Page 3 of Final Reckoning

2

Another Taste

November 26

Santiago’s houseis filled with bikers, hookers, and drugs. Music blasts from hidden speakers. His wife and children are off visiting the wife’s parents for a week, leaving him free to entertain in a way he can’t when his family is around.

I’m in his living room, which stretches across the front of the house, with my back against a wall. Silent. Watching.

Two members of the Devil’s Kin motorcycle club approach, a woman between them. She’s a curvy blonde, and for half a second I think she’s Quinn and my heart stops. The men are holding her up, her head drooping.

I step out and block their way. “She’s had too much to drink,” one of the men says. “We’re just gonna take her upstairs to lie down.”

I lift the woman’s head. Up close, she looks nothing like Quinn. Her gaze is bleary, unfocused; when I release her, her chin drops to her chest again. “Put her there,” I say, indicating an empty armchair nearby. “I’ll keep an eye on her.”

The men glare at me, which is proof enough of what they really planned to do to her. I stare them down, unmoving. Finally, they dump her in the chair, none too gently.

“Fuckin’ Monk,” one of them mutters, loudly enough for me and anyone nearby to hear, as they stomp away. I acquired that nickname by refusing to sample Santiago’s wares, both the drugs and the women.

I arrange the woman in the chair in as comfortable a position as I can manage, putting a pillow under her head and covering her with a throw. Then I resume my place against the wall.

Quinn. Fuck.

I shouldn’t think about her at all. But if I shove her out of my consciousness, she surfaces in my dreams--long, vivid dreams that turn my nights into torture. So I let her fill my mind in idle moments.

That kiss was stupid. But the moment she touched me, letting her go was impossible. If Kosta hadn’t interrupted us I might have fucked her right there on the spot.

Not that she would have minded. She kissed me back like it was our last night on earth. I’m hard right now, remembering her soft skin, her silky hair, the taste of her. The way her soft curves molded themselves against me, welcoming.

Inviting.

Against all reason, Quinn Callahan wants me. And after that kiss, I’m done with protecting her from my particular brand of fucked-upness.

Once this business with Santiago is finished, she’s mine.

Across the room, Santiago’s surrounded by a crowd of bikers. “A toast,” he says, raising his bottle of beer. Tall and debonair, he’s traded his usual expensive suits for black jeans and a black button-down shirt, more in line with his guests’ attire.

“To profitable partnerships.” The men roar in approval and chug their beers. A few of them are drinking tequila straight from the bottle.

Bill Kelleher, aka Killer, president of the Devil’s Kin, starts making a speech. Santiago listens politely, attentively. He’s careful to hide the contempt he feels for his partners in crime.

When Kelleher finishes, there’s more cheering and applause, along with hearty slaps on the back all around. The group breaks up, several of the bikers heading upstairs, accompanied by their hookers of choice. A few of them send me sneering looks as they pass. To their way of thinking, it’s strange and unnatural that I don’t take a free fuck whenever one’s on offer.

The women don’t understand it either, but they appreciate the fact that I look out for them when I can, and try to curtail the worst abuses of Santiago’s associates. Santiago lets me do it because I convinced him that mistreating his whores is bad for business in the long run.

Santiago crosses the room to join me. “They’ve drunk more than a dozen fraternities put together,” he says in an undertone, taking another sip of his beer. He prefers wine.

“These guys can hold their liquor. They’re not even that drunk yet.”

He doesn’t respond. On paper, Bruno Santiago is a legitimate, prosperous importer. His store in the state capital, which is run by a former museum curator for an extra dash of authenticity, really does sell goods from countries around the world.

It also launders some of the cash Santiago makes smuggling drugs and guns and running the state’s largest prostitution ring. During the day, his whores make porn films that he streams online. Through a series of shell companies, he owns nightclubs and bars that clean more of his dirty money.

The Devil’s Kin transport drugs and weapons throughout the state for Santiago. Not into my home town, though. The Adamos keep them out, along with Wolf Calhoun and the Firestorm MC.

That’s why Santiago wanted the Callahan farm, for a base of operations up there. Being thwarted in that attempt is what’s put him on the warpath against my family.

Not that Santiago knows I’m an Adamo, of course. If he ever finds out my real identity, I’ll be dead by sunrise. To him, I’m not Matteo Adamo but Adam Matthiesen, military vet, general badass ... and his chief of security.

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