Matteo shrugs. “I don’t see how that’s possible. Dude’s been moping about for six months now.” Looking straight at me, he adds, “Enough is enough. Beatrice wouldn’t want—”
In two seconds I’m at his side of the table, fisting his collar. “Don’t,” I growl, “you ever fucking talk about her.”
“Fudging,” Raven corrects. “And please let go of my baby-daddy, Rafe.”
Matteo just grins like a fucking madman, blowing me a kiss when I let go. “So touchy.”
Rolling my eyes, I correct my cufflinks and brush some lint from my shoulder. “Right, I’m going. Some of us have business to take care of,” I tell them.
Remus raises his glass in silent acknowledgment. Enzo nods, and Matteo just taps two fingers against his temple—his personal salute.
As I leave the dining room, I feel the familiar shift inside me. The cousin, the friend, whatever is left of the man they expect at this table falls away, replaced by the collector. The one Cleveland’s debtors have learned to fear.
And someone is about to understand exactly why.
Blood will be spilled tonight, and it won’t be mine.
The Maserati purrs beneath me as I cut through Cleveland’s frozen streets, the heater gradually warming the leather interior. The family dinner clings to me like something stale, but now business calls.
Joe Carr has been playing games for three months—extending, avoiding, making promises his bank account can’t keep.Tonight, those games end. Tonight, he learns what happens when I decide he’s had enough chances.
I check my watch as I pull into the parking lot of his office building on the east side. It’s late enough that the cleaning crew has left, early enough that Joe still thinks he’s safe behind his desk, catching up on work.
Colin and Ian are already waiting, standing beside Ian’s black car, breath fogging in the cold air. Colin’s massive frame is unmistakable even from a distance, his shaved head gleaming under the parking lot lights. Ian stands with casual alertness, leaner but no less dangerous.
I park beside them and step out into the cold, adjusting my suit jacket and feeling the reassuring weight of my holstered gun.
“He’s still inside,” Ian reports as I approach. “Lights on in his office on the fifteenth floor.”
“What about security?” I ask, though I already know the answer. Ian is thorough.
“There’s a rent-a-cop at the front desk that we already handled with a bribe,” Colin replies. “The elevators require a keycard after hours, but he left his behind.”
I nod toward the building. “Then let’s not waste time.”
We move across the parking lot with unhurried purpose. The lobby doors slide open at our approach, the security desk is conspicuously empty. A single keycard lies on the counter. Ian grabs it without breaking stride.
In the elevator, I check my reflection in the polished metal doors. My face reveals nothing—no anger, no anticipation, just the cold neutrality of a man conducting business. The elevator rises smoothly, numbers climbing toward fifteen.
The doors open with a soft chime, revealing a lit hallway of office suites. Most are dark, but light spills from beneath a door at the far end.
We don’t bother being quiet. Our shoes click against the floor, echoing down the empty corridor. I want him to hear us coming. I want fear in his mouth before pain ever reaches him.
I stop outside his door, removing my suit jacket and handing it to Ian. The shoulder holster is now clearly visible against my white shirt.
Colin pushes the door open without knocking.
Joe Carr looks up from behind his desk, recognition and terror washing over his face in quick succession. He’s in his late-forties, thinning hair, an expensive suit that can’t quite hide the paunch of too many business lunches. His eyes widen as they register first me, then the gun at my side.
“Oh God,” he whispers, then lunges for the door on the opposite side of his office.
Ian moves with the fluid grace of a predator, intercepting Joe before he makes it halfway around his desk. “I fucking love it when they run,” he laughs.
Then he grabs Joe by his collar, drags him back, and shoves him into his chair with enough force to make it roll back and slam against the wall.
“Stay,” Ian orders while he upends the desk, sending it and all its contents sprawling.
Now that the desk isn’t covering Joe’s legs, I can see just how much they shake. Pathetic. He’s the kind of man who doesn’t understand the definition of dignity or pride. I’m sure he’s also mistaken delay for leverage, and weakness for survival.
