Ruthless Savior

A cold, hollow laugh filled the room. “Why shouldn’t I get drunk? It is my birthday, after all.”

Her small hand closed over mine, guiding me to place the whiskey bottle back on the table. “I didn’t know it’s your birthday,” she murmured, apologetic and achingly sweet. “But this isn’t a good way to celebrate.”

My laughter roughened. The ragged edge to the humorless sound grated against the softness she offered. “It’s not a celebration. Evil coming into the world isn’t something to celebrate.”

I tried to take another swig, beyond ready to pass the fuck out and forget this day had ever happened.

Marisol’s frail fingers plucked the bottle from my hand. She placed it on the floor, several feet away from us.

I swallowed a groan when she dropped to her knees before me, but she didn’t reach for my cock. Her hands came up to frame my face, trapping me in her dark stare. My eyes had begun to adjust to the dim lighting, and now, her golden skin seemed to glow like a muted sun. She appeared ethereal and so fucking beautiful it made my chest ache.

“You are not evil.” She spoke each word with the weight of a promise, as though it was an irrevocable truth.

I twisted my lips into a sneer and shoved her tender hands away from my face.

“You don’t understand. You don’t want to understand. Or maybe you can’t, because you weren’t made for this criminal underworld that I live in.”

I speared her with a glare, willing her to accept the truth; silently commanding her to stop tormenting me by questioning it. Every time she did, I had to endure the burden of refuting her. I was so fucking tired of it. So sick of desperately clinging to the idea that there might be some goodness in me; goodness that was reflected in her eyes when she looked at me.

“Some people are just born evil, Marisol. It’s in their DNA. You can’t fight genetics.”

She didn’t reach for me again, but she didn’t back away, either. Her chocolate eyes were huge in her incandescent face. I yearned to drown myself in the dark pools, to sink into her warmth and forget everything else. Everything but her.

She placed her hands on the arms of the chair at either side of me, anchoring herself firmly in my space.

“Tell me why you think that. Why do you think you were born evil, Raúl?”

“It’s in my blood.” Again, I heard the echo of my mother’s shrill voice when I spoke the words aloud. “I’m the product of rape, Marisol. Whoever my father was—some rabid beast in the night—raped my mother and cursed her with a monster for a son. I only exist because of the worst sort of violation. I am an abomination.”

“Oh, Raúl…” My name hitched in her throat, and a shining tear slid down her golden cheek. “Please, don’t say that. It’s not true.”

“If it’s not true, then explain to me how I ended up running a cartel. Explain to me how I chose a life where I kill for money and power, and I feel no remorse.”

She didn’t flinch from my harsh challenge. “Why don’t you explain it to me.”

I shifted away from her, crossing my arms over my chest to form a defensive barrier between us. If she wanted the truth, I’d give her the truth. Then, she would understand what I truly was. She would accept that there wasn’t a shred of goodness in me.

“I went to prison when I was fourteen. When I got out a year later, I joined a gang. That’s what criminals do. We hurt people and take what we want. We protect each other, so we can keep destroying people’s lives. That’s how I met Stefano.

“He’s smarter than me. He figured out how to get an in with the cartel, and I followed him. When he started a war and made himself king, I helped him with that, too. The profit I made off my crimes is what bought this house. It’s what bought the walls that surround it; the barriers that keep the cops out. They can’t touch me here. No one can fuck with me now. No one can ever take what’s mine and lock me away.”

I lifted my chin and glowered at her, demanding her revulsion.

Another tear rolled down her cheek, but her features were pinched with sorrow rather than disgust. “You were trying to survive,” she breathed. “Is that how you ended up in prison? Did you make a choice for your survival?”

My gaze was drawn to the battered watch that I always kept buckled snugly around my wrist. The tiny, pathetic chips of diamonds glittered dully, marking the cardinal points around the face. Except for the stone at nine o’clock. That one had been knocked loose on the night I’d taken my trophy.