I took a step backward, ice surging through my veins. Justin Frisk? Did this kid all the way over in Seattle just say Justin Frisk was his father?
I knew Justin Frisk. I knew Justin Frisk because he had half the East Coast wrapped up in his shady business. I knew him because anytime you said his name, the room got quiet. Because out of every dollar made at those fights back in Philly, fifty cents was owed to Justin Frisk, and you better not forget it.
My mouth must have dropped open, and my eyes must have gone wide. There wasn’t much that could shake me, but an underboss of the crime family I ran across the country to hide from? That rattled every bone I had.
“Holy shit, you do know who my father is,” the kid sneered. “What, are you from Philadelphia?”
I recovered my composure, spitting on the ground at the kid’s feet. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
Then he looked at my hands. He stared for a second, seeming to take them in, and his eyes travelled up my arms, almost like he was studying me. It took me a minute, but I finally realized what he was doing.
He was memorizing my tattoos.
Fuck.
The kid turned on his heel, gesturing to his friend to follow him. “Let’s go before this loser blows his top,” he said, calling over his shoulder to be sure I heard him. “He won’t be a problem for us much longer.”
I tightened my hand into a fist, rage building from my gut. When the kid was out of sight, I shoved the fist to my mouth, biting down hard on my knuckles, and cursing every tattoo I had gotten.
“Fuck!” I yelled, turning and kicking the side of the building, hard as I could. “Fucking hell!” The shock of the blows reverberated up my legs, shaking my bones, but I didn’t care.
I just kept kicking the building and cursing the past that had found me.
