Page 7 of Forgotten Vows

"Okay," I whisper anyway. "I'll wait."

Then I step out into the darkness and leave him behind.

2

LACHLAN

The whiskey tastes like victory, smooth as butter, but there's a bite at the back of my throat that has nothing to do with the alcohol.

I stand at the floor-to-ceiling windows of my penthouse, far above the streets of Chicago, and watch the city spread out beneath me, this part of it now my kingdom. Outside, lights flicker in the darkness—cars on the expressway and buildings lit up like beacons. From up here, it all looks nothing like the streets I clawed my way out of to get here.

Nothing like the violence I've had to commit in order to get here.

I take another sip of the Macallan 25. Two grand a bottle. I remember when I couldn't afford bottom-shelf liquor at a dive bar in any of the cities I made my way through after I ran from New York. Twenty years old with broken ribs, a shattered hand, and blood in my lungs, dragging myself out of that city with nothing but the clothes on my back and a burning need to survive.

That was ten years ago.

It's been ten years since I left her behind in that house. Ten years since I promised I'd come back.

The city blurs in front of me, and I blink hard, forcing my visionto clear. I don't let myself think about her during the day—not when there's work to be done, and I need to be sharp and focused and in control. But at night, when the deals are done, and the blood is washed off, she's all I can think about.

Adriana.

Her name is both a prayer and a curse, and I've whispered it into the dark every night for ten years. Sometimes more than once, when the memories of that one night are particularly piercing.

My phone buzzes on the glass table behind me. I let it ring. Whoever it is can wait until I have myself under control again. I'm the one in charge now.

The buzzing stops, then starts again. I drain the whiskey and set the glass down with a sharpclickthat echoes in the silence.

"Boss." The front door opens, and Rian's voice carries across the open space of the penthouse. He's my head of security, loyal as a dog and twice as vicious when he needs to be. "They're here."

"Send them up."

I hear the elevator chime, then three sets of footsteps crossing the marble floor. I don't turn around until they stop a respectful distance behind me.

When I finally turn, my second-in-command, Tommy Reeves, is standing front and center. He's thirty-five, sharp-eyed, muscled, and a crack shot, and he looks trustworthy right up until he puts a bullet in your skull. Behind him are Jack and Cormac Murphy, brothers who've been with me since the early days. Jack's got a fresh bruise on his jaw, purple and swollen. Cormac's knuckles are split.

"The Italians are getting restless about the shipment," Tommy says without preamble. He knows I don't like small talk.

"Let them be restless." I shove my hands into my pockets. "They'll get their product when I say they get it. Not before."

"They're threatening to go to the Russians."

I chuckle humorlessly, a low sound deep in my chest. "Then they're stupider than I thought. The Russians can't move product through the ports without my say-so. They know that. This is posturing. They're testing me because I'm new."

"You want us to send a message?"

I consider it. I learned long ago that weakness gets you killed. But so does unnecessary violence. To survive in this world, particularly as a boss, a man has to know which battles to fight and which to let simmer—which threats to answer with blood and which to answer with silence.

"Not yet. Let them sweat another day. Then we'll remind them why they came to us in the first place." I look at Jack, at the bruise blooming across his face. "What about the territory dispute on the West Side?"

Jack steps forward, rolling his shoulders like a boxer warming up. "Handled. The Latin guys won't be pushing into our blocks anymore."

"Any casualties?"

"Three of theirs. None of ours."

"Good." I move away from the window, and I catch a brief glimpse of my reflection, and the white scar running along my jaw. I look away. "And the shipment from Dublin?"