Page 23 of Sinful Empire (Mount Trilogy 3)
“Rubio.”
I study the white sheet tangled in my fist, keeping my attention anywhere but on her. Still, she doesn’t run.
“What happened to him?”
I force myself to loosen my grip and keep my tone emotionless. “I made sure he was adopted by a good family. A family that would never hurt him again, because they knew what the penalty would be. I pay for him to go to a private school. He gets straight As. He’s already being scouted by D-1 schools for basketball, but he can go anywhere he wants, and he knows that.”
Keira’s hand covers mine, and I jerk my head up to look at her.
“You saved him,” she whispers.
“I watched his mother slit her own wrists.” My tone is harsh, just like me. “Don’t you dare make me out to be some kind of hero, because that’s the last fucking thing I am.”
Keira’s green gaze turns flinty. “I don’t need a goddamned hero, Lachlan. I need a man who isn’t afraid to stand up for the people who can’t defend themselves. You can call it whatever you want, but I call it justice and honor.”
I narrow my gaze on her. “You’re missing the point.”
She shakes her head, her stubborn chin rising another inch in challenge. “No, you’re missing the point. You don’t see it, but I do. I’m willing to bet everything I have that this kid isn’t the only one you’ve saved from a fate worse than death. How many other innocents have you exacted retribution for?”
Eighteen years earlier
Boss had sent me on a run to meet with one of the old guard, a former top cartel leader set up by the CIA in a cushy house in the Garden District as his retirement package. Anyone who thought the drug trade was started solely by those south of the border needed to look a hell of a lot closer to home. The war on drugs is a joke because it’s a war we started, and one that’ll never end.
I was supposed to drop off a package and pick one up in return. An exchange of cash for information.
One thing I’d learned from Johnny Morello was that information could be priceless. For the last ten years, I’d climbed the ladder of his vicious organization. Once you were in, the only way out was a body bag. But since I had nowhere else to go, I was content to shovel shit and haul myself up, rung by rung.
Now, I was in a position of trust. Morello took a shine to me for some reason I’d never understand. I was being groomed. I knew it. Everyone else knew it. And, apparently, so did this old man sipping tequila in his garden like he had all the time in the world and I didn’t have somewhere else to be.
“You have the package?” I asked him for the second time. Like Morello, I didn’t repeat myself often.
“Sit. I don’t like your hovering.” The old man’s English was still accented, and I had to wonder what he traded to the Feds for this sweet setup.
I took the chair across from him, my fingers thrumming against the Italian wool of my suit pants. You’d think in the New Orleans heat, I’d be sweating, but Morello’s tailor, Giorgio, only used the finest, lightest fabrics.
If someone had told me ten years ago that I’d wear a suit more often than ripped and stained undershirts, I would have laughed. I also would have been wrong. Five years ago, after I’d proven my loyalty to his satisfaction, Morello brought me into his inner circle, and Giorgio made me my first ever suit.
The feel of silk against my skin was one I never thought I’d get used to, but now, it was second nature. I finally understood why the men who wore suits seemed more confident and in control. Because that was exactly how I felt the first time I looked at myself in the mirror. That was also the day Morello hired a tutor to teach me to stop talking like the street kid I’d been, and how to sound like I had an education beyond blood and survival.
“You seem like a smart man, Mr. Mount. Morello has been grooming you to become his second-in-command, has he not?”
“Sir, respectfully, I’m here for the package. I have somewhere to be.”
The old Mexican shook his head. “I will never get used to some of your American ways. In my culture, things are different.”
“Here, we don’t have all the time in the world to wait around. At least, not in Mr. Morello’s organization.”
The old man reached for the envelope beside him, one that held the information we were purchasing in order to seize control of the drug supply into the city to keep the cartel out. For now, anyway. I was smart enough to see the writing on the wall. Their power would continue to grow, and eventually, we’d have to strike a deal with them. Morello probably didn’t agree, but sometimes his arrogance interfered with seeing things clearly.
When the old man held out the envelope, I reached for it, but he kept it tight in his grip.
“Tell me, Mr. Mount, are you a good man?”
I reared back at the question. “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”
“Just satisfy an old man’s curiosity.”
I looked into his faded brown eyes and told him the truth. “No. I’m not.”
