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CHAPTER 1
Twenty years earlier
Diego
I’d just killed a man.
Ordinarily, that wouldn’t mean anything particularly special in my line of work. My family had taken justice into their own hands generations before, especially in dealing with our enemies. We’d taken enough lives that it was impossible to count the number or remember their names. The streets of LA had been painted with blood, remnants lingering in even the finest neighborhoods.
Beverly Hills.
Malibu.
Bel Air.
No one was immune if they’d crossed the Santos family.
The only reason this particular kill was worth mentioning to any degree was that it was my first, the gun remaining in my hand as I stared at the man’s crumpled body, the bullet lodged somewhere in his brain.
The rain fell harder, the torrent of water unusual for this time of year, the storm washing away a portion of the evidence. Not that we cared given we owned the police, but there was something cathartic about the way the blood rushed toward the drains of the pavement, slowly pooling before sliding into the abyss of the sewer system. With seventeen thousand miles of pipes, the blood could certainly go a long way before finding an official resting spot.
Or it would become liquid libation for the millions of rats and other vermin feasting on what was left of trash and human waste.
I wasn’t normally so engrossed in the effects of ending someone’s life. In fact, I’d been looking forward to hunting down the bastards who’d dared go against my family’s regime. I’d even begged my father to allow me to pop my cherry, becoming one of the men working for the Don of the Santos Crime Syndicate.
The fact I was barely seventeen meant I was constantly watched, the babysitter my father had appointed studying every move I made. He’d report back to my father on my techniques, my ability to hunt and my reaction after the fact. There was no room for guilt of any kind, our hearts taken by the darkness that had entrapped our family for decades. While my hand continued to shake from the rush of adrenaline and the power I felt in the Glock I’d been given for my sixteenth birthday, I only hoped the raging storm would hide it.
If not, the variation in my behavior would be duly noted.
I took a deep breath, blinking away water lingering on my eyelashes.
“You did good, kid,” Ivan said in a low rumbling voice, his Russian accent somehow more pronounced than usual. While he was only ten years older, it was a lifetime for a kid who wanted to become a made man, a soldier in my father’s army.
When he flanked my side, I lowered my weapon, shoving it into my pocket, then for effect only, kicking the bastard who’d attempted to hijack one of our ships.
“He’s dead, kid. You have a damn good aim. You’re a natural at this. Your father will be proud. Come on. We need to get the fuck out of here before the shitheads find out their ruthless leader is dead.”
There was something about this level of justice that remained nagging the back of my mind, as if in killing the man I’d been initiated into the depths of hell, my soul finally taken to be held captive by the grim reaper for all eternity.
I’d thought at this moment I’d feel like a man, a warrior excelling in battle. Instead, I felt nothing but emptiness inside, the kill unsatisfying. Yet I felt the arms of the devil himself wrapping around me, holding me in an icy embrace, whispering sweet nothings into my ear. I turned away, lifting my head as the rain continued to fall.
Maybe this moment was cathartic after all. For now, I was a monster like my father, no longer able to call on my conscience or the Catholic Church to protect me. This is what I’d wanted for as long as I could remember.
Then why did I feel so alone?
“Alright,” Ivan barked to the six other soldiers who’d come with us. “Let’s get the fuck out of this rathole.”
South Los Angeles was one of the poorest areas of the city, far removed from the glitzy neighborhood I’d grown up in. Known for its violent crimes and disgusting living conditions, there wasn’t a cop in the borough who would think twice about the cartel member being found dead on the street. But the other members of the Mexican Cartel would. And they’d be eager to retaliate. We’d sent a message but even my limited experience told me they’d seek bloody revenge soon enough.
I followed behind the others, heading toward the three vehicles we’d arrived in, four of the men piling into two vehicles, the other two waiting until both Ivan and I were safely secured inside. It felt good to be treated like royalty for a change instead of a kid tagging along, little more than a nuisance.
Before I climbed inside, I heard a noise, my keen hearing picking up on the clanging sound easily.
I stopped moving, scanning one side of the street then the other, trying to locate the source.
“What’s wrong, kid?” Ivan asked, once again flanking my side.
“We’re not alone.” Death was everywhere, the stench of it assaulting my senses. It permeated the air like a fog remaining over the entire neighborhood, this particular street full of abandoned warehouses and homes, the thought of renovation in the distant future. However, there were also people living in dilapidated apartments, slumlords holding their future in the palms of their ruthless hands.
