Page 53 of Sinful Empire (Mount Trilogy 3)
The first man I’d ever fucking killed was that piece of shit, Jerry, who had his dick out, ready to rape a fourteen-year-old girl. I’d hoped getting her out of that house before he could touch her would put her on a better path, and it did—for a while.
Those years I spent on the streets, there wasn’t much I could do except watch to make sure Hope and Destiny didn’t leave their new home bruised or looking the worse for wear. I watched over them both the best I could. When Morello brought me into the organization, he owned my life. Eventually, I gained a little more power, and I used that power to make sure Hope graduated from high school and was able to get custody of Destiny.
I’d paid their bills for years, and not just because Hope hadn’t gotten a degree yet. I felt responsible for them. You didn’t watch out for two people for this long and just forget about them.
At least, I didn’t.
Maybe that was the problem. I should have made Hope take on more responsibility for her own damn life. She’d been trying college for years and still didn’t have a diploma to show for it, but I didn’t make her get a full-time job instead.
Mostly because I wanted her around for Destiny. Hope might not be the best example, but she was a hell of a lot better than anything I had growing up.
Plus, Destiny was smart as hell, and she had a future that both Hope and I wanted to protect.
I left my office, the same office where I ended Morello’s life for touching another girl the way Jerry dared touch Hope, with brass knuckles and a Zippo lighter in one pocket, a switchblade in the other, and twin .45s strapped under my suit coat. I didn’t bring a fucking knife to a gunfight anymore.
Hell, I didn’t even have to go to the gunfight anymore. But this wasn’t something I was willing to delegate. Hope and Destiny had always been personal.
It only took me ten minutes to get to the house I’d bought for Hope. Inside, dishes shattered and a man yelled.
Destiny was cowering outside under the front steps, rocking back and forth. She was almost eighteen, but curled up and terrified, she reminded me of the five-year-old I first knew.
“What the fuck is going on?” I asked her.
“I don’t know. He’s . . . he’s really pissed. Hope woke him up by accident, and he started going off. She got between us, and I ran. I can’t hear her anymore, Mikey. I’m scared.” Destiny sniffled back tears.
“Why can’t I hear her?”
I was already taking the steps two at a time, too focused on the situation to tell her not to fucking call me by that name. Michael Arch died when he was thirteen.
I burst through the front door, my gun drawn and sweeping the room.
I wasn’t the only one with a gun in this house, though. A man stood behind the kitchen island, tossing plate after plate onto the floor as a revolver hung from his right hand.
“Stupid fucking bitch. You know better than to make noise when I’m sleeping.” He threw another plate.
Destiny was right. I couldn’t hear Hope, and I wasn’t going to fire a shot until I knew where she was, even though all I wanted to do was put a bullet in that fucker’s head for scaring the hell out of Destiny.
“Turn the fuck around, asshole.”
He swung drunkenly around, his ancient-looking revolver coming up as he pointed it at me sideways, gangster-style. Fucking idiot.
“Who the fuck are you?”
“Where the hell is Hope?”
“None of your fucking business.”
He lifted his other hand and cocked the hammer, which was when I noticed something dark dripping from the pistol’s grip.
Blood. I’d seen enough in my life to recognize it easily.
“Put that gun down, right the fuck now, or I won’t shoot you. I’ll fucking skin you alive while you scream for mercy.”
“Don’t you talk to me like that. You’re worse than that mouthy bitch, but I shut her up just fine.”
I moved toward him, the scent of sour sweat, body odor, and booze getting stronger with each step.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doin’—”
