I was cold, calculating, and I took pride in that. It was who I was at my core.
This decision should have been easy. A no-brainer.
It was the easiest choice I'd ever made.
"Handle the senator yourself," I said into the phone. "I have some shit to deal with."
I silenced my phone before taking a step back and driving my heel through the door.
Wood splintered. The frame gave way with a satisfying crack.
Inside, I found Peregrine in bed with another woman. A blonde with cartoonish proportions—massive fake tits, a face pumped full of Botox, pinprick pupils, and a fresh bruise blooming on her cheek.
I drew my gun and leveled it at Peregrine's face in one smooth motion.
"You should get your clothes and leave," I said to the woman. She scrambled up, stumbling naked from the bed. A small baggie of white powder tumbled from the sheets. She ignored it but snatched the cash from the nightstand then fled, clutching her clothes to her chest. The broken door slammed in her wake.
When she was gone, I took one slow step forward. Peregrine's face crumpled.
"Look, I don't care about that frigid bitch, you can have her," he whimpered, snot already running from his nose. "Just don't hurt me."
I nodded as if considering his pathetic offer. I wasn't just going to kill him. Where was the fun in that? I took another slow step forward and holstered my gun.
Messages worked better when they could be seen. Heard. Felt.
Peregrine read my gesture as victory. The fucking idiot. He staggered to his feet, puffing out his scrawny chest, high out of his mind on whatever he'd been snorting.
"You can't just come in here like that. Do you know who my father is? I paid the bitch. I don't know what kind of bait and switch bullshit this is, but it won't fly."
Unbelievable. He thought I was the hooker's pimp.
"This isn't about the blonde," I said. "It's about Anna."
He stared blankly for a beat, then recognition sparked. "You were at the shop yesterday."
The little tweaker actually stepped toward me. Put his bruised knuckles—from Anna or the blonde, I didn't know—in my face. "Look, I don't know what that bitch told you, but I have an agreement with Anna's mother."
I snatched his finger in one hand, my other hand closing around his throat, and slammed him against the wall hard enough to rattle the cheap artwork. "You do not say her name."
To his credit, he fought back. Good. I wanted this to last.
He threw a wild left hook. I slipped it easily and his momentum carried him stumbling sideways. Before he could recover, I drove an uppercut into his kidney. The impact folded him.
He gasped, coughing, trying to stand. I waited. Letting him find his feet. Letting him think he had a chance.
He charged, all rage and no technique. I snapped a jab straight into his nose. Cartilage crunched like eggshells. Blood sprayed.
He screamed.
A fist pounded the wall from the neighboring apartment.
Time was running short. Apartments meant nosy neighbors. Witnesses.
I unleashed a combination—ribs, jaw, temple—each punch landing with surgical precision. His screams dissolved intowhimpers, then silence. His face became a canvas of split skin and pooling blood.
Still breathing. For now.
When he was barely conscious, I went to the hamper beside his bed and extracted a gym sock. The fabric was stiff, crusty. I held it between two fingers, disgust curling my lip.
