Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
They needed justice.
And I became again what I guess I had been since I was fifteen years old.
Judge. Jury. Executioner.
My name was once again said in whispers among those who knew of such things. From California to Texas, Florida to New York City.
Eventually, I paid a mint to get some documents forged, allowing me to be legal in situations where I wanted to.
That was the reason I was in New York in the first place.
Where I just so happened to come across a pimp beating the shit out of one of his workers.
And because I rarely thought this shit through, I was only halfway done with my job when the goddamn mafia showed up and hauled me in.
Fucking useless sack, the leader of the Abruzzo clan.
But he could keep me prisoner in his fucking house while he tried to turn me into an opportunity to make a killing, sending his men off to see if there was a price on my head anywhere.
It wouldn't have been long for them to realize that the Bratva still wanted me, those fucks having a long goddamn memory.
Then one night, as fate would have it, the Abruzzo compound was stormed.
I could hear it from below, the gunshots, the cursing, the screaming, the begging for mercy.
Whoever this foe of theirs was, though, there was no mercy to be had.
By the time Reign and his men dragged me out through the house, there were literal pools of blood, eyes open wide in death, the smell of pennies strong enough to make even my stomach - so used to it - roll.
Wouldn't it just be kismet once again that these bikers were in charge of the biggest gun-running organization on the East coast? And in need of new blood after a devastating loss? And maybe a little interested in what contacts I still had overseas?
From the day I signed up, my life had taken a different turn.
I hadn't been a saint.
I damn sure hadn't retired.
But the blood I spilled since I joined up had been that of people who had fucked with the women of my brothers.
Bethany.
Kennedy.
And now, well, Lenny - and formerly, Letha's - abusive cop problem.
It helped me stay sane in a world full of men abusing their power, even if I did agree when Reign asked me to tone it down a bit so nothing could ever blowback on the club.
Hence why when shit went down, I didn't just skip town; I called my brothers. Like they would do if they needed me.
Also, there was no fucking way I was skipping town now that I knew Lenny was here, now that I got her to trust me.
And because of her giving me that trust, it was time for me to give her mine fully.
So that meant my past.
Come what may.
I knew it wasn't an easy truth to swallow.
Sure, she knew I was a biker. She likely assumed - rightly - that some violence came with that.
She had even seen me ruthlessly kill a man without blinking.
Then set to cleaning up a crime scene.
But she couldn't have had a clue how deep and depraved my life had been at times.
It was a lot to ask someone to accept, let alone embrace.
And, to be perfectly honest, I was fucking scared shitless that she wouldn't be able to.
SIXTEEN
Lenny
Shock and disgust.
I was pretty sure that was what I was supposed to be feeling in light of these revelations.
What did it say about me that I wasn't feeling that way?
This man had beaten men viciously before killing them.
Repeatedly.
For decades.
Starting with his father.
At fifteen.
Hell, you knew shit was insane when the part about working for the goddamn Russian mafia was not a big deal.
But these men had done these awful things to women.
They were, essentially, getting as good as they gave.
They fucking deserved it.
I wasn't some silly, naive chick with her head in the clouds, whose biggest concern was when Starbucks was bringing back the pumpkin spice latte.
I saw a lot more ugly to the world.
I couldn't just go through my day oblivious - or pretending to be - to the awful shit that goes on in our world.
Maybe that had to do with the life I had led, the people I had associated with, the area I lived in.
The world was fucking ugly.
It was full of people who needed to be brought down, but too often were not.
And maybe my sister's situation had made me more ruthless than ever before.
Some people deserved to die.
Case closed.
So this man sitting beside me, he did that. He killed people.
But he held me when I had cried; he arranged funeral plans; he cooked for me; he fucking cleaned me; he followed through with a plan for justice I hadn't been able to complete myself, then dealt with the aftermath for me.
This man was a good man.