Page 24 of Ruthless Enforcer

The tailor looks up. “For the jacket?”

“No, for civilization to collapse.”

His face goes blank.

“Yes, for the jacket.” He’s lucky I want this suit.

“Ten minutes.”

“Take fifteen,” I say, shrugging out of the coat. I leave him staring after me and go downstairs.

My ribs object with each step, but I ignore them. Gabriel Reyes spent forty days teaching me the distinction between pain and incapacity. It may be the only useful thing the bastard ever gave me.

I open the front door.

Dawson stands on the porch. His tie is crooked. His eyes are bloodshot. There’s dried blood along one cuff.

I don’t give a fuck. He’s worked for me for six years, which means he knows better than to arrive late. “You're eleven minutes late.”

His jaw tightens. “We had a problem.”

“I gathered.” I step aside. He comes in, and I close the door behind him. “Drink?”

“No.”

Good. It wasn't a sincere offer.

I lead him into the study. Nothing’s changed since I left. Leather. Walnut. The bronze horse my mother hated. A decanter of twenty-five-year-old Scotch that somehow survived everyone who came through the house searching for evidence. I had a crew clean up the rest of the mess before I returned.

As I pour myself two fingers, I gesture to a chair. “Sit.”

Dawson shakes his head. “I'd rather stand.”

“Suit yourself.” I take the chair behind my desk.

He looks at me for a moment. “You look like shit.”

I raise the glass. “Reyes sends his regards.”

That shuts him up.

I take a sip. “Tell me about our problem.”

“The museum went wrong.”

Of course it did. “How?”

“Gabriel Reyes.”

The Scotch pauses halfway to my mouth.

Dawson shifts his weight to his other leg. “Reyes was already there. He got to Whitlock before we did. Walked right up to her in the middle of the gala.”

“And?”

“He took her.”

For the first time all morning, my ribs stop hurting. I lower the glass. “He took Clara.”