries of pleading men, but never a woman.
Never a child. I knew that Romano was evil, but to harm a child…
that was a line I refused to cross. I refused to cross it three weeks ago as I looked down at that hazel eyed little boy. The boy thought I was a hero.
I wasn't a hero.
I was a monster.
I was the villain.
I was the devil’s right-hand demon. His errand boy. His executioner.
Not for long. Careful. Bide your time.
My fist clenched on the surface of my desk as I tried to remember my place, the orders of Ray Romano coming through the phone.
Kill. Take. Kill. No mercy. For anyone.
“Our dear friend Charles Tipponi is missing,” he said, his smooth voice full of contempt. That caught my attention. Another one of his regional leaders striking out, another friend to say—
Ray Romano didn’t have any fucking friends.
“How long?”
“His daughter said he hasn’t been home for some time. Look into it.”
Charles’ daughter, Emily, was set to marry Tony Romano before he was killed by Dean Connors weeks ago.
The baseball player showed no mercy as he unloaded a full clip into the mafia prince’s face while staring into the eyes of my master, just as he was taught.
We did have the same teacher, after all.
“Yes, sir,” I said through my teeth. “What are we doing about St. Louis?”
“Lay low. Sullie Jones is a bug I've been meaning to squash for years. I let his influence over that city slide in hopes that Cal would do what needed to be done.”
I remained silent at the mention of my old mentor.
Cal Matthews saved my life, pulling me from the streets.
He gave me shelter and in turn, I ran with his men, did his bidding, spilled blood in his name, kept Kevin in line for him as he taught me the ins and outs of his business.
My life had been full of darkness, aside from Karina Jones, and only twice in my life had I felt pride from someone.
Cal Matthews was proud of me…for a time.
“Is that clear?”
No, because I didn’t hear a fucking word. “Yes, sir,” I deadpanned, my jaw jumping.
He is keeping shit from you. Ask him about the numbers.
Fuck it. “Sir, I've been looking at the numbers for the West branch, and things aren’t adding up.”
He grunted on the other end of the line as I heard the clinking of glasses.
“Would you like me to look into it?” I pressed, testing him.
“I have it handled,” he replied before he hung up.
I stood slowly, my eyes focused on the device in my hand as a new rage coursed through my scarred body—scars he put on me. He still saw me as nothing but an errand boy, and yet here I was, running his empire.
I threw the phone across the room with a roar. It crashed against a portrait of him on the wall, the force of it shattering the glass and causing the damn thing to slide down with a bang. I braced my hands on the desk, my breaths coming out harsh and erratic as I tried to regain control.
Fuck control.
I needed blood.
I needed screams.
I needed pain.
I flipped my desk with a scream, the contents falling to the floor, the sound bouncing off the cold, empty walls of my home.
This wasn’t a home. This was just a fucking house, a place where my secrets were kept, a place where I used to come for comfort and relaxation.
That was no longer an option. I left my office, ignoring the scurrying footsteps of my house staff as I crossed the living room to head out onto the back terrace.
I needed to clear my fucking head.
I needed this ache in my chest to disappear.
I needed to stop caring.
I needed death.
I emerged into the night air through the glass double doors, the moonlight reflecting off the water, bouncing with the light waves.
My island was small, only providing enough space for my house and a small yard.
Directly off the porch was a short walkway that led to a set of black iron stairs.
The stairs were drilled into the rock and didn’t stop at the dark, cold water.
I stopped at the top step and emptied my pockets, tossing my cigarettes, gun, and spare blades onto the dead grass.
Once my shoes were kicked off, I descended the steep steps, not stopping until my body was numb from the cold.
My eyes looked back up to the house, to the second room in the east wing on the upper level.
My angel was there, her golden hair shining in the moonlight as she watched me. The ache in the center of my chest grew, and as I released a low growl, I sank into the depths, wondering if I should even bother coming up.