Chapter 25

There are a few moments in one's life, where one decision could change the rest of their trajectory. Mine changed when my brother died. One could argue that it changed the day I decided to help some low-life criminals get their property back. But I disagree.

The moment Richard put a bullet through my thirty-year-old brother's skull, he unleashed a chain of events that inevitably led me here, led me to her.

She was doing her best to sleep, but I could see her tossing and turning from the window. My fingers itched. I wanted to be next to her, to soothe her pain, make her feel safe, but I knew I was the last person she wanted to be with right now—after Richard, or so I hoped.

My life had crumbled in front of me less than a year ago. One phone call, telling me that David had been found dead—wrong place, wrong time—was all the police could give me. David was only four years younger than me.

My little brother was a good person, a good brother, a good son. We had spent some of our life apart when I had moved to the States, but our relationship never wavered. I was the big brother, supposed to protect him, but I was unable to stop this fucking son of a bitch from killing him for some diamonds that weren't his in the first place.

Growing up, I was always keenly aware of the crimes that happened in Mexico, of the gang activity, my father having been a prominent member of Los Zetas. My mother sheltered us as much as she could—until it was my turn to be recruited. That was when she sent me to Texas.

By the time David grew up, they had moved, and life had changed enough that it was okay for him to stay in Mexico. David, I knew, was my mother's favorite, her little boy—the softer soul of the two of us, as she called him. To have to watch her go through the pain of losing him, after losing my father to the gangs, was heart wrenching.

My mother had instilled in David and me a respect for right and wrong, a respect for life, that was shaken to its core when David was killed. One of the few things my father had taught me was how to hold a gun and shoot to kill. I had witnessed my fair share of crimes in my life, so I was more than ready to pull that trigger, to kill Richard.

But I couldn't do that to my mother. I couldn't risk going to prison after she begged me not to, begged me to not risk my life. I was all she had left. She didn't want me to soil my hands. I would have no problem taking Richard's miserable life. No hesitation. I didn't see him as anything but a dead man, but I resisted the urge for my mother. Instead of killing him, I tried to use legal means, but to no avail.

And so started this torture, a partnership with a criminal, a process of infiltration into Richard's friend base, all to get close to him and get the diamonds. Instead, what I got was Amelia. And now I was in my beach house, wounded, protecting the stepdaughter of my brother's murderer—from him, apparently.

And nothing was going to stand in the way of her safety, not even my thirst for revenge. And I wouldn't change that for the world.