Chapter 1
Jericho
"Did you see her?" Jersey asks as my feet hit the landing at the bottom of the stairs.
"Who?" I ask as I slip past him on a mission for coffee.
"The woman who Ace brought home," he answers. "Can you believe it? The man was ready to eat Hemlock alive for Zara and now he brought someone back here."
"Leave that man alone. Don't you think he deserves happiness?" I grumble.
I don't like to speak often, much less sit around and fucking gossip about what other people are doing. Talk to me about a case, but whispering about what other people are doing in their personal lives, makes me want to rejoin ICE and spend months in solitude.
"She's pretty upset with everything that happened," he says.
"Wouldn't you be if you went through the shit that woman has over these last couple of weeks?"
He considers this for a moment. If I wasn't looking right at him, I might've missed the way darkness and shadows settle into his eyes.
"You good?" I ask when it's clear his mind went somewhere else for a moment.
"I'm good. Did you hear about Ivan Reese?"
I stop dead in my tracks, the scar running down my left cheek seeming to tingle with just the mention of the man's name.
"What about him?" I ask.
I'm sure Jersey knows about my time with the Reese organization. He was also a part of ICE until the Gatlinburg, Tennessee chapter of the Cerberus MC was created.Ivan Reese was the focus of my first field case as an ICE agent, and I seriously fucked that one up. It left me with the daily reminder I see every morning in the mirror that getting tangled up with people while working a case could cost me my life. Damien Gaines didn't kill me that day like he was ordered. He insisted that I watch from the shadows as he got everything I ever wanted before dumping me on a back road.
The agency wouldn't let me go after him for what he did to me because the case they were working on, trying to take down the guns and drugs, was more important. I almost lost my life and my job that day. I've spent the last eight years working hard to prove it was a rookie mistake, and I could be a good agent.
That is until the opportunity with Cerberus came a few months ago. I peaced out of ICE so fast I left their heads spinning. I was tired of the oversight, politics, and bureaucracy. Cerberus seems like it's going to be a much better fit for me.
"He's dead," Jersey says, causing a rush of emotions and memories to hit me all at once.
I stare at him. Ivan Reese was always considered the head of the snake. He was the boss of a major crime family in Boston, and he ran his organization with a steel fist. I spent months on the inside and never learned enough to take him down. My superiors blame my lack of intel on getting mixed up with Aspen Reese. Although I argued it at the time, there's a good chance she had a lot to do with my inability to see the full picture because it might've meant she went down with her father.
"Heart attack?"
Jersey shakes his head, his smile widening as if he's gearing up to tell a tale more fitting for around a campfire than one blocking the coffee pot.
"Can you move?" I ask, needing to do something with my hands.
The news is a revelation, and it makes my mind spin with possibilities. That's no place for me to spend another minute, not with the vows I made.
"Rumor has it that it was an inside job. One of his men killed him in a hostile takeover sort of situation," Jersey explains.
"Damien Gaines," I mutter.
Jersey dips his head. "That's the word on the street. They suspect he was dead for a month before they discovered his body."
"Let me guess… on some back road, left for someone walking their damn dog to find?"
Jersey tilts his head. "So you have heard about it?"
I shake my head. "No, just really familiar with the MO. Is someone working a case to bring him in for murder?"
Jersey scoffs, and I knew the second the question left my lips, it was a stupid one. The danger the guns pose to police and innocent civilians, as well as the overdoses contributed to the fentanyl they believe he's responsible for smuggling into the United States, will always be their focus. The death of one bad guy by another bad guy wouldn't even raise suspicions if it weren't the leader of the organization.
"From what I hear, no one is talking. They don't want to end up like Reese."
"Understandable," I mutter, but it's not like there are many rats in that organization.
I had an in and I ruined it by falling for a girl who was no doubt playing me all along.
I pour my cup of coffee, thoughts I try to shove down still somehow invading my head. By the time I leave Jersey in the kitchen and head back to my room, my fingers are itching to get on my laptop.
I drink my coffee, letting the burn scald my tongue for the distraction it provides, but within minutes, the liquid is gone and I'm left with no other thought in my head than to check the email I gave to her all those years ago.
I don't know why there's a flash of hope inside of me that with her father's death, she'd want me back. She sat there while the man she claimed to hate, the man she was promised to marry, mangled my face. She didn't so much as gasp when I cried out in pain.
Knowing that doesn't stop me from logging into the email I've managed to avoid for the last three years. After hating her the first five, I still checked it daily just in case I read the situation wrong and she did care for me like she claimed before we got caught.
I feel like a junkie giving into a hit for the first time in years. I know the high and the crash of disappointment is coming because she has never once used this email in all the years I kept checking it.
My eyes land on several unread messages. My mouth turns dry as I stare at the subject lines.
If things were different.
The days are long, but the nights are longer.
Should I miss a man who was evil?
The first email was written several months ago. The last one, the one I'm assuming is about her father, was written several weeks ago, proving she knew about her father's death before the body was discovered and identified by authorities.
I keep my palms flat on the desk because I still haven't convinced myself to open the fucking messages. The very last thing I need at this point in my life is to let my mind drift back to her. It hurts too much. She caused so much pain, and I'm not even talking about the physical pain and the scar left behind on my face. Her betrayal was bone deep. Her inability to speak up for me has altered every relationship I've had since her, being they're nonexistent, and I've chosen to lead a life of solitude.
My heart races, like I imagine it would if I were standing on the edge of a cliff, leaning forward and challenging gravity, as if it doesn't exist without a safety net.
I know the results of opening the messages will be just as catastrophic.
Hell, I don't even have to open the fucking emails, and I can already feel the way my brain chemistry is changing to make way for whatever these emails might contain.
My reasoning isn't based on any sort of science. I know I'm going to open the emails. I know I'll not be able to focus on anything else until I do. Just like I know they're all I'll be able to think about for years to come once I've read them.
It makes me hate her all over again. She should've just stayed in her own little corner of criminal enterprise and left me the fuck alone. But evil people will always do evil things, won't they?
A wave of guilt hits me right in the chest for thinking of her that way. Deep down, I know it was fear that kept her silent that day. Her father was a brutal man, and that was what kept her from stepping forward and declaring her love for me. I was so willing to die for her, but when put to the test, she wasn't willing to die for me. I don't know that I have a right to fault her for that. A lot of people will take a step back when faced with that choice. It's natural to want to live.
I click the first email, knowing I have to read them in order, and the sight of LUKE in the greeting makes me pause.
I only used that alias during that first case and refused it when the suggestion was made years later. I never wanted to be that man again. Luke Gannon was a weak man. He was flawed and easily manipulated.
I blow out a ragged breath as I read. Even though the words are typed, I can sense the pain and longing inside her. She writes of loneliness and years of sadness. She misses me and wishes things were different.
My lip twitches with irritation, but it doesn't stop my heart from beating faster, doesn't stop me from wishing things were different.
I shake my head and step away for a moment. It all seems like too much, like a ghost from my past is haunting me and trying to make me remember only the good times and none of the bad.
I force myself to step forward and to continue reading with a whispered vow in the back of my head that after this, I'm done, and not in a sense that I'll not check the email again. I'll delete the entire fucking account. Even with her betrayal and the years separating us, she still has too much power in my mind, and that's just one more thing I fucking hate about her.
Her emails speak of her unhappiness and her safety. She mentions the volatile situation now that her father is gone and how she's constantly wondering when someone will come after her. The hostile takeover has left many men in the organization thinking they have more power than they actually do.
I read each word and, with every breath, I use the energy to build up a wall inside of me. One that was there before, but distance, time, and lack of attention have managed to weaken it. I can't care about her life. She fucking chose it with her silence.
With the last words of her email engrained in my head, I log out and close my laptop. I'm still not strong enough to delete the account, proving her claws are well and truly embedded in my skin.