4. Lachlan
LACHLAN
The plane touches down at just after midnight, the wheels hitting the tarmac with a jolt that reverberates through my bones.
I'm already unbuckling my seatbelt before we've fully stopped.
Every second we waste is another second Adriana spends in that house, another second my son breathes the same air as Gio Santoro.
The engines whine as we taxi toward the private hangar. Through the small window I can see the lights of New York bleeding into the night sky, a place I knew in another lifetime, when I was someone else entirely. Someone weaker.
Someone who let the woman he loved stay behind.
Cormac is on his feet before the plane has fully stopped, checking his weapon, and Rian is beside him.
His medical bag already slung over one shoulder, because we both know there's a decent chance someone's going to need patching up before the night is over.
Tommy and Jack are in the back, both of them armed to the teeth and ready to move the second I give the word.
I chose these men carefully. Not just because they're loyal—though they are fiercely so—but because they're good at what they do. When I tell them to extract a woman and a child from a heavily guarded estate, they'll find a way to make it happen.
They understand that failure isn't an option.
"We go in as quietly as we can," I say as the plane door opens, letting in a rush of warm air that smells like jet fuel and rain. "No unnecessary casualties. We're not here to start a war. We're here to take back what's mine and get out."
"And if they don't let us leave quietly?" Cormac asks.
"Then we make sure they can't follow."
The drive to the Santoro estate winds through neighborhoods that get progressively more expensive and more isolated until we're on tree-lined roads where the houses are set back behind gates and walls.
I remember this area from when I was younger, when I used to ride with my father on jobs for Giovanni.
Back when I was just the son of a low-level enforcer, and Adriana was the untouchable daughter of the boss that I dared to touch.
Looking back on it now, I can't believe I ever thought I could have her without consequences. That we could get away with it.
I was so fucking naive. We were both so fucking young we thought we could be invincible.
The estate comes into view, all stone, wrought iron, and manicured gardens.
There are guards visible at the front gate and walking the perimeter, and I count at least six men on the grounds that I can see from here, which means there are probably twice that many on the rest of the property, and possibly more inside.
We park a little ways down the street, far enough that we can spread out and try to enter without bringing attention to ourselves.
"Tommy, Jack—you take the east side," I say quietly, scanning the property. "Cormac, Rian—with me. We'll go in through the back, near the kitchen. There's a service entrance that should be less guarded."
"And the boy?" Rian asks.
"We'll find him. If we find Adriana first, she'll take us to wherever he is. Me and my guys will go for her. You two work on keeping things quiet."
Tommy nods, his expression grim. "Understood."
We move.
Toward the back of the estate, there's a place where there's a blind spot in the cameras, and the guards won't be back around for twenty minutes.
Cormac weakens the metal with a small handheld blowtorch and then cuts the bars, making a space within a minute or so that we can squeeze through.
It'll be obvious later, but by then we'll be gone.
Whatever comes after that, I'll deal with it from Chicago.
We'll see if Gio Santoro wants to make an enemy of me now.
The first guard goes down without ever knowing we're there.
Cormac comes up behind him, one arm around his throat and the other hand covering his mouth, and within seconds the man is unconscious and being dragged into the bushes.
The second guard is smoking a cigarette near the pool house, his back to us, and I take him myself, my hand clamping over his mouth as I drive my knee into his kidney hard enough to drop him.
I get him in a chokehold, and he goes limp in my arms, his cigarette falling to the ground in a shower of sparks.
Two down.
We keep moving.
The service entrance is exactly where Tommy said it would be.
It's locked but not alarmed, and I almost laugh.
This is exactly the kind of overconfidence that comes from thinking you're untouchable, believing that no one would dare come for you in your own home.
Gio thinks his outer perimeter is unscalable, and so he hasn't worried as much about locking down every possible way of getting in.
Good for us, bad for him.
Cormac has it open in less than a minute, and then we're inside. The smell of garlic and tomato sauce lingers in the air from whatever dinner was served hours ago, and the house is quiet around us.
I signal for Cormac and Rian to split off to look for my son.
The thought still feels surreal, and I try not to think too hard about it right now, when I can't afford to be distracted.
I move deeper into the house, toward the west wing where Tommy's contact said Adriana's room is located.
My hand rests on the gun at my hip, even though I'm hoping I won't need to use it.
The hallway is long and lined with expensive artwork.
I move past closed doors and darkened rooms, every sense on high alert for any indication that this is about to go sideways.
I pass what looks like a study from the open door, and then a bathroom with the door cracked and the light on, like whoever is in there was in too much of a hurry to make sure the door was shut.
I hear a hiss of breath from inside, and I nudge the door carefully with my hand, easing it open.
I see a man sitting on the closed toilet lid, his cargo pants open, and my eyes go wide.
He's too focused on the phone in his hand and the rigid erection in his fist to notice I'm there, and I'm about to back the fuck up from whatever I just interrupted and move on when I catch a glimpse of the screen.
Every muscle in my body locks, white-hot rage flooding through me with a force that makes my heartbeat pound in my ears.
The man is working his cock harder, grunting and moaning as he stares at the woman on the screen with her bra tugged to one side, her breast cupped in her hand as she toys with her nipple.
His mouth is open, and he's panting, singularly focused as if there's not a chance he could be caught on duty jerking off.
Jerking off to my fucking woman.
I haven't seen her in ten years, but I know the woman on the screen is Adriana. And from the look on her face in the picture, she's not happy to have been taking them.
I would recognize her anywhere, in any context, no matter how much time has passed or how much she's changed. I know it's her, in a red lacy pair of panties and a bra, and everything about her is still her, if slightly changed by the years… except for her eyes.
They look dead, resigned to whatever forced her to take those photos.
My hands curl into fists so tight my knuckles crack, and every rational thought in my head evaporates in the face of a rage so intense it's almost blinding.
Surely the man who's about to come looking at a woman who belongs to me sees that she doesn't want to be posing for him, but I don't think he cares.
In fact, from the look on his face, he's getting off on it.
The guard groans again, his hand moving faster, his hips starting to thrust up into his grip, and I'm across the room before I've consciously decided to move.
I don't think about the consequences or the noise, or anything except the overwhelming need to make this man hurt, to make him pay for what he's doing, for what Gio has been doing to her, for every second of the last ten years that she's spent trapped in this house.
For daring to pleasure himself to something that's always been mine.
For even daring to look at her that way.
My hand closes around his throat.
His eyes fly open, wide and suddenly terrified as he realizes what's happening.
He tries to say something, but I'm squeezing too hard for him to make any sound except a choked gurgle.
The phone falls from his hand and clatters to the floor, his wet cock still sticking up red and obscene as I strangle him.
"You like those?" I snarl, digging my fingers in harder. "You like jerking off to pictures of a woman who's being forced to pose for you?"
He claws at my hand, his face turning purple, his legs kicking uselessly against the edge of the toilet. I can feel his pulse hammering against my palm, his body starting to go limp as his brain is starved of oxygen.
I don't let go.
"She's mine," I hiss out through my teeth. "She's always been mine. And you—you're nothing. You're less than nothing."
I clamp my other hand over his face, my thumb and forefinger digging into the wet meat of his eyeballs. I feel the moment they give, hear his choked, gurgling cry of pain as he kicks and writhes, weakening moment by moment as fluid and blood smear over my hand.
When I pull my fingers away, his eyeballs are jelly, and he's gone limp.
I check his pulse, and when I feel nothing, I let him slump over on the toilet, his head banging against the side of the counter.
With the heel of one boot, I crush the phone's screen, then grab it and yank out the SIM card with bloody fingers, crushing that, too.
I'm shaking all over and breathing hard, and I struggle to get myself back under control. I need to get her out of here. And if anyone else gets in my way, they're going to die too.