In those afternoons, with our heads bent together—dark brown to grey—I learned how young I truly was. How archaic my unruly thoughts were.
I lost my attitude the further I fell into his wondrous education. I didn’t feel the need to assert my cockiness when my brain absorbed everything he wanted to teach.
Four years I spent with him.
Wallstreet became my entire world. My friend, father, teacher, brother. I loved him. I trusted him. And to find that I still had the capacity for either brought tears to my fucking eyes.
I thought they’d broken me, and there was no doubt if Wallstreet hadn’t channeled my hatred into something productive, I would’ve ended up dead or in a straitjacket.
He disciplined me when I failed, he praised me when I succeeded, and most of all he filled my brain with power.
Endless power.
The stock market. Not just options, bonds, and blue-chip corporations, but the highly volatile and equally lucrative foreign currency market. He taught me algorithms and formulas he’d guarded with top secrecy since he dabbled in trading when he was in his early twenties. Foolproof ways to watch, learn, and above all, protect his investment.
He’d never married nor had children. His family was his MC, who were currently ripping his heart apart by going against his every command. He trusted no one. He’d given this legacy to no one.
Just me.
He turned me from a heartbroken betrayed teenager to an educated man with a benefactor with power stretching not just across America but Europe and Asia, too.
Not only did he give me the reins of his trading empire, but he gave me the tools I would need to take out my vengeance cleverly, secretly, and to have so much fucking cash behind me I would never be lonely again.
Four years, six months, seventeen days I served of my life sentence.
Then I got out.
Arthur was dead. Kill was born.
Freedom was granted.
Vengeance was coming.
Four Years Ago
The day I left prison was the scariest, most exciting day of my life.
I knew no one.
My world before Florida State no longer existed, and I’d made no secret that I had nothing but hatred for the ones who’d done this to me.
Wallstreet had pulled a miracle, getting my parole hearing moved up, going above everyone’s heads by enlisting favors from people who had the power to undermine the entire defense. He painted me in the perfect light of a reformed underage offender who had been a puppet for others’ wrongdoings.
The ironic thing was, none of that was a lie. It was the truth. And finally, the truth had set me free.
“You Kill?”
I held my hand up, shielding my eyes from the glare of the noonday sun. Thrown across my shoulder was a tattered backpack with my worldly possessions in it. The clothes I’d worn when I’d been arrested, the rolled-up math notebook where I’d been solving a supposedly unsolvable problem, and a keepsake from Cleo.
My heart hammered. Pain. Regret. Hated. Guilt.
Don’t think about her.
The first opportunity I had, I’d burn the lot. Including the eraser in the shape of a Libra star sign that had never been used to rub out mistakes.
I’d only ever been truly happy around her.
I’d been so fucking in love with her.
Now she was gone. And I had to carry on living without her.
I fucking hated the memories of her—they hurt like a shank to the jugular. Every time I looked at the damn eraser, it ripped out my heart. I couldn’t keep it. It hurt too damn much.
Get it together, Killian. This is your new world. The old one is dead.
Striding forward, I nodded. “Yep, I’m Kill.”
The guy grinned, holding out his hand. He had to be fucking melting in the black leather jacket with a fireball and some death symbol stitched into it with the words CORRUPT AS THEY COME on the shoulder blades. “I’m Grasshopper.”
My eyes narrowed. “Seriously?”
He took my bag, slinging it over his shoulder and moving toward the parking lot. “Nah, my real name is Jared Shearer. But I got the nickname ’cause I like to smoke grass and I got to be VP by hopping over other fucktards.” He grinned. “Get it? Grass… hopper?”
It’s fucking ridiculous.
I bit my tongue. “Got it.”
The last few years of my incarcerated life faded as my past came back—reality stomping rudely into my future. I wasn’t surrounded by strict laws or whitewashed walls anymore.
Car horns. Smog. Heat. Children’s laughter as a family wagon rolled past. Dogs barking. The loud blare of a stereo.
Complete and utter chaos.
Everything was madness out here.
You better learn quickly how to play the game again.
“Wallstreet told me he’d arranged everything. Care to tell me if that’s true?”
Who the hell knew what sort of situation I was about to walk into. After all, Wallstreet had been locked up for fucking years—who was to say he still had power enough to pull off this switch?
I would be the one who would die if it didn’t work out.
Grasshopper smiled, his dark mohawk stiff with gel. “Yep, all arranged, dude. He got word to me. I’m one of the few originals.”
“Originals?”
“Yep. When Wallstreet was top dog, the Corrupts were a business, you know? We had regular business meetings, profit-and-loss discussions, investment research. We existed in that grey area, you get me? Part in the law, part out of the law. We didn’t do harm to others, ’cause we didn’t need to run drugs or guns. Wallstreet had us hiding bucketloads of cash so good old Uncle Sam didn’t get his sticky fingers on it. He also didn’t agree with pimping whores or cooking meth.” His voice trailed off.