I push through the door and step into the warehouse.
The space is cramped with supplies and crates stacked along the walls.
In the center of the room, bound to a chair, is the man who thought it was a good idea to skim off the top.
Michael something. I don't care enough to remember his last name.
He's in his forties and his wrists are zip tied to the arms of the chair, his ankles bound to the legs. Blood crusts beneath his nose, evidence of the beating my men already gave him when they dragged him here.
Two guards stand on either side of him, arms crossed, faces stern.
When I step into the light, Michael's head snaps up.
"Mr. Killaney," he stammers, his voice cracking. "Please, I can explain."
I hold up a hand.
He shuts up.
I could have sent my men to handle this. I didn't have to come. This is small time. A supplier skimming product, pocketing a few thousand here and there, thinking we wouldn't notice.
We always notice.
But I didn't send my men. I came myself because I need to hit something.
I walk toward him slowly. Michael's eyes widen, his breathing quickening.
"It was a misunderstanding," he says, his words tumbling over each other. "I swear, I didn't mean to."
"You didn't mean to steal from my family?"
"I, I can pay it back. Every cent. Please, just give me a chance."
I stop in front of him and even though he's right here, I don't see him clearly.
I see my father lying on a slab in a German morgue, his face pale and lifeless.
I hear Keira's screams echoing in my memory even though I wasn't there to hear them. And Declan covered in blood, Lyra risking her life to save him.
I see Zaria's ribs poking through her skin, the precise scars along her side, the burns on her shoulders and body.
I see the routes the Morrígan has sabotaged, the contacts they've turned, the permits they've blocked.
I see Cormac's shadow spreading through Boston, creeping closer and closer to everything we've built.
I see everything that matters and nothing that doesn't.
I grab Michael by the throat and he chokes, his bound hands clawing uselessly at the armrests.
"You steal from my family," I say, leaning close enough that he can see the rage in my eyes. "You don't live."
I punch him.
My fist connects with his jaw and his head snaps to the side.
Blood sprays across the concrete.
I punch him again.
