by Mia Madison
Table of Contents
Epilogue
Against The Wall
Another Taste
Heartache
Deadly Plans
Don’t Go Back
Camping Trip
Discovery
I’ll Keep You Warm
Every Oath I’ve Ever Sworn
Determination
Finish Him
Hurry
Fire
Get A Priest In Here
Also by Mia Madison
About the Author
Final Reckoning
An Adamo Story
Mia Madison
Contents
1. Against The Wall
2. Another Taste
3. Heartache
4. Deadly Plans
5. Don’t Go Back
6. Camping Trip
7. Discovery
8. I’ll Keep You Warm
9. Every Oath I’ve Ever Sworn
10. Determination
11. Finish Him
12. Hurry
13. Fire
14. Get A Priest In Here
Epilogue
Also by Mia Madison
About the Author
1
Against The Wall
November 23
I shouldn’t be here.
There’s no danger, not tonight. Bruno Santiago, the deranged criminal who’s got his sights set on my family, is safely in his compound, holding a lavish Thanksgiving feast. It’ll be tomorrow at the earliest before his thoughts turn back to hunting the Adamos.
But here I am, crouched in the dark, outside the house where a small fraction of my huge clan are having their own celebration. I tell myself I’m testing my cousin Kosta’s security so I can alert him to any issues.
That’s a lie.
Yeah, I’ll tell him I got through, and that he needs some more redundancies built in. But it’s not why I’m here. There’s only one reason I’m in Kosta’s back yard, ignoring the icy November air, watching his house.
She’s inside. The woman who’s haunted my dreams since the night I first saw her. The one I need to forget but can’t stop thinking about.
Quinn Callahan.
I’ve stayed alive in a nest of vipers for over two years by trusting no one and ruthlessly watching my back. By allowing myself no weakness.
Quinn makes me vulnerable just by existing.
As if I’ve summoned her with my thoughts, the back door opens and she comes out. My cock jerks at the sight of her, dressed for dinner in dark slacks and a long-sleeved, light blue shirt. It doesn’t show any skin, but it clings in all the right places.
Hell, she could probably wear an outfit patched together from burlap and string and get me hard. I’ve been celibate for too long, but before Quinn it wasn’t a problem. She makes me feel like a ravening beast.
In one hand she carries a plate, with tin foil covering what looks like an enormous mound of food. She sets it down on the low stone wall that separates Kosta’s back patio from the rest of the back yard, then sits beside it.
Damn her. She knows I’m out here. Twice before, I’ve broken cover to warn my cousins of imminent threats from Santiago, and both times Quinn interrupted us.
The first time it was an accident; the second time, she came looking for me. I’m certain of it. Most women can’t get away from me fast enough, unless they’re too damaged to have any sense of self-preservation.
Not Quinn.
What the fuck is she doing, bringing me dinner? Maybe she feels sorry for me and she’s trying to befriend me, or this is some kind of womanly courtship ritual. Either way, it’s a bad idea.
Part of me wants to shake some sense into her. Another part wants to turn her over my knee. And all of me – but one part in particular – wants to fuck her until neither one of us can walk.
Which makes me an even bigger fool than Quinn.
She huddles into herself, shivering. Damned woman’s going to sit out here and catch pneumonia waiting for me. Cursing us both, I rise from my hiding place.
I was sitting at the dining room table, watching my sister Brianna get engaged to Lando Adamo, when a tingle ran down my spine and the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I clapped and cheered with everyone else at the table when Bree said yes; then I filled a plate and slipped outside.
Don’t ask me how I know he’s here; I don’t understand it myself. I seem to have formed some sort of psychic bond with Matteo Adamo.
The wall is as chilly as the air around it, the cold seeping through my clothing and into me as soon as I sit down. I hunch over, hoping he doesn’t ignore me until I’m forced to leave the food and go back inside.
It’s pathetic, but I need to see him. Even a glimpse of him would ease my mind. It makes no sense at all, given that I’ve been around him for maybe five minutes total in my entire life, but it’s vitally important to me that Matteo be okay.
All I know for certain about him is that he’s Romero’s and Lando’s cousin ... and that he keeps dangerous company. My two brief encounters with him, when he came to warn us about Santiago, were enough to brand him on my awareness.
I just turned twenty, and I’m already certain that no matter how long I live, I’ll never meet another man like Matteo Adamo.
“You’ll make yourself sick.” His voice, like rough-hewn granite, comes from close behind me. My whole body tightens in response.
“There was no way to get my coat without attracting attention.” I somehow manage to keep my voice level.
“You’ve done your good deed. Go back inside.”
“No.” It’s the only possible answer ... both because I can’t let him push me around, and because I can’t stay away from him.
He swears, and then he’s in front of me, whipping off his leather jacket to drape it around my shoulders. I study him in the moonlight, my hands holding the coat close so I won’t give in to the yearning to touch him.
He looks like a god, this man, one who’s fallen to earth and disguised himself as a biker. Six foot five at least, and powerfully built, his biceps and thighs straining the fabric of his long-sleeved black t-shirt and faded denim jeans. Jeans that fit him far too well, seeing as I’m currently at eye level with his crotch.
I force my gaze upward. Just because Matteo seems rude and uncivilized most of the time doesn’t mean I should ogle his junk ... no matter how enticing it is.
Thick, dark hair falls to just above his broad shoulders. His face is pure male sensual beauty, not marred at all by the scar that starts above one eye and continues beneath it, curving toward his cheek. He’s standing with his hands on his hips, scowling down at me, and I want to smile because being near him – feasting my eyes on him – is nothing but pleasure.
He’ll make me leave him soon, or else he’ll leave me. I want him to eat the food, to have at least that tiny part of Thanksgiving, so I need go to back in the house and leave him alone. But I can’t bear to do it quite yet.
Say something. “Lando and Bree just got engaged.” His eyes narrow, and I realize too late that it sounds like a leading remark. I force myself to hitch a shoulder up. “Thought you’d want to know.”
“Congratulations to the happy couple.” He says it with heavy sarcasm, almost anger. I want to tell him that I understand his feelings, but I’m pretty sure sympathy would make things worse.
The Adamos are all about family, and Matteo hasn’t seen most of his relatives in over two years. My gut says the only way he can protect himself from the pain of that separation is to act like it doesn’t matter. Like he doesn’t care.
But if that were true, he wouldn’t keep taking risks to warn us. “Thank you,”
I tell him. “For letting us know about Santiago – again.”
“Not that it made any difference.”
“Of course it did,” I say gently. “If everyone hadn’t been on high alert--”
The next instant, Matteo snatches his coat away. I shudder, wrapping my arms around myself as the cold attacks me. “Visiting time’s over,” he grits out.
I hesitate, casting around for any topic, no matter how ridiculous, to prolong my time with him. He’s not having it. Stepping aside to clear my path, he points to the door. “Get in the fucking house.”
I’m not the cranky, argumentative type; Zen master is more my natural style. Matteo upsets my equilibrium without even trying. “Go to hell,” I mutter, rubbing my hands over the goosebumps on my arms.
He swears, then yanks me to my feet and shoves me toward the back door. My inner five-year-old awakens with a vengeance; I plant my feet, which leaves him forcing me forward with his front against my back.
The contact makes the sensitive flesh between my legs throb. I’m no match for his strength, and seconds later we’re at the door. He hauls it open and aims me inside … and then sees me off with one sharp smack on my ass.
My self-control, usually enough for any ten people, shreds.
In a flash, I turn and launch myself at him. No doubt if I were a man, he’d deck me faster than I could move; but he doesn’t want to hurt me. So when I hurl myself into the air, like the world’s most awkward gymnast, he doesn’t move back and let me fall or shove me away.
He catches me.
I wrap myself around him.
And then my back is up against the side of the house, Matteo’s hands are gripping my ass, and he’s kissing me with a mix of raw hunger and absolute fury.
My blood heats to flashpoint in seconds. I tunnel my fingers into his hair, grabbing handfuls of it, holding him to me. His hips move, grinding his erection against my clit.
It’s a violent, almost punishing kiss, more an onslaught than a seduction. It doesn’t matter; I want more.
My senses are full of him, his strength, his heat, his scent. The potent mix of spicy soap and male musk soaks into my pores.
Sensation boils through me, tightening in my core. I arch against him and whimper frantically into his mouth.
Next to us, the door opens. Matteo jerks away from me so fast he almost drops me. My feet hit the ground and I lean back against the house, dizzy.
Kosta’s standing there. “Cugino,” he says quietly, his eyes on his cousin. “It’s good to see you. Come inside and have some dinner.”
Matteo steps back like Kosta’s just offered him a nice live rattlesnake to hold. But he’s glaring at me – as if it were my fault.
Asshole.
“I wasn’t here,” he growls. Vaulting the stone wall, he disappears into the night.
The plate of food sits on the ledge, untouched.
2
Another Taste
November 26
Santiago’s house is filled with bikers, hookers, and drugs. Music blasts from hidden speakers. His wife and children are off visiting the wife’s parents for a week, leaving him free to entertain in a way he can’t when his family is around.
I’m in his living room, which stretches across the front of the house, with my back against a wall. Silent. Watching.
Two members of the Devil’s Kin motorcycle club approach, a woman between them. She’s a curvy blonde, and for half a second I think she’s Quinn and my heart stops. The men are holding her up, her head drooping.
I step out and block their way. “She’s had too much to drink,” one of the men says. “We’re just gonna take her upstairs to lie down.”
I lift the woman’s head. Up close, she looks nothing like Quinn. Her gaze is bleary, unfocused; when I release her, her chin drops to her chest again. “Put her there,” I say, indicating an empty armchair nearby. “I’ll keep an eye on her.”
The men glare at me, which is proof enough of what they really planned to do to her. I stare them down, unmoving. Finally, they dump her in the chair, none too gently.
“Fuckin’ Monk,” one of them mutters, loudly enough for me and anyone nearby to hear, as they stomp away. I acquired that nickname by refusing to sample Santiago’s wares, both the drugs and the women.
I arrange the woman in the chair in as comfortable a position as I can manage, putting a pillow under her head and covering her with a throw. Then I resume my place against the wall.
Quinn. Fuck.
I shouldn’t think about her at all. But if I shove her out of my consciousness, she surfaces in my dreams--long, vivid dreams that turn my nights into torture. So I let her fill my mind in idle moments.
That kiss was stupid. But the moment she touched me, letting her go was impossible. If Kosta hadn’t interrupted us I might have fucked her right there on the spot.
Not that she would have minded. She kissed me back like it was our last night on earth. I’m hard right now, remembering her soft skin, her silky hair, the taste of her. The way her soft curves molded themselves against me, welcoming.
Inviting.
Against all reason, Quinn Callahan wants me. And after that kiss, I’m done with protecting her from my particular brand of fucked-upness.
Once this business with Santiago is finished, she’s mine.
Across the room, Santiago’s surrounded by a crowd of bikers. “A toast,” he says, raising his bottle of beer. Tall and debonair, he’s traded his usual expensive suits for black jeans and a black button-down shirt, more in line with his guests’ attire.
“To profitable partnerships.” The men roar in approval and chug their beers. A few of them are drinking tequila straight from the bottle.
Bill Kelleher, aka Killer, president of the Devil’s Kin, starts making a speech. Santiago listens politely, attentively. He’s careful to hide the contempt he feels for his partners in crime.
When Kelleher finishes, there’s more cheering and applause, along with hearty slaps on the back all around. The group breaks up, several of the bikers heading upstairs, accompanied by their hookers of choice. A few of them send me sneering looks as they pass. To their way of thinking, it’s strange and unnatural that I don’t take a free fuck whenever one’s on offer.
The women don’t understand it either, but they appreciate the fact that I look out for them when I can, and try to curtail the worst abuses of Santiago’s associates. Santiago lets me do it because I convinced him that mistreating his whores is bad for business in the long run.
Santiago crosses the room to join me. “They’ve drunk more than a dozen fraternities put together,” he says in an undertone, taking another sip of his beer. He prefers wine.
“These guys can hold their liquor. They’re not even that drunk yet.”
He doesn’t respond. On paper, Bruno Santiago is a legitimate, prosperous importer. His store in the state capital, which is run by a former museum curator for an extra dash of authenticity, really does sell goods from countries around the world.
It also launders some of the cash Santiago makes smuggling drugs and guns and running the state’s largest prostitution ring. During the day, his whores make porn films that he streams online. Through a series of shell companies, he owns nightclubs and bars that clean more of his dirty money.
The Devil’s Kin transport drugs and weapons throughout the state for Santiago. Not into my home town, though. The Adamos keep them out, along with Wolf Calhoun and the Firestorm MC.
That’s why Santiago wanted the Callahan farm, for a base of operations up there. Being thwarted in that attempt is what’s put him on the warpath against my family.
Not that Santiago knows I’m an Adamo, of course. If he ever finds out my real identity, I’ll be dead by sunrise. To him, I’m not Matteo Adamo but Adam Matthiesen, military vet, general badass ... and his chief of security.
“No signs of trouble?” he says.
“It’s been quiet. I’m about to go up and do a check.”
I’m responsible for the security system on Santiago’s family compound and his businesses, as well as his personal routines. When the Russians were working to establish a foothold in my home town a while back, they tried to muscle in on Santiago at the same time. Indirectly, I’ve saved his life more than once.
It’s an irony that preys on my mind late at night, but it’s also why he trusts me as much as he does. None of us has his complete confidence, but I know as much as anyone about his overall operations. Only Tony Rodriguez and Tommy Escobar – his top two lieutenants, whom I privately call TNT – get more day-to-day details about his plans.
I prefer keeping some distance. To get closer to Santiago, I’d have to do things that would rot what’s left of my soul.
Upstairs, I stop at a door midway down a long hallway; the family’s rooms are in a separate wing of the house. I punch in a code, then lay my hand on a panel set into the wall so it can scan my palm. The door beeps open and I go in and shut it behind me.
This is the nerve center of Santiago’s security. His low-level soldiers take it in shifts to watch the monitors, which cover every inch of the grounds here, as well as the buildings inside and out. They also show the exteriors of his businesses, each of which has its own system and security staff.
“Anything noteworthy?” I ask, though if there were they should already have notified me.
“No.” One of the soldiers, a kid no more than twenty, glances at me and away again. Santiago’s guys don’t know how to treat me. I’m outside the command structure, answering directly to their boss, but with no formal rank. It makes them nervous.
I make them nervous.
Moving to the unattended monitor in a corner, I enter a password and pull up a written summary of activity recorded by the system, all noted in a shorthand code I invented. It lets me scan quickly for anything the soldiers might not recognize the importance of ... and also for things that don’t matter to them, but do matter to cops.