We were seated at the little table when he started talking, sharing a cool lunch against a bank of glass windows that showed the amazing view of the side gardens along his house. His tone was light and soft like I remembered it, patiently explaining the details that had lead him to this point. He would stop when I interjected a question, answer it smoothly and somehow weave that answer into the narrative. It was like every question I asked was the bridge between the next part of his story.

Not all of it was as nice as his voice made it out to be.

I was fairly certain I would have nightmares for the rest of my life as a result of what he said. It was just too much to take in.

My objections, my desire for him to stop speaking, first manifested in raised eyebrows as he continued. Then I was swallowing more than I should, hiding it behind sips of my iced tea. There was so much sadness in his tale, so much anger and remorse and utter frustrated helplessness. And I had to sit there and listen. I knew if I told him to stop, if I said that four letter word S-T-O-P, he would acquiesce… and then never speak of it again.

So I did my best to deal with it. The swallowing progressed into a slight trembling in the hand that held my fork, and that trembling lead to me dropping said fork. My appetite fell with that utensil. I just couldn't focus on food and what he was telling me.

He smiled gently, sadness welling in those crystal blue eyes. Taking my hand, he led me back into the main part of the library. A glass of good expensive scotch was pushed into my hand. I drank at it gratefully, taking a seat in one of the leather chairs. He leaned against his desk, his own tumbler of amber liquid held untouched as he continued. No matter how horrified or how many tears escaped my eyes, he wouldn't stop.

He wouldn't stop. It was too much…. Just too damn much.

"My first murder," He murmured. "It was my father. I came home one day to see my mother lying in a pool of blood, half dead from the beating he'd given her. My brother whimpered from the closet where my mother had hidden him, saving him from that bastard's fists. First instinct was to call for help, to get the paramedics here as fast as possible. And then to make sure my brother was okay. My second thought was to get them to safety. But by that time, he had come home.

"I didn't hesitate, Megan," he said, looking into my eyes. "I was in uniform, fresh from my first week on patrol. I had my sidearm, and I used it. I shot him between the eyes and I didn't flinch. My mother died on that floor while I sat holding her hand. And yet for all that pain that he inflicted on us all, I was the one that carried the guilt and the punishment."

Horatio stared down into his scotch, as if it were a gateway to the past. "I was found not-guilty in the eyes of the law due to self-defense and the defense of others. But in the eyes of the Catholic church?" he laughed bitterly. "That was a different story altogether. Penance was set for me, and I gave all my life trying to make it right. It wasn't about the life that I took, but the lives that I saved. And when I had done enough, I would know. I would be forgiven then. But as the years progressed and the blood on my hands increased, I knew I would never be forgiven."

"You don't know that," I snapped, suddenly angry for him, furious at the church that would prescribe such an unjust penance for an act out of his control. "I'm just as catholic as you, Horatio. And I've killed in the line of duty, too. God forgives. He always forgives those that are truly repentant."

One eyebrow rose, and the sadness in those eyes turned into brittle hardness. "That would require one to ask forgiveness first, wouldn't it?"

I felt the color start to drain from my face, that flash of temper vanishing under the cold weight of those eyes. Dead eyes, Calleigh once called them when she had stared at the image of a serial killer. Horatio had dead eyes. The liquid in my glass sloshed a bit as the trembling came back.

"I thought I had asked for forgiveness," He continued. "But in truth, I hadn't. Years and years I spent trying to find that salvation, that moment when I knew I could put down the badge and live my life. I thought it had come with Marisol. I had found a woman to love me unconditionally, who wanted to try and have a family. Less than twenty-four hours of wedded bliss and she was dead. Another woman lying in a pool of her own blood, killed by an uncaring man who honestly didn't have anything better to do."

"Killed by the man you now confess your sins to," I put in. "Memmo killed Marisol. After everything you've told me, how could you forgive him? If I'm to believe the rumors about you, you've killed men for less. Why forgive him?"

"Because he forgave himself," Horatio shrugged. "He pays his penance for his actions. He is an ordained priest now, Megan. God has forgiven him, taken him into his service."

"Because he asked for forgiveness," I shook my head.

Again, he shrugged. "It is not my place to say who God forgives and who He doesn't."

"But you don't think He would ever forgive you."

"I don't believe I'm ready to ask Him that, just yet."

"Horatio—"

He cut me off with an upraised hand. "This is not a theocratic debate, Megan. This is a conversation that you have asked me to have with you. I would return to that, if you wouldn't mind. Marisol's death started a chain of events that would show me the steps I needed to take in order to ensure those I loved wouldn't suffer anymore. I would make it my penance to keep them all safe. And so, when Julia appeared in my life and dug around to the truth of Antonio Riaz's murder, the stage, as they say, was set for the final act.

"Yes," he said, taking a sip of his scotch, finally. "I killed Riaz. Another death that the evidence will show as self defense and the defense of others. But in reality? I enjoyed killing him. I took him down for all the kids that died mulling his drugs, for the lives he destroyed by letting his gang run unchecked. I stood there beneath the statue of Jesus and took vengeance for all the things Riaz had done. I stared out at Rio, knowing that a million other Riaz's were just lining up to take his place."

"And so you did, instead," I murmured.

"Yes."

I got up and paced, trying to put this all together in my head. "But why? If you hated Riaz and the Mala Noche so much, why become one of them?"

Horatio chuckled. "Did I? Did I become one of them, or did they become one of me?"

I stopped. I just stopped moving, stopped feeling, stopped fucking thinking. It was all falling together now in a way that made me so sick. Why hadn't I seen it from the beginning? How the hell had Calleigh missed it? Did Eric realize what was happening and just turn a blind eye? Was his amnesia faked, or did he really remember everything that had happened in those three months before he was shot?

He nodded slowly, almost pleased that I was able to piece together the clues he was dropping.

"Julia was in on it," I breathed, stumbling backward until I fell back into the chair, staring up at him with muted horror. "Her sudden appearance, the death of her new husband. Even Kyle's placement in jail. You did every bit of it, orchestrated the whole fucking thing."

Again, he nodded slowly. "I found Julia the day I realized Kyle was my son. Winston was no angel. If anything, he was just as dirty as Julia. Removing him was easy and left us in a position to reclaim our son and protect everything we loved. We put together the kidnapping that would have Kyle arrested. Ron took the extra step to have Kathleen drown in her own car, for which I killed Ron. Kathleen was in on it, too. Agreeing to everything for a chance away from her abusive husband. One million and a new ID can go so far in saving an abused woman from her attacker. Ron got sloppy and wanted to ensure Kathleen's silence. Ron paid for that mistake."

I was shaking my head back and forth, unable to believe what I was hearing. It was like a modern-day Godfather movie.

"Taking over the Mala Noche was a simple matter after we gained Winston's fortune. Money gave us the mobility and the mean to purchase certain loyalties. And what we couldn't purchase…" he trialed off, looking deeply into my eyes. "Well, if you live by the gun, you die by it. New rules were issued by my hand. No more selling dope or guns or anything to kids. No more collateral damage of drive-by shootings. My soldiers were to be smart, educated and deadly accurate. One way or the other, we were going to clean up the streets of Miami."

"Mercenaries," I gasped in disbelief. "You turned the Mala Noche into mercenaries?"

"A little help from my new friends in Peregrine Securities ensured training on every level I needed. But yes, in essence, we became mercenaries. Foreign conflicts and rescues of ransomed individuals pay far more than drugs and illegal weapons. And it's also clean and legal money in America."

"Which is why we couldn't pin anything on you."

He smiled again, and again it never reached his eyes. "Exactly right."

Shaken to the core didn't even begin to describe how I was feeling. Nothing he told me could be pinned on him now. He had already been charged and either convicted or found innocent on every charge he had told me about. Double jeopardy forbade me from arresting him again for the same crime. And what I could arrest him on, like the Winston and Saris murders, I had no proof on. Just his word and mine. I couldn't bring him in on anything he'd said, I suddenly realized, because I hadn't given him his rights. Everything he had told me was null and void in the eyes of the law.

Son of a bitch! There was simply nothing I could do.

"There is more, Megan, so much more I want to tell you. But now is not the time."

I watched him strip his jacket off and toss it casually across his desk. My eyes were riveted to his fingers as he undid the heavy gold cufflinks and then the buttons of his silk shirt. I don't know what I expected to see on his skin. Maybe the Mala Noche pitchfork? Some sort of gang tattoo? I didn't even know why I was staring until he was kneeling down in front of me.

"Why?" I whispered, shell shocked and numb. "Why tell me?"

His hands rested on my knees, and my eyes widened as he pushed them apart and yanked me forward until I was straddling him. My hands landed on his shoulders to steady myself, my breath heaving in and out of my chest in fear and yet… god, was it true? Did I really want him? After everything he said, after how off-balance I was, did I really want him?

His answer was one word. "Because."

That was all he said before his mouth was on mine in a crushing, soul-devouring kiss.