Page 10 of Forgotten Vows

Tommy nods slowly. "You're going after her."

It's not a question. "Yes."

"Boss, the Santoros—they're not going to just let you walk in and take her. This could start a war."

"Then we'll have a war." I meet his eyes, letting him see exactly how serious I am. "She's mine. That child is mine. And I'm taking them back."

"Even if she doesn't want to come?"

Tommy is probably the only man who could ask me that question and live, but he's not wrong to ask it. I think about that night. The way she looked at me, the way she touched me. The look on her face when I told her she couldn't come with me, that the only way for her to be safe was to stay in the hell I had to leave her in.

She loved me. She said so, and I said it to her, too. It wasn't enough back then, but now… now I think it can be.

"She'll want to come." I have to believe it—that what we had was real, that it's survived ten years of separation and pain and whatever hell she's been living through.

Because if she looks at me with indifference or hatred or fear—I don't know what I'll do.

Tommy exchanges another glance with the brothers, then nods. "Alright. We'll get you the information. But Lachlan..." He pauses. "Be careful. The Santoros aren't like the crews we've been dealing with. They're old money, old power. They have connections everywhere—politicians, judges, cops. If you go after them, you need to be smart about it."

"Trust me, I know who the fuck they are." My jaw tightens. "We have history."

Tommy winces. "That doesn't make me feel better about this, boss. Just be clear-headed. That's all I'm asking."

"I always am."

He looks like he accepts that answer, but the truth is, it's hard for me to be clear-headed when it comes to Adriana. She's my weakness, and she always has been. For ten years she's been there, a ghost in the back of my mind.

And now I find out she's been trapped in that house, raising our son alone. I can't help but feel that I should have gone back for her sooner, fought my way to the top faster… should have been strong enough to protect her years ago. But I wasn't.

I was twenty years old and half-dead, with nothing but the clothes on my back and a burning need for revenge. It's taken me ten years to become the kind of man who can stand against theSantoros. Ten years to build the power and resources I need to take her back.

I just hope I'm not too late.

"Get me that information," I tell Tommy. "As fast as you can."

"On it." He gestures to the brothers, and they head for the elevator. Rian goes with them. I'm alone again, the silence of the penthouse pressing in around me.

I walk back to the bar and pour another whiskey. My hands are steady, but there's a tremor running through me that has nothing to do with fear, and everything to do with the realization that's settling over me heavily now that the initial shock is past.

I have a son.

A nine-year-old boy who's been living in that house, probably wondering who his father is, probably being told lies about me. Being raised by Gio Santoro, who's worse than his father. What kind of life has he had? Does Gio see the boy as a reminder of his sister's shame? Does Adriana tell him stories about me, or has she erased me from their history? Does my son even know I exist?

The questions pile up in my mind, each one sharper than the last. I down the whiskey and pour another.

I should eat something, get some sleep, then focus on the dozen other things that need my attention—shipments, territory disputes, deals that need to be made, hands that need to be shaken so that the other bosses in this city work with me as an equal.

But all I can think about is Adriana.

The woman in my memory is a girl, eighteen years old, and I can't picture what she must look like now. She used to be so full of life and optimism and stubbornness, and in the semi-dark of my penthouse, as the old, bad thoughts creep in, I can't help but wonder if she's been broken by everything that came after. If maybe I should have just taken her with me, and damn the consequences.

But if I had, I still think we'd both be dead.

She made me feel like I was worth something back then—that I was more than just a bottom-of-the-rung son of a gang member whodid dirty work for her father. And as I down yet another whiskey, I wonder if she thinks about me. If she hates me for leaving.

If she's been waiting for me to come back, or if she gave up hope years ago.

The not knowing is worse than anything else. Worse than the beatings I took on my way up, worse than the men I've killed, worse than the nightmares that still wake me up sometimes, worse than the constant ache of desire that settled into my bones years ago for her, and has never left.