The extortion of John’s retirement accounts.
Miles showing up after Shelly’s death.
The slow takeover of the estate—control enforced with threats, bruises, and fear—anyone in the house punished for resisting.
“So,” Titus said, staring down into the man’s face, “you’re a fucking bully.”
“It’s just business.”
“So, your business is abusing seniors and trafficking kids?”
“Well—no, I mean—” Miles faltered, blood slicking his lip.
“John,” Titus said. When the older man didn’t look away from Miles, he said it again, sharper. “John.”
“Yes?” Confusion swam in John’s eyes.
“Are you a willing part of what’s going on here?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so.”
Miles spat blood and tried to sneer through the broken nose. “His name’s all over this. I made sure of it.”
Titus smiled faintly as he patted Miles down, checking for additional weapons. There were none.
“Viper?”
“I’m here.”
“Catch this.” Titus tossed Miles’s gun one-handed. At the same time, he drew his Ruger with the other.
Miles’s gaze locked on the suppressor twisted onto the barrel.
“Are you left- or right-handed?” Titus asked.
“What does that matter?” Miles snapped, grasping for control he no longer had.
“Trust me,” Titus said calmly. “It does.”
“R—right.”
Titus slammed Miles’s left hand flat against the table and set the Ruger to his pinky. He pulled the trigger.
Miles screamed—raw, animal sounds tearing out of him as two fingers separated and hit the floor.
John staggered back from the table.
Miles clutched the ruined hand to his chest, sobbing.
Titus glanced at John. “Get the papers you signed that let him take over.”
“He took them,” John said weakly. “After he forced me to sign.”
“Did he?” Titus smiled slowly—cold, terrifying—and dragged Miles’s hand back onto the table. “Where?”
“I’ll tell you!” Miles shrieked. “I’ll tell you!”
