Though, that woman had fought me tooth and nail.
If I wanted to see him, I had to get it approved. I had supervised visits when I got pissed off enough that I took it to court.
I had to pay child support, but she didn’t want me to have any part of his life at all.
It was the worst time of my life.
I’d had to get out of the military to be able to fight for my kid, and when I did, I struggled financially.
Which wasn’t conducive with trying to fight for custody of a child.
In the end, none of it mattered.
Because I’d gotten caught up in Sage Rice’s shit, and her family had ruined my life.
Sage Rice—now Kelly—had ruined my life.
Though, through no fault of her own.
I’d done the right thing.
The only problem was, by doing the right thing, I’d signed my own child’s death warrant.
This may make me a bad person, but sometimes I had recurring dreams that I had to make the same decision, only this time I was fully aware that by saving Sage, I would be killing my son.
Either way I chose in my dreams, I always hated myself when I woke up.
There was no right answer.
There never fucking would be.
And now I was in this big-ass house, in the middle of a Montana town, paid for by stealing money from the fuckin’ Irish Mob, and I had no one to share it with.
You could always share it with your wife.
I immediately shut that thought down.
Sage wasn’t really my wife. Sure, on paper she had been, but we’d never been anything more than just that—a paper.
Her brother and father both worked for the Irish Mob—though they were nothing more than glorified lackeys. But the real kicker was Mario O’Neal’s brother, Dario. Dario had promised me after I’d pulled his brother out of the car where he’d been assaulting Sage that I would regret interfering.
And I fucking did.
I really fucking did.
Which made me sick to my stomach.
Because had I not interfered, I would’ve gone against my moral compass.
Needless to say, Dario had made it clear that he would not give Sage an out.
He was something important to the Irish Mob. A cousin or nephew or something of the head of the Irish Mob, he was actually someone that could do something. And he had.
He’d made my life a living hell for seven years.
He’d gotten me sent to prison thanks to a corrupt judge, shitty lawyers, and paid juries.
Every appeal that I filed was shot down before I could even formulate a plan.
