Fuck this.
I move.
Fast.
My fist connects with his jaw—bone cracking under impact, his head snapping sideways. He stumbles, glass shattering as whiskey spills across the floor.
I don’t stop.
Another hit. His mouth splits, blood spraying.
Pain flares through my knuckles.
God, that feels fucking good.
I lean into it, slamming him back again.
“Where is she?” I snarl, dragging him upright and driving my forehead into his face.
Impact. White-hot.
I keep going.
I hammer into his ribs. Once. Twice. Again. Each hit sinking deep.
“You touched her,” I growl, shaking him. “You took her from me.”
Another punch. His nose breaks under it.
Voices shout.
Guns shift.
I don’t care.
I slam him into the wall, forearm crushing his throat.
“If you hurt her,” I whisper, fury shaking through me.
My fist lifts—
A hand clamps down on my shoulder.
Iron grip.
Igor.
I freeze, breath ragged, awareness crashing back in. A room full of armed men. My body on the edge of collapse.
My father looks up at me.
Smiling.
Pride.
Sick.
I want to finish it.
