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There is a loud cacophony of voices, and I spin around to watch the Natoris and Philipses spilling out of the building. Floyd Philips makes a beeline for me, and Tristan and Lorenzo step forward to stop him. He tries to push his way past them, spittle flying out of his mouth and his small body holding more rage and arrogance than I thought possible.
I step forward, take Floyd’s hand, and twist it back hard enough to make a popping sound. He growls in pain and leaps backward and away from me. But I’m not done with him.
Tristan, Lorenzo, and the others part, allowing me to pass through. Floyd is cradling his broken hand against his chest, a sickly sheen of sweat on his forehead. “You’re a sick son of a bitch, do you know that?”
I shove Floyd against the wall hard enough to make his teeth rattle. Then I bring my knee up and hit him in the stomach, making him wheeze. “You’re not telling me something I don’t know already, Floyd. Do you want to know what the difference is between you and me? I don’t give a flying fuck what you or anyone else thinks of me.”
Floyd’s eyes tighten as he spits in my face.
Behind me, I hear my men struggling with his. I spare them a quick look over my shoulder and smile when I realize that Lorenzo and a few others have them on their knees. Then I look back at Floyd, who has lost some of the color in his face.
“You brought more men,” Floyd realizes, his voice growing in horror. “The agreement was—”
I punch Floyd in the stomach. “The terms of the agreement changed when you and the Natoris met up behind my back and started getting greedy. I warned you about what would happen if you crossed me. Did you really think I wasn’t going to come prepared?”
Or that I was going to walk in here with my tail between my legs?
I grab Floyd by the scruff of his neck and give him a firm shake. “I know you’re not the head of the Philips family, Floyd. I don’t give a shit how many more lies you’ve told me, but from now on, things are going to change.”
Floyd has blood on his lip, and it’s dripping down the sides of his chin. “You can’t beat us, Blackthorne. You’re bluffing, and we can always go after your little whore—”
I throw Floyd onto the ground and press a gun to the side of his head. “Go ahead and finish that sentence. I’ll make your own men clean up the blood stains when I’m through.”
Floyd swallows and presses his lips together.
I take a step forward and remove the safety on the gun, the click echoing in the stillness around me. “Well? I’m waiting.”
Floyd’s mouth parts, but he makes a low wheezing sound.
I crouch and hold Floyd’s gaze. “You’ve got five seconds, or I’m going to start dropping bodies.”
Floyd gives me an angry look, more and more sweat pouring down his face.
I exhale and stand up. “One.”
I aim at one of Floyd’s men and shoot him in the chest. He crumples into a heap on the ground, blood seeping through his white shirt and onto the pavement below.
“Two.” I aim at another man and shoot him in the thigh, so he starts hopping back and forth on his feet. More and more of the Philips men are looking nervous and inching away from each other. When I aim at another one of them, panic breaks out, and a few of them dart in the opposite direction.
A few of my men jump out from behind the surrounding buildings and tackle them.
I glance back at Floyd and offer him a chilling smile. “I can keep going.”
Gingerly, Floyd rises to his feet and holds his hands up. “I get the fucking point, Blackthorne.”
I point my gun at Mathew, who goes as white as a sheet. “How about you, Natori? Have I made my point clear?”
Mathew steps forward and curls his hands into fists at his side. “Crystal.”
I lower my gun and pause to pat Mathew on the back. “Good. I’ll wait for the call.”
With one last look in their direction, I get into the back of Ernesto’s SUV. Tristan gets into the front, and a few more men pile into the back. Then Ernesto peels away from the curb, and I watch through the colored glass as more and more Blackthorne men descend upon our enemies.
My only regret is that I won’t be able to watch it all unfold.
When my phone starts blaring with one angry message after the other, I switch it off. I lean back against the leather seats, pour myself a drink, and study the world blurring past outside. Ernesto pulls onto the highway and joins a line of traffic.
In the rearview mirror, he looks up and holds my gaze.
