Page 75 of Ruthless Claim

I don’t stop.

Mickey’s making a low wet noise with each breath.

My fist comes back anyway because he winked, he said her name and then he winked at me like it was funny, like she was a joke he was letting me in on⁠—

“Boss.” Ryan’s hands lock around my shoulders from behind and he hauls me up with his full body weight. He’s six-three and two-twenty and he puts all of it into it, but he still barely gets me back on the first attempt. “He is done, Boss. He is done, come on⁠—”

Second attempt. I plant a fist into the concrete beside Mickey’s head instead of his face, which is as much self-control as I’ve got right now.

Third attempt.

Ryan gets me up.

I let him, because I realize three things: Mickey’s still making noise, which means he’s breathing.

Ryan’s hands on my shoulders are the hands of a man who is trying to help me not do something I can’t walk back from.

And my hands are screaming at me.

I stand there. The concrete is cold through my shoes and I’m breathing hard. I didn’t notice it until now.

The warehouse smells like blood layered over the seawater, sharp and copper.

It’s dripping everywhere, some of it’s Mickey’s and some of it’s mine running down my own fingers.

Doyle and Ryan are both very still.

They’ve put themselves against the far wall, the way experienced men do when something has gone sideways and the smartest move is to not be near it.

They’re looking at me with a look I’ve seen on other men’s faces when things have gone further than expected. I’ve never had it directed at me before.

I find my jacket on the floor. That’s odd. I have no memory of it coming off.

Mickey is on the concrete in the wreckage of the chair, one eye swollen shut, jaw sitting at an angle it wasn’t sitting at an hour ago.

His breathing is shallow and he’s not smiling anymore.

I crouch down. He looks up at me with the one eye that still works, and whatever he sees in my face makes him flinch even though I’m not touching him.

“The names you gave us,” I say, conversationally. “Doyle’s going to verify every single one of them. If one comes back wrong, or if I hear—from anyone, anywhere—that you’ve said her name again”—I hold his gaze—“the jaw is going to be the interesting part of your story. Nod if you understand.”

He nods quickly. The smell of urine invades my nostrils and I wrinkle my nose. Bastard’s pissed himself.

I stand up and look at Doyle. “Get the names to Connor. I’ll debrief him myself.”

I walk out without looking at Mickey again.

The cold air hits me outside. I stand there for a moment with my hands at my sides looking at what I can see of the Hudson between the buildings. My knuckles burn. Good. It gives me something to focus on while the rest of my brain finishes doing whatever it’s doing, which appears to be arriving at a conclusion I’ve been putting off for weeks.

What I keep coming back to isn’t the jaw. I’ve done more damage and I’ll do it again and I’m at peace with what I am.

What I keep coming back to is the wink.

The easy, relaxed wink of a man who thought he was buying goodwill with my wife’s name.

Like he had my permission to shape the words of her name around his lips.

He doesn’t even deserve to look at her.