Page 108 of Ruthless Enforcer

Gabriel doesn't wait to be invited. He walks to the heavy mahogany table opposite James’s chair, pulls out the matching leather armchair, and sits down with fluid, unhurried grace.

He looks at the antique shotgun on my uncle’s lap.

Then, with smooth economy of movement, Gabriel reaches inside his jacket and draws out a black pistol. He drops the magazine with a single click of his thumb, racks the slide back, catching the live nine-millimeter round in his left palm as it ejects, lets the slide snap forward onto the empty chamber, and sets the cleared weapon flat on the table, muzzle pointed safely toward the stone hearth. Beside it, he sets the loaded magazine and the brass cartridge before he leans back, resting his arms on the leather chair, and meets James’s stare head-on.

James glances down at the black steel on the table, then looks back up.

“Nineteen twenty-four?” Gabriel nods toward the shotgun on James’s knees. “Side-by-side sidelock. Self-opening action. Double triggers with an articulated front. Hand-engraved by Harry Kell, if the scrollwork on the fences is anything to go by.”

A flicker of surprise touches James’s eyes before settling behind a lifetime of aristocratic discipline.

“Nineteen twenty-six,” James corrects, his voice a deep baritone. “My grandfather bought it in London after his second cattle shipment overseas. Hand-cut checkering, twenty-eight-inch chopper-lump barrels. It’s killed pheasant in Yorkshire and grouse on the Madison Range. Never failed to seat a shell. Never failed to fire.”

“It’s art,” Gabriel acknowledges evenly. “Beautiful balance. Incredible craftsmanship. But the Damascus barrels won't tolerate modern high-pressure steel loads without splitting the breeches, the extraction is manual if the ejector springs fatigue, and you have two shots before you’re holding an expensive nine-pound club.”

James arches one silver eyebrow, tilting his chin toward the matte-black weapon on the mahogany table. “And that? Looks like something stamped out of a CNC mill for an infantry platoon.”

“Customized double-stack nine.” Gabriel smiles, his dimples flashing. “Tungsten-infused grip module, match-grade bull barrel, hand-tuned two-pound trigger break, twenty-one rounds in the stick. Nobody in London is going to weep over the walnut grain, but I can drag it through two miles of frozen Montana mud, drop it into the snow at twenty below, and it’ll put three rounds through a playing card at twenty-five yards every single time.”

James studies the gun for a long moment, then looks up at the man sitting across from him. “A tool for killing men.”

“A tool for stopping men who want to kill the people I protect.” Gabriel sits back in the chair. “There’s a distinction. I’d appreciate it if you appreciated the nuance.”

I stand between them, crossing my arms over my chest, watching them size each other up like a pair of silver-backed wolves negotiating territory.

Men.

But as the tension in James’s shoulders slowly drops and Gabriel’s watchful posture settles into quiet respect, I realize this is how these two men build a bridge. They speak the language of force because both have spent their lives building walls around the people they care about.

“Sit down, Clara,” James says softly, not taking his eyes off Gabriel.

Shaking my head, I stay right where I am. “When I have a front-row view to this display of masculine theatrics? No thank you, Uncle James.”

James looks at me then, really looks at me, and the formidable mask cracks.

His eyes soften with a raw, agonizing ache that makes my throat tight. In the two weeks since the gala, he has aged years. He thought I was trapped in a cellar. He thought he’d failed to protect me.

“You have the Whitlock stubborn chin,” James murmurs, shaking his head. “God help me, you always have.”

“I have my own chin, Uncle James.” I arch my brow. “And my own brain.”

James lets out a heavy breath, carefully lifting the Purdey from his lap and leaning it against the side of his chair, out of reach. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“I was a fool,” James says, the admission dropping into the room with quiet gravity.

Gabriel doesn't gloat. He simply listens.

“Cole Turner came to the Union Club,” James continues, his jaw tightening. “He sat across from me in tailored wool, dropping poison into my ear an ounce at a time.”

James looks at Gabriel, his steel-gray gaze unblinking. “He made me think you manipulated her into marriage. He made me believe my niece was coerced and that the Reyes family was holding her hostage.”

“You’ll want this,” Gabriel says, sliding a manila folder across the table. “We pulled the serial numbers on those caps. They were stolen from an abandoned Whitlock limestone quarry three years ago. The staging maps, the financial transfers, the burner phone records, it’s all documented. Turner orchestrated the entire feud, including the original plan to kidnap Clara.”

James opens the folder, flipping through the surveillance stills, encrypted chat logs, and tactical schematics. He exhales slowly, his face hardening with disgust.

“The man is an animal,” James mutters.

“The man is finished,” Gabriel says.