2. Lachlan #3
"Get me that information," I tell Tommy. "As fast as you can."
"On it." He gestures to the brothers, and they head for the elevator. Rian goes with them. I'm alone again, the silence of the penthouse pressing in around me.
I walk back to the bar and pour another whiskey. My hands are steady, but there's a tremor running through me that has nothing to do with fear, and everything to do with the realization that's settling over me heavily now that the initial shock is past.
I have a son.
A nine-year-old boy who's been living in that house, probably wondering who his father is, probably being told lies about me.
Being raised by Gio Santoro, who's worse than his father.
What kind of life has he had? Does Gio see the boy as a reminder of his sister's shame?
Does Adriana tell him stories about me, or has she erased me from their history? Does my son even know I exist?
The questions pile up in my mind, each one sharper than the last. I down the whiskey and pour another.
I should eat something, get some sleep, then focus on the dozen other things that need my attention—shipments, territory disputes, deals that need to be made, hands that need to be shaken so that the other bosses in this city work with me as an equal.
But all I can think about is Adriana.
The woman in my memory is a girl, eighteen years old, and I can't picture what she must look like now.
She used to be so full of life and optimism and stubbornness, and in the semi-dark of my penthouse, as the old, bad thoughts creep in, I can't help but wonder if she's been broken by everything that came after.
If maybe I should have just taken her with me, and damn the consequences.
But if I had, I still think we'd both be dead.
She made me feel like I was worth something back then—that I was more than just a bottom-of-the-rung son of a gang member who did dirty work for her father. And as I down yet another whiskey, I wonder if she thinks about me. If she hates me for leaving.
If she's been waiting for me to come back, or if she gave up hope years ago.
The not knowing is worse than anything else. Worse than the beatings I took on my way up, worse than the men I've killed, worse than the nightmares that still wake me up sometimes, worse than the constant ache of desire that settled into my bones years ago for her, and has never left.
I need to know she's okay, and look into her eyes and see if there's anything left of what we had. I need her to be mine again.
Even if it means starting a war that could destroy everything I've built. She's worth it. She's always been worth it.
I walk to my bedroom, stripping off my shirt as I go.
The scars on my torso catch the light—some old, some new.
They're a roadmap of the violence that's brought me to this moment.
Some of the worst ones are from that night, from Giovanni's men.
Broken ribs that healed crooked, burns from the cigarettes they put out on my skin, a deep gash across my abdomen where one of them got creative with a knife, the slight bend in one of my fingers where they broke my hand and wrist after it was zip-tied.
I'm lucky I still have use of that hand—they broke it and then tied me up, leaving the wrist and hand to balloon and swell around a tie meant for a smaller wrist. Adriana coming when she did made a big difference—later, and I might have a useless right hand.
Then again, if she hadn't come to get me out, I'd just be dead.
There are plenty of scars that have accumulated since then, from street fights and wet work and everything else I've had to do to get here.
I've covered a lot of them with tattoos, inked across my chest, shoulders, arms, back, and neck.
There's a Celtic cross on my chest and a wolf on my shoulder, and marks on my ribs marking off the men I had to kill on my way to get here.
Sooner rather than later, I want to add a mark for Gio Santoro.
I'm disappointed I didn't get to add one for his father.
And across my chest, over my heart, another tattoo I got the day after I ran from the Santoro estate.
My entire body is a muscled, brutal map of violence and power. But underneath it all, I'm still the same kid who fell in love with a girl he couldn't have, promised her forever, and then had to run.
I'll come back for you. Someday. When it's safe, when I'm strong enough to protect you.
Someday is now.
As I lie down on the bed, she fills my memory—her soft hair and softer skin, the feeling of her lips on my throat, her hands tugging at my clothes, the sounds she made when I touched her.
My cock stiffens instantly at the memories of how she looked and sounded and felt and smelled, but for once I ignore it.
I don't want yet another anguished orgasm after I jerk off to memories of the girl I haven't touched in ten years.
That's not enough, now that I know she's going to be mine again.
Soon, I'll have her here, in this bed.
And then nothing will ever be wrong again.