Chapter One

Son of a—” Cole cursed as he stared into about six gun barrels, and another pressed against his temple. He had been woken by the sound of booted feet rushing around his cabin. He had slowly gotten up, threw on some clothes and reached for his gun placed in plain sight on his headboard, thinking it would do well to find a way to sneak out through the back door without being noticed than engage in an outright showdown. But then as quiet and slithering as he had been, a flashlight caught his exit then a helicopter appeared overhead pinpointing him with its floodlight.

The thoughts of so many ways of how this could play out raced in his mind. And as skilled as he was he knew when to dialogue perhaps a distraction could help? But he doubted he could get far even if he tried to run - not in his state. He started to slowly raise his hand just to let the bastards know he wasn’t going to do anything until a familiar face stepped under the helicopter floodlight. Cole glared at the old man.

“Cole Miller? Don’t try anything stupid, son, we only want to talk,” Jerome called out. Cole clenched his teeth in rage, threw a steely gaze at the men holding the gun to his face and they slowly lowered their weapons.

'Damn it!' he cursed mentally. “What do you want?” he snapped loudly.

“Alexander is dead . . . His dying wish was for you to come home and bury him,” the older man replied.

Cole swallowed and lowered his gaze. His palpitating heart slowed and he exhaled hard. Confusing emotions rushed through him and his fist clenched. His father was dead, he was finally free of him.

Alexander was not a bad father, he was just a soulless human being. He shouldn’t feel grief but then he remembered who he used to be, and it hurt all over again that he lost that man — the man his father was way before he became the head of an organised crime of his own creation.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Cole. I know you don’t want to have anything to do with him but he was your father and you are the only Miller left---"

Cole raised his eyes to watch the old man and narrowed his gaze. His entire frame tensed up.

“I’m not taking over from him, Jerome. If that’s what you are hoping to achieve with this, you can perish the thought right here, right now,” he snapped.

“Just come home, Cole. Let’s bury your father first.”

Hours later, Cole looked up and saw the gate to his family estate about four kilometres away. His body tensed at the familiar sight. And he worked his jaw. Flashes from when he had finally escaped the brick-fenced grounds assailed him and he couldn't help clenching his fist. He had disassociated himself from Alexander for eleven years now and never regretted a minute of it.

And now he was back, not bound by duty as the only living Miller to bury his old man but forced. The image of the tall blond male with green eyes, and an easy smile, that never gets to reach his cold eyes, formed in his head. He was glad he took more of his mother's looks unlike the rest of his brothers - all dead now.

Cole was the last of four sons and the only one with jet black hair, and dark brown eyes although he took his father's build like the rest of his brothers. He was six feet plus with a muscular build that came in handy in his line of work.

His eyes caught the gaze of the sturdy man sitting in the front seat of the Jeep. Aaron was his father’s right-hand man and lanky.

Aaron looked away immediately and Cole could sense he was still focused on him despite facing forward.

Cole understood the man's behaviour, he had seriously wounded him in his bid to get the hell out of this place eleven years ago and he bet he was still expecting him to pull some shit. 'Good. That would teach him not to underestimate me again,' he thought.

Cole recalled he had snatched Aaron's gun from him, pointed it at him and fired a shot without hesitation. Cole flinched at the memory.

In his defence, he was desperate, Aaron had tried to stop him, and he had acted like a caged animal. He was almost certain that was one of the reasons they had come with a little army to get him to come back home.

He watched his father’s lawyer, Jerome from the corner of his eye, making sure the man wasn't paying attention to him before he rubbed wearily on his left ribcage. His white inner vest and leather jacket hid his bandages. From the moment his father’s goons showed up on his doorstep he had done his best to hide his injury.

In the Millers’ world, any form of vulnerability was preyed upon. And he hadn't escaped being blown to bits, survived being shot six times to get slain by bloody civilians. Even if the civilians were well-trained killers.

He was still peeved he had been cornered unexpectedly and could only blame it on the false sense of safety, thinking no one knew about the cabin. He hadn't been counting on being waylaid by his own family's illegal syndicate. Jerome must think his tactic had worked but he had only followed them because he was injured. The doctor had warned him to take it easy or might risk internal bleeding.

"How the hell did you find me anyway?" Cole rasped in almost a growl.

"You are naive to think your father will just let you disappear. He has had you on his radar since you started your operation in the Middle East,” Jerome answered without raising his face to look at Cole. Cole jerked his face in the man's direction, momentarily stunned then glared.

"That was classified," he grunted.

"Nothing is classified where your father was concerned. You should know better," Jerome said with a mocking tilt of his upper lip. Cole gritted his teeth in annoyance and looked away. As soon as he buried the old man he was getting out of here. His eyes dimmed in determination.

The convoy drove through a tall iron gate lined with heavily armed guards, driving deeper into the grounds to a white stately mansion about a kilometre to the estate gate. Cole couldn't help allowing his eyes to roam the expansive space of the place he had thought of as his prison all his teenage years.

He recalled simpler times. When they lived on an impoverished farm east of Texas that belonged to his grandfather. That was before his grandfather had gotten a loan from a loan shark and couldn't pay it back. The man had come to forcefully claim the land. An action that had spiralled into rolls of bad luck. His grandfather had died of a heart attack and they had to move to a dingy apartment in town.

His father, who was a salesman for an art collector in another town about 180 Kilometres from the ranch, often came home on weekends, bearing gifts until the day he came to find his family gone from the ranch and his father dead.

Enraged, he went to confront the loan shark and tried getting the land back. Little did he know the loan shark's interest in the land was far from just debt recovery.

His father discovered oil was found east of the ranch and the man absolutely refused to give the land back even when his father was able to gather the indebted sum together to make the payment.

It turned out into an all-out war that got his mother and brothers killed. But his father was able to get the land back and killed off all the greedy, murderous bastards. Cole was totally behind him on that one. If he could, he would have killed the bastards with his bare hands.

But it was as if Alexander made a deal with the devil. They did get the land back, but his father was no longer the man he once was. He became worse than the men that killed his family. He grew merciless and unscrupulous. It was as if the amber of humanity left in him had been snuffed off along with his three sons and wife.

By the time Cole was 18, he knew he had to leave or he was going to turn soulless like his father. His old man was actively raising him to be a ruthless killer. He constantly reminded him that the Millers’ name must invoke respect and fear in people. It was as if he figured the reason his grandfather was easily eroded was that he was poor with no social standing, and was determined to have it all: money, power and respect. He didn’t care how he achieved them, and hell wanted the respect geared by fear.

Deciding to join the army was the best for Cole at the time. It was guaranteed to get him off his father’s reach and it had worked all this time. Discovering the old man still kept tabs on him pissed him off.

He hesitated when the Jeep stopped in front of the mansion and his eyes settled on the window on the first floor to the right. His room. The familiar heavily draped window made him sigh. He wondered if the room was kept as he left it or if his father had found a use for it.

“Are you coming?” Jerome asked, arching an eyebrow at the younger man. Cole didn't bother answering. He pushed the door open and stepped out. The smell of the vast green land surrounding them filled his nostrils. He inhaled the fresh scent and almost smiled. That was about the only thing he missed about the place - that, and the cool weather.

Taking a walk in the forest—although often trailed by bodyguards—was the only means of escape he had. He thought of taking a walk later after Jerome briefed him about the funeral rite and the role he had to play. He figured it would be best to cooperate with the old man, do what he was supposed to do, and hopefully get the hell out of there tomorrow.

He marched up the porch stairs and nodded in response to the servants' greetings. He couldn’t help hesitating at the double door entryway to the expansive double stairs foyer.

The thought that he had made a big mistake coming back here gnawed at him. He sighed and proceeded inside.

The room was as grand as he recalled. He had lived a simple and modest life for the past years so much so that he felt out of place.

In his teenage eyes, he had thought it cool but his perception gradually changed over the years until it became a cell of gold. He was not allowed to have friends, party or live a teenager’s normal life. He had gotten his first kiss from a hooker paid for by his father and brought in by Aaron. Of course, he hadn’t known then that she was a hooker. She had met him in one of his father’s dinners and she had acted the part of a family friend.

They had hooked up in one of his favourite spots in the woods. He recalled she had been too forward and skilled for a girl her age but then he had figured he was just naive. When he asked Aaron about the girl the following day the other man had simply chuckled and told him to expect another ‘family friend’ sometime in the week.

It didn’t quite sink in until he mentioned her to his father and he had simply dismissed her and asked why he would want to see a hooker twice when he could have another one. He had found the experience quite humiliating. His father had been manipulative, controlling and plain bloodthirsty; he just needed out.

The massive chandelier at the centre of the high ceiling glimmered with a candlelight shine over the champagne-tinted marble flooring, creating a subtle golden sparkle on the polished flooring. The oil portrait of his parents hung on the wall over the mantelpiece and he was surprised to find the framed pictures of his brothers and him neatly arranged over the fire mantel.

He took a step towards the last framed picture and he saw a picture of himself in an army uniform, standing at attention, and receiving a medal of honour in the white house. He pressed his teeth tightly together. It appeared his old man had literally stalked him in the past years. He slipped one hand in the pocket of his denim trousers, allowing his eyes to drift to his brothers’ faces, memories of them throwing a ball in the muddy field on his grandfather’s farm flashed in his head. His heart clenched and he turned away.

He saw Jerome standing about eight feet away, watching him.

“Well… I am here. What now?” Cole asked, disguising the emotions clogging the back of his throat with exasperation, making his voice sound even huskier.

“The funeral is tomorrow. Every arrangement has been made. All you need to do is show up. I am certain you still remember how to get to your room and the dining room? This is your home, Cole, this is all yours now,” he said with a little bit of annoyance in his tone, and turned away.

Cole understood he must seem like a cold bastard to his father’s associates seemingly unbothered by his father’s death but that was none of their damn business he would grieve anyhow he pleases. It had taken him years to learn how to school his features and contain his emotions where his father was concerned he wasn’t about to let his guard down now.

He went up the flight of stairs holding in a grimace at the pain biting him on his left side, trying to not wince and make it obvious that walking, not to mention climbing the stairs, was taking a toll on him. He silently hoped he would not open up his stitches and bled to death on his bed.

Pushing open the last of three doors on the left wall of a wide hallway, he stepped inside the darkness-shrouded room and could smell his favourite teenage cologne. A wistful smile tugged at the corners of his lips. He wouldn’t be caught dead in that now. He doesn’t find smelling nice like some pansy appealing anymore. He chuckled to himself, walking to the walk-in closet to the right corner of the room, he pushed the door open. He wasn’t surprised to find all his things the way he had left them. It made his heart constrict.

Perhaps the Alexander he once knew and loved was inside the ruthless man he became and perhaps felt trapped in as he had.

He lowered himself to his knees with effort and rummaged through the back of his hung jackets. A pleasant smile broke out on his face when his hand closed around the neck of a bottle. He sat down with his back resting on the closet protruding framing wall and pulled it out.

“There you are,” he muttered, pleased his alcohol stash was still where he had hidden it as well. He uncorked the cover of the bottle of vodka and made an imaginary toast to his dead brothers, mother, and lastly Alexander - the Alexander he knew back home on his grandfather’s farm.

“To the last Miller standing… I wonder how long that would be,” he said, and took a large gulp of the drink, coughing a little when it burned down his throat and all the way to his stomach. He settled comfortably against the wall and continued to drink and didn't know when he dozed off.

He woke up to an unusual cry and sat up instantly alert. The half-empty bottle of the vodka had rolled off to stop at his booted feet with part of it laying on the area rug and the rest on the marble-covered flooring.

For a minute his foggy brain tried to decipher his location. He was somewhat accustomed to waking up in different dangerous places over the past years and stayed tensed up waiting for something with the intent to end him to leap out from somewhere.

He blinked and the cry sounded again. A deep frown furrowed his eyebrows as he directed his gaze to the bottle thinking it had hit harder than he thought or did he just hear a wolf howl?