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CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

REED

2 WEEKS LATER…

Luca Varros is some fucked-up sick son of a bitch to have such an array of tools that aren’t used for building products.

God only knows why you’d need a whisk in a cellar and a fucking cattle prod? I glance around the room—definitely no cows down here.

“You look appalled,” Owen states with a smug grin on his face. Who would have thought my friend would have had so many dealings with notorious gangsters and Mafia men over the years? And yet, I find myself relieved at the connections he’s made.

They sure came in useful for Shaw, and Tate too, when Ava’s captor was making a move on her.

My eyes meet his. “I am.”

He leans back on a counter covered in blood, and I grimace. What in the hell? Jesus. I will need an antiseptic shower once I leave here.

“Are you fully recovered?” He motions toward me.

“Apparently. Although I feel like getting shot deserves some sort of medal in itself. Then again, Gia spent two weeks fussing over me, so it was worth the bullet. Plus, she seems to have let the whole contract thing slip from her mind.”

Owen scoffs. “You mean the fact you practically sold your first born for some land.” I stiffen under his blunt words.

“Shut the fuck up. I soon realized my mistake,” I bark.

He grins wider. “Just keeping it real.”

“Well, keep it real with that fucker and be done with him already.” I motion toward the bloodied and beaten George Fanzio swaying on a chain attached to the ceiling.

“He had his ass fucked with a cattle prod. We know a guy that has a thing for it.”

I swear I can taste bile in my mouth, and I spin away from George, unable to take the image conjuring up in my mind. “Jesus.” Who the fuck would do something like that? Where do they even get the ideas from?

“Yeah. We should rename this cellar, ass-fuck alley.” He shrugs while his eyes dance with jest. “Fucked up the ass in a hellhole, or the den of hell, maybe…”

“Name it what the fuck you want. Just finish him already.”

“You don’t want to do the honors?” He lifts his eyebrow at me.

“I’m a lawyer, Owen, not a felon,” I snap.

“He raped your wife, tried to kill your kid. He…”

Fury engulfs me at hearing the truth, so I snatch the gun from the counter, spin, and aim it at George. Expelling every ounce of hatred into him, I press the trigger. The bullet hits him in the throat, and he begins to gargle as blood bubbles out of his neck, and I take pleasure in watching the life leave his eyes. My wife and family are now free from the monster who was always going to be in the shadows haunting our every move.

“So much for being a lawyer.”

“You riled me.”

Owen pushes off the counter, and we head toward the cellar door, then a wave of peace floats over me. He’s gone.

My family is safe.

“We could call it the thirsty fuckers’ den. You know, with us no longer doing thirsty Thursday.”

I chuckle at his analogy, because he might not participate in the thirsty Thursday anymore, but I sure as hell do. Only now it’s me doing the drinking, straight from my wife’s tit.

As we head outside, the sunlight almost blinds me, and I hold my hand up to stop the glare.

“Where are you heading to now?” Owen asks.

I straighten my shoulders, widening my stance. “I’m coaching Bryce’s soccer team.”

Owen scoffs, then erupts into a fit of laughter, bending over and holds his stomach. I struggle to find the humor in my words and lift my lip in disgust at his so-called amusement. When he finally straightens, he tries to hide the smile threatening to erupt on his face, and my fists ball with annoyance. “You should probably take a cattle prod with you.” His lip twitches, and I want to unleash on the cocky prick.

“They’re not going to be that bad,” I snap.

His eyes are alight with glee, and he squeezes my shoulder. “They’re going to be so much worse.”

Then he walks away with a spring in his step, whistling as he heads toward his car while I shoot daggers at his back and scratch my head. “Probably have fucking lice in that godforsaken cellar,” I grumble to myself. “And I don’t give a shit what he says. I like kids now,” I say as I open my SUV door.

In fact, I fucking love them.

I’m a reformed man.

A family man.

Devoted, trusted, and compassionate. I’m the whole fucking package.

Now I need to show it to those I love the most in the world.

Reed Johnson is worthy, and I can’t wait to prove it.