“And if you think about leaking a single word about my case. If you even consider running to whoever wants me locked up and handing them something to use against me, remember this.” I lean forward. “Lola’s got marks on her, Reese. Bruises. Evidence. If I go down, I’m taking you with me. I’ll have you thrown in a cell right next to mine for what you did to her tonight. And trust me, you won’t last a week in there. Not with that hand. Not with that face.”
Whatever fight he had left drains out of him like water through a cracked pipe.
I know I’ll survive just fine in jail. I’ve got a name, a reputation. And mafia backing that spans across the entire country.
Reese? He’s got nothing but a virgin ass. That might save his life, I suppose.
“Do we have an understanding?”
“Yes.”
I stare at him. And for one final, stretched-out second, I let myself see him. Really see him. Not the man bleeding on the stool. The kid I used to know. The boy I raced down dirt roads with on our bikes. Who stood beside me at my father’s funeral. Who held Wyatt in the hospital the day he was born.
Gone.
All of it.
“You were like a brother to me, Reese.” I stand. Adjusting my hat. “Thirty years. And you threw it away because a woman told you no and your ego couldn’t take it.”
He opens his mouth. I hold up a finger. I don’t want to hear his voice again. “I’m not finished.”
He closes it.
“You are nothing to me now. Not a friend. Not a colleague. Not an acquaintance. If we pass each other on the street, you cross to the other side. If we’re in the same room, you leave. If someone mentions my name, you forget you ever knew me.” I hold his gaze until I’m sure the words have buried themselves somewhere permanent. “You are dead to this family. Every single one of us. And if you test that, I’ll make it literal.”
He doesn’t nod this time. He just stares at me with the hollow, gutted expression of a man watching his entire life collapse and knowing he’s the one who pulled the pin.
I turn my back on him and walk out through the wreckage. Past the destroyed hallway. Past the smashed mirror. Past the wine bleeding across his Italian tiles.
Ace follows. But stops to look at Reese one last time. “You’re lucky it was him and not me,” he says quietly. “I wouldn’t have stopped at the hand.”
We step out into the night. The door hangs off its hinges behind us.
I flex my hands on the steering wheel as I start the engine. My knuckles ache. There’s blood on my fingers that isn’t mine.
Ace buckles in.
“Feel better?” he asks.
“No.”
Because it’s not enough. It’ll never be enough. Not for what he did to her. But it’s a start. And the next man who thinks about hurting Lola will hear about what happened to the last one.
“You did the right thing,” Ace says.
“I know.”
I pull out onto the road and drive home. Back to the ranch. Back to my son. Back to the woman who is starting to look a lot like my future.
And anyone who wants to get to her is going to have to come through every Sterling standing.
By the time I pull up the drive, the house is dark except for the bedroom window. My room. Where she’s waiting.
I kill the engine. Sit there for a second, and let the adrenaline bleed out.
Ace climbs out and heads toward the barn without a word. He knows I need a minute. He always knows.
I wash my hands at the kitchen sink. Watch the blood swirl down the drain. And as I open Wyatt’s door, my heart almost stops. Not out of pain. Out of love.