by Marie James
Table of Contents
Ravens Ruin
Copyright
Warning
Desperate Beginnings
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Sins of the Father
Epitaph
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Luck of the Devil
Epitaph
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Dancing with the Devil
Epitaph
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Epilogue
OTHER BOOKS FROM MARIE JAMES
Copyright
Ravens Ruin Series
Copyright © 2018 Marie James
Editing by Marie James Betas & JA Essen
Proofread by Virginia Tesi Carey
EBooks are not transferable. All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded, or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale, or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Warning
Please keep in mind that these guys are assholes. Their opinions are NOT my opinions. Their views of the world, historical events, and politics are NOT a reflection of my views. Also, this isn’t a romance. This is the story of what a man was forced to do after losing the only woman he gave his heart to, the things he endured to ensure the safety of his son, and the fight to have a lasting legacy.
A Ravens Ruin Prequel
Epigraph
As my story came to a close, I realized that I was the villain all along. ~ Joseph Gordon-Levitt
Prologue
“So this is it?” My mouth is parched. The blood flowing from the corners is the only moisture available to quench my thirst. The taste of copper fills my mouth as I lick my lips, but the effort is futile. There’s no need to drink when I won’t be alive long enough to even begin the early stages of dehydration.
Cold, soulless eyes stare back at me. He doesn’t respond, and I don’t ever expect him to. I created him in my image. His entire life has been spent learning how to be an astute businessman in a world where mistakes are paid for with a life.
I made a mistake.
Now, I’ll pay.
For a brief moment, his eyes glass over. Emotion is a useless tool in our world, and I’m disgusted to see even a flash of it in his eyes.
If my hands weren’t tied behind my back, my fist would meet his nose for the infraction. Rolling my head on my shoulders, I revel in the burn of the rope as it chafes my wrists.
I refuse to pull my eyes from his, refuse to look away. I won’t give him a reprieve. He has to face what he’s doing, and when he lays his head down tonight, he has to live with it. As always, he disappoints me when he looks away first.
“Look me in the eye,” I demand.
The clench of his jaw is telling. He hates me. He loves me. He’s going to become me.
His eyes finally meet mine, mere seconds after nodding his head at my second in command.
The emotion in his eyes from earlier is gone. The only thing that remains is the callous cruelty I’ve been desperate to see for years.
“See you in hell, Dad.”
Pride fills my black heart just as the crate is kicked out from underneath my boots.
Chapter 1
Twenty-Five Years Before
February 1993
“You swore we’d never be in the middle of this shit,” Manic complains from across the room.
His frustration over today’s events has nothing to do with the bombing of the World Trade Center. New York City is far removed from our lives in Miami, Florida.
“Look,” I hiss, pointing at the TV. “This shit is g
oing on in our country, and you’re worried about a scuffle with those guys earlier?”
He doesn’t even bother looking at the screen. Even two days after six people were killed and over a thousand were injured, there’s nothing else on the television.
“I’m not worried about Islamic radicals thousands of miles away when the fucking Colombians are in our own backyard.”
“It’ll blow over,” I assure him, even though I know it won’t. Javi’s men were very clear in their warning yesterday. Decisions are going to have to be made, and quick, but right now all I care about is waiting on the tiny mirror in front of me.
Lifting the rolled-up dollar bill to my nose, I breathe deep. The burn of white powder down the back of my throat is gratifying and a long-ass time coming. Closing my eyes, I lean my head back and wait for my salvation to hit my nerves, refusing to acknowledge how close together my bumps have been getting lately.
“That’s part of the damn problem,” Manic complains.
“You’re one to talk,” I mumble as I slam against the back of the worn couch, eyes still closed.
“This?”
Opening my eyes, I watch the smoke billow around the room from the joint he’s holding out in front of him.
“This is nothing compared to that shit you’re snorting up your damn nose. Not to mention the Colombians are already suspicious of the shit you’ve been pinching. At least my pot is bought and paid for.”
“Fuck off,” I warn.
“We were never supposed to get into powder. Pot is what you promised, and dealing that only long enough until we got on our feet.”
“Does this look like we’re on our feet?” I span my arms to encompass the small, dimly lit room.
The shitty house we’ve been staying in is too damn crowded, too dilapidated, and even still it’s out of our means.
“I have something in the works. We’ll be rollin’ in it before long,” I insist. Casting my head to the side, I yell toward the bedroom. “Cristina!”
The bellow isn’t answered, so I yell it twice more. After what seems like forever, my girl lumbers from the back room.
“What?” she snaps, not bothering to care about the scowl on my face. I may love her with every inch of my soul, and she may take a dick like a bitch in heat, but her disrespect in front of my friend won’t be tolerated. “You trying to wake the baby?”
The lilt of her accent may have turned me on years ago, but that woman is no longer around. The birth of our son just over two years ago and her own penchant for nose candy have robbed me of her.
“Change the fucking channel.” I tilt my boot in the direction of the TV. “I’m tired of watching this depressing shit.”
“You woke me up for that?” she bitches, but she crosses the room anyway.
Angry, like always, I sit up straighter on the couch and grip the open front of my new leather cut.
“You’ll shut that mouth of yours if you know what’s good for you.” My threats are empty, and she damn well knows it. She proves the point by flipping me off before walking out of the room again.
“Fucking women,” I grumble before rolling my head back in the direction of the TV.
Manic snorts from the other side of the room. “That woman has you by the balls, and you damn well know it.”
I don’t argue with him. There was a time Cristina Quintal stopped my world in its tracks. Even though I spend most of my time in other women’s beds, she’s still the one I come home to most nights. As the mother of my only child, she’s my only weakness. Everything I do, all of the trouble I’ve faced lately, are attempts to get her back to the woman she used to be.
My efforts so far have been futile.
“She’s going to leave you one of these days,” Manic mumbles. “You need to start treating her better.”
My eyes snap open. “You need to worry about your own life, and stay the fuck out of mine.”
Manic stabs his joint out in the overflowing ashtray, huffing at my warning.
“We either need to do something about the Colombians, or we just need to pack and fuck off somewhere else.”
This is nothing I haven’t heard before, but Miami is our home. Ravens Ruin MC now has six members. It’s not a lot, but my guys are loyal. Manic is the only one with an issue about expanding our distribution. The weed sells, simply because everyone smokes weed, from clergymen to school teachers needing a getaway after dealing with asshole kids all day. Weed, however, is barely paying the bills.
Cocaine is where the real money is, and Miami is a hub to some of the finest Colombian powder the United States has ever seen. Leaving Florida with our tails between our legs cuts off our trafficking lines and makes getting product even more expensive.
“The Colombians aren’t going to do anything. Yesterday’s scuffle was a one-time thing. They don’t kill people over a single kilo of blow.”
An incredulous laugh escapes Manic’s lips. “They don’t kill people for that? Listen to yourself. Grim is in the hospital with three knife wounds.”
“Grim is always in the hospital,” I mutter and eye the last line of coke on the table.
“Complaining about back pain to score pills is a little different than a collapsed lung and punctured intestines.”
“Well,” I say with a devious smile. “He’s going to get tons of pills this time. At least Donna won’t have to whore herself out to score them for him for a while.”
“The guys would die for you,” he murmurs with an incredulous tone in his voice. “Can they say the same about you?”
Releasing a slow, measured breath through pursed lips, I take a long moment to calm myself before responding. It’s getting harder and harder not to lash out at my best friend, but he’s overstepping boundaries he helped me set up when we started Ravens Ruin. I’m the president, and he fucking isn’t.
“Grim knew what he was getting into,” I remind him. “He’s the one who brought up the idea of dealing coke from the Colombians, remember?”
Manic grumbles something unintelligible. Ignoring him, I lean over the table to snort my last line of cocaine. My skin tingles, the dampness caused by my leather-covered back itching with renewed irritation.
Just as I open my mouth to tell him to leave before he kills my buzz, the flimsy front door crashes open. I’m slow to cover my face from the splintering wood spraying the room from the doorjamb. A piece strikes my face, but looking up to four armed Colombians draws any attention I may have initially used for the blood running down my cheek.
“Hey guys,” I say, channeling a calmness my racing heart barely manages.
Javi, an underboss for the cartel we’ve been getting our dope from, sneers at me before his eyes rake over the dirty mirror and straw on the table in front of me.
“Is that mine?” His voice is thick and heavily accented.
“Of course not,” I lie, not looking down at the drugs in question.
“Javi,” Manic begins in apology, his voice trembling in fear.
Such a fucking coward. I should’ve made Grim my damn VP. Manic doesn’t have the balls for the title.
Manic clears his throat roughly before continuing. “What can we do to make things better between the MC and your boss?”
Ignoring Manic, Javi spits out something so quickly in Spanish I only have the chance to translate one word.
Puta.
Whore.
Javi’s head tilts to the short hall leading to the bedroom.
“No,” I spit as I stand to intercept his guy.
The butt of a rifle slams into my gut a split second after I recognize the scarred-faced fucker. Juan Carlos is Javi’s hitman, his enforcer here in Miami. I’ve personally witnessed some of the depraved things this man is capable of. Bile rises in my throat as I crumple forward, having more to do with what I know is going to happen than the pain from the blow.
“Please don’t,” I beg. “Please.”
My pleading goes ignored as Juan Carlos drags Cristina from the bedroom. She
struggles, cursing him in Spanish as he urges her forward and to her knees by a handful of hair.
“You should be the one on your knees,” she spits in my direction before looking up at Javi. “He’s the one who fucked up.”
Her argument may have been valid twenty minutes ago while she was asleep, but the faint dusting of powder under her nose betrays her own argument.
Tears fill my eyes as she continues to yell. Javi grows madder by the second, and Cristina’s anger turns to begging.
“Not me, Javi. Please, hermano. You don’t have to do this.”
That’s right. Javi is Cristina’s younger brother. At nineteen, Javi has become a force to be reckoned with, a killer and soldier for their father and cartel boss Alejandro Días.
“Papa will be pissed if you hurt me,” she warns.
“Who do you think sent me?” Javi says with a calmness no one should have while pointing a gun at their sister’s head.
I taste the spray of blood before Javi pulls the trigger.
Chapter 2
“No!” I yell as I scramble toward Cristina before her body crumples to the floor.
Cradling her lifeless body against my chest, I beg and pray to God above that I wake up from this nightmare. At the same time, I know I won’t. The baby screaming in the other room and the fading warmth of Cristina’s body as her blood flows over my hands are all too real.
“What have you done?” I sob into her once lustrous hair. What a fucked-up time to realize how dull the color has turned, and how brittle it is to the touch.
“You fucked up big time,” Javi interrupts in an emotionless tone. “You have three days to get my money or that bastard son of yours is next.”
Even though I hear Eric’s cries from the other room, he isn’t even a blip on my radar as I hold his dead mother to my chest. My only realization is that he’s the very last piece of her that I have, my only tie to the woman I’ve sacrificed everything for. I don’t know if he’s a blessing or a curse at this point.
“You killed your own sister over a kilo of coke?” Enraged, I pull my eyes from my beautiful girl and glare at him. The tears flowing out of my eyes make him seem less real, as if he’s a glimmering mirage rather than a cold-blooded killer.
“She’s the daughter of a whore,” Javi reminds me as he holsters his gun. “Three days.”
He turns, walking away with his henchmen following closely behind. Police sirens combine with the wails of my son until I can no longer separate the two sounds. I ignore both, as well as the stickiness of Cristina’s blood on my hands.