Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 74005 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74005 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
Vinnie sighs. “My future sister-in-law is right, as usual. Daniela, did any of these people take a special interest in you? I mean, kind of like Vega did?”
I shudder at the memory. “Vega was the most frequent.”
“He’s dead,” Vinnie says. “Anyone else?”
I frown. “There was this one guy. He didn’t take my virginity, but he took my innocence. And then he came back a few times after that.”
“Which one was he?”
I swallow, remembering being forced to my knees, having a dick shoved down my throat. Choking, gagging.
I look up. “Hernando Reyes.”
9
HAWK
I plunk myself down on the couch in my man cave.
I’m exhausted—more so mentally but physically as well. It’s not like a day working the ranch, but I did drag the cocaine into my house, flush it all down the toilet, and then clean my bathroom to a shine. After that, I detailed the inside of my truck, getting rid of any stray grain of coke.
And now I sit here.
With some self-loathing.
If I had thought to do all of this yesterday, Eagle might be awake and well.
Yes, in the end, Eagle’s actions are his own, but I’m the one who left a trail of breadcrumbs.
And I’m the only one in our family who knows that Eagle hasn’t been clean for eight years. That he’s fallen off the wagon several times and gone through rehab.
Then he showed up freaking out about Dad the other day.
I should have been the one to see this coming.
I sigh again. I can’t think about Eagle anymore. All it does is make me feel worse.
So I go back to Ted Tucker.
Always kind, always gentle.
A stark contrast to my father and his strong hand. I don’t remember ever hugging him.
Fifteen Years Earlier…
The box is dented, the board warped at the edges, but since Ted and I started playing, Monopoly has become my favorite board game, replacing Scrabble. I spread the pieces across the kitchen table while Ted sets his black coffee on a coaster and gives me a grin.
“Don’t go easy on me,” I say.
He raises a brow. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Hawk.”
I’m twelve. Too old to be babied. Ted respects that. He treats me like an equal when we play.
Ted’s not family, but he’s here more than most. Always in a button-down shirt, even on Saturdays. Always bringing my dad papers and quiet reminders about calls or meetings. But today, he’s just Ted—playing Monopoly with the boss’s middle kid like it actually matters.
I’ve learned a ton from him, but the dice aren’t moving my way today. Pretty soon Ted has a monopoly on the oranges and three houses on each. I land on New York Avenue and groan.
“Five fifty,” he says, sipping his coffee.
“Seriously?” I stare at my stack of money. It’s enough, but barely. “You’re going to charge me the full amount?”
“That’s the game.”
I slide the bills across the table.
He takes them, counts them out. “You told me not to go easy on you.”
He’s right. I did. Still… “You’re ruthless.”
He chuckles. “No, I’m consistent.”
“What’s the difference?”
Ted leans back in his chair, fingers laced behind his head. “Ruthless is taking every dollar you’ve got just because I can. Consistent is playing fair—same rules for everyone, every turn. Even when it’s inconvenient.”
I frown, arms crossed. “But you could’ve let it slide.”
“I could’ve,” he agrees. “But then what kind of lesson would that teach you?”
“That life isn’t fair?”
He snorts. “Life’s not fair. That’s a given. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be.”
I look down at the board. At the money I have left. It’s not much, but I’m still in the game.
And if I’m still in the game, there’s still a chance.
Present Day…
I didn’t win that game. Ted did.
But I learned a valuable lesson. One that shaped me into the man I am today.
I was born into privilege. I knew that from the time I could think for myself.
My father taught me ranch work.
But Ted…
Ted taught me everything else.
I think about that Monopoly game more often than I probably should. Weird, how something so small—just paper money, plastic hotels, and a lopsided game board—could be a turning point. But it was. It really was.
That day, I understood fairness—that it can discriminate. I understood rules—that they’re not always fair, but they must be respected and applied to everyone equally. I started craving fairness. Not just for me—for everyone. Justice. Rules that apply across the board, no matter who you are, what you’ve got, or what you can get away with. I was twelve when I realized the game only works when everyone plays by the same rules. And I’ve been chasing that feeling ever since.
I became the guy who fixes things.
When my younger brother went off the rails, I reeled him back. When the family business needed someone to deal with legal, zoning, or political crap, I stepped up. Every time.