Hands fumbled behind him as someone started ripping at the duct tape around his wrists.
“Which one of you is in charge?” Gage called out.
The piece of shit—unworthy of the king title—stepped forward, arms held out wide at his sides.
“Yeah, I’m the fuckin’ king!” he barked. “And you’re interfering in family business. Scar belongs to South Side.”
Gage shook his head slowly.
“You are wrong on both counts.”
Gage snapped his cane out again with a sharp click making the King flinch like the bitch he was.
“First, you are not Scar’s family, and you never were.”
A long, steel blade slid free along the bottom quarter of the cane’s shaft.
“And second…he belongs to me.”
“Who the fuck are you?” the king asked.
Gage smirked.
“A saint.”
He moved so fast Scar thought his eyes lied about it.
A silver blur cut the air, as Gage spun in a tight circle, the whispering slice almost too fast and clean to see until the blood splattered across the dingy wood. The severed arm hit the floor with a dull, wet thud, the fingers still twitching.
The king looked down in disbelief, shock freezing his face, and swallowing his scream as crimson spread across his crisp white T-shirt.
Gage’s composure remained steady, cold and calculated as he retracted the blade into the cane with a snap that sounded almost polite.
The king dropped to his knees, staring at the bloodied stump as though his brain couldn’t translate what’d happened.
Gage squatted beside him, his relaxed resolve terrifying.
“Consider this one amputation a mercy,” he said quietly, “Because if you ever touch what’s mine again, I will take the other arm and both legs, dismantling you piece by piece until you’re nothing but a hard lesson learned.”
Scar’s hands and feet were cut free.
He surged up, his shoulder howling in pain, as he followed Gage out of the hole in the front of the club and into the armored Hummer where the Greens waited in the third row, both hooded and quiet as predators.
The driver pressed on the accelerator and said through the comms, “Whites secured and inbound.”
Gage tossed his gear to the floor, then his hands were on Scar, checking him with fast, probing touches.
Scar just stared, transfixed.
Gage had saved him. And in the most spectacular way.
“I’m okay,” he said, trying to make it sound like the truth.
Gage didn’t stop touching. “Your gait is slightly off, and…”
He palpitated Scar’s shoulder and a sharp grunt escaped him before he could stop it, making Gage go still.
“Your shoulder is dislocated,” he gritted, then spoke through his own comms. “Roz, tell medical to be ready.”
