Monk (Falcon’s Rest MC #3)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Monk stood in front of the familiar custom-made wrought iron gates and stared down the long driveway.

Dormant vines and rosebushes lined the road, their twisting, gnarled branches and thorns urging him to turn back.

Instead, he lifted his gaze to the towers of his father’s home, the four structures peaking over the horizon.

The castle, shipped stone by stone from Italy to the Napa Valley decades ago, a testament to Roger Wilde’s ego.

Monk tipped his head as a red-tailed hawk soared overhead, hunting the tiny prey that called the two hundred acres of vineyard home.

He winced. What the hell was he going to do with two hundred acres of prime vines? Not to mention an actual fucking castle? Or the four hundred acres his father owned in two of California’s other prestigious wine regions?

Had owned, he corrected himself.

Satan had finally sent the reaper to bring Roger Wilde home. Monk hoped he had a long, hot, and bumpy ride.

A car drove by heading north on the iconic Silverado Trail.

He glanced over his shoulder as a black livery vehicle rounded a bend in the road.

He never understood why so many people traveled to the valley to wine taste.

As wine regions went, it wasn’t a huge one, not like the sprawling hills and estates of France or Italy.

And the traffic, tourists, and expensive lodgings overshadowed any enjoyment.

Or he imagined they would if he ever did any real tastings.

He’d left home at eighteen and hadn’t once come back.

Until now.

The crunch of tires on the berm had him turning once again. Despite the chilly December temperatures, the top was down on the vintage hunter-green MG.

“Is it open today?” the driver asked. The older white man looked as if he’d be better served keeping the top of the convertible sealed. Even from thirty feet away the red of his scalp shone through his thinning gray hair.

“We heard the owner died,” his companion, a woman with large sunglasses and a sun hat, said. “But you’d think the business would stay open, wouldn’t you?”

Monk hadn’t spoken to his father for seventeen years. He had no idea how Roger ran his empire, and the woman raised a good question. Surely Bacco employed enough people to keep the tasting room open.

“Still closed,” he said, gesturing to the locked gates.

“We were so looking forward to visiting,” she said. “It’s been on our list forever. We even had a reservation.” She paused, then shrugged. “But life throws us curveballs…”

The couple gave a jaunty wave before pulling back onto the road.

His gaze lingered until they disappeared around the bend.

In the silence that followed, his thoughts turned to his truck.

He’d left it several miles away on the edge of town and, hoping it would burn off his restless anxiety, walked to Bacco.

It wouldn’t be hard to turn around and walk right back, to climb in and drive home to his family, to the safety of Mystery Lake.

His body swayed, and he lifted a foot. Only the step led him toward the side gate. Not toward his escape. Another step took him closer and before he could stop himself, he typed in the security code his father hadn’t changed in decades and walked through.

His feet fell nearly silent on the well-tended drive as he traveled the half mile to the castle. The vines appeared sturdier and the rosebushes larger, but not much else had changed.

As he drew closer to the castle, memories of what went on inside when the doors closed at night dripped through his mind like acid. The violence and depravity of the dark, taunting thoughts rendering the serene beauty of his surroundings absurd.

That had been his life, though. On the surface—glamorous, wealthy, perfect. In reality—ugly, sick, and twisted.

Until he left.

Until he joined the army and met his family—his real family. Fourteen men he served with. Fourteen men who’d grown up similarly enough to understand one another in a way that both anchored and freed them all.

Thinking of his brothers brought a swift punch of confidence, and he straightened his back and lengthened his stride. He’d chosen to make this trip alone. But he wasn’t truly alone. He’d never be alone again.

The castle came into sight as he followed the gentle curve of the drive.

Two towers anchored the north and south ends of the building and two more flanked an arched entrance to a charming inner courtyard.

For years, people had sat and laughed and enjoyed one of the valley’s most prestigious wine labels in that courtyard.

He wondered what they’d think if they knew what went on in the rooms buried deep below their feet.

A pair of crows cawed to each other as they swooped over the south tower, drawing his attention away from the clean-cut lawn and potted roses. The top two floors of the south tower had been his room. As far away from Roger and the “parties” he threw as Monk could get. Not that it always helped.

For the hundredth time, he wondered why the hell he’d come.

He knew the details of his inheritance—millions he wouldn’t keep, land he didn’t want, and a castle he’d raze to the ground if given the chance.

He wanted nothing from the house, and the lawyer could handle any paperwork required by the estate.

So why had he come back?

He paused as the question percolated, only one answer bubbling to the surface. Ego. Only this time, it was his, not Roger’s.

Everything his vile, hateful father had owned was now his. His to do with what he wanted. And while he didn’t have any fixed plans, the options he’d contemplated on his three-hour drive to the valley would leave Roger rolling in his grave if he hadn’t been cremated.

His lips twitched with a smile he wasn’t proud of as he continued toward the employee entrance.

Considering all the ways the castle, grounds, and money could be used that would piss Roger off wasn’t healthy.

But Monk was also practical enough to know it would get him through the next thirty minutes, so he let the ideas flow.

Maybe a retirement home. Or an art gallery.

A private library, open to the public, was an option, too.

As incongruous as it was, Roger had been an avid reader and collector of books.

Monk didn’t know if any of the rare books he’d managed to get his hands on were still in the castle library, but it was a thought.

Rounding the corner of the building, his gaze swept over the wine caves his Moldovan great-great-grandfather had carved out over a hundred years ago.

The floor of the Napa Valley was relatively flat, except in a few spots.

His long-dead ancestor had chosen land with a rise specifically to build the underground labyrinths—tunnels with natural temperature moderation essential to storing wine before cooling systems were even a glint in anyone’s eye.

But like everything else on the property, they appeared empty and silent, their gates closed and locked. Almost ominous.

A cold breeze rolled up the valley, the chill snaking down his collar and wrapping around his neck, yanking him from his thoughts.

And his avoidance.

He’d come to walk through the castle, to face his past with the eyes and experience of an adult. The sooner he did that, the sooner he could think logically about what to do with both his inheritance and his memories.

Taking the last few strides to the employee entrance, he climbed three steps to the wide threshold and eyed the security pad tucked into a nook between several large stones. He knew the code; the lawyer had given it to him. Yet an almost physical pull on his body held him still.

He lifted a hand, his finger outstretched. The tip brushed the ridges of a number engraved in the tiny metal buttons. As he pressed down, a ripple of awareness ran up his spine.

He stilled.

Opening his senses, his world grew both narrow and open. A mockingbird trilled up on the hill. A woodpecker banged away on a tree to his left. Another breeze shifted the dormant vines, carrying a hint of…lavender?

He frowned. Napa Valley had its share of lavender, but in December?

He inhaled again. The scent of dirt, recently dried from rain a few days earlier, mingled with the ever-present undertones of fermentation and decaying agriculture. And there it was again, lavender.

Dropping his hand, he scanned the parking area before shifting his gaze to the vines forty feet away. His eyes swept from left to right, covering two-thirds of the view before swinging back like a magnet to a spot directly in front of him.

There, flanked by rosebushes, a single white blossom incongruously in bloom, leaning toward her, almost brushing her arm, stood Helia Shaw.

His body seized, imploding like an icy avalanche before rolling back outward in a wave of heat.

Their eyes locked, and even from a distance he could see hers widen in recognition, her lips part on a small gasp.

A blur of jeans and puffer vest and flannel and wild honey-gold hair flew toward him before she leaped, her body slamming into his.

He staggered back as her legs wrapped around his waist and her arms squeezed his neck, her chin digging into the flesh of his shoulder.

His arms closed around her and a heartbeat later, the reality of her body pressed against his hit him.

Helia Shaw was once again in his arms.

He loosened his hold, hoping she’d do the same and he could set her down.

She squeezed him tighter. “You’re here,” she said, her voice muffled against his leather jacket. “I didn’t know if you were alive or dead or unreachable and now I don’t know whether to be grateful you’re okay or furious that you never wrote me.”

Furious would be easier. “You feel kind of grateful to me,” he said instead.

She drew back enough to look him in the eye but didn’t let go. “You should have written.”

The brown in her hazel eyes expanded, almost covering the emerald green. He’d thought about her ever-changing eyes more than he should while in the army. They’d eased him into sleep, following him into his dreams, more than once.

“Collin?”

He blinked at the sound of his name. No one called him Collin anymore. He’d left that name behind years ago when his teammates dubbed him Monk.

“I should have written,” he said. He didn’t mean it. There’d been a reason he hadn’t. One he lived with nearly every day but never let himself formulate, let alone voice—not even in his own head.

Her eyes narrowed, then a beat later, her grip loosened and she slid away.

He couldn’t help it; he glanced down at her left hand.

No ring. Ten years ago, he’d run into her brother at the airport in Berlin.

Monk had been sitting at a bar, nursing a beer, debating whether to re-up for another few years.

Kaden and his husband walked in, on their way to California to attend Helia’s wedding. Monk had reenlisted the next day.

“I’d say I’m sorry about your dad…” she said, her eyes searching his.

“But we don’t have to pretend,” he finished.

Sympathy flashed across her face. “You going in?” she asked, gesturing to the door with her chin. He nodded. “Want company?”

He glanced at the heavy oak door. He’d done enough therapy over the years to know his reaction to being back at the castle could be unpredictable. He didn’t feel the beginnings of anything—no panic attack skulking around the periphery of his mind—but he hadn’t set foot inside yet.

He shook his head. “I need to do this on my own.”

Her head tipped a fraction and again, sympathy flashed in her eyes, only this time concern vied for space, too. Her jaw tightened and her lips thinned, but she nodded. “Will you come by after?”

Her family’s property bordered the Bacco vineyards. They’d run back and forth between the two estates dozens of times a week as teenagers.

“It might be a while.”

She reached out and squeezed his hand. “Just come. Or call if you can’t.” She pulled out her phone and without thought, he did the same. A few seconds later, she’d AirDropped her contact information to his device.

She hesitated, as if unsure whether to leave. Despite what he’d told her, he felt the same uncertainty. He didn’t want her to witness whatever might happen to him once he set foot inside, but he didn’t want to watch her leave either.

She squeezed his hand again, then went on her toes and brushed a kiss across his cheek. “I’m glad you’re here, Collin. If you don’t show up in two hours, I’m coming back for you,” she said. “I’m not going to let another almost-two-decades pass before I see you again.”

And with that she turned, skipped down the steps, and walked away.

She slipped down a row of vines, the bright red of her flannel shirt a shot of color in the muted browns of winter. She’d always been a beacon of color, of brightness, in his life. Even when she hadn’t been a part of it.

When he could no longer see any hint of her, he noted the time on his phone, then slid the device into his pocket.

Two hours. She hadn’t intended to—or maybe she had—but Helia had given him something he needed.

A time frame. He didn’t need to face all his demons today.

He didn’t need to immerse himself fully in the hell of his past. He could give it a cursory inspection, dip his toe in.

Two hours only. Really, only ninety minutes, as it would take a little more than twenty minutes to walk to her family’s place.

He could survive most things for ninety minutes.