Chapter 7 - The Wreckage
The Range Rover crushed the library wall, flattening bookshelves and sending centuries-old texts flying like shrapnel. I slammed on the brakes, the front bumper stopping just three feet from Darren.
He stumbled backward, raising the gun, but I was already out of the driver’s side door.
I didn't use a weapon. I didn't need one. I hit him with the momentum of a freight train, driving my shoulder into his chest. We crashed over a reading table, the wood splintering beneath us.
The gun flew from his hand, skittering across the Persian rug.
Darren scrambled for it, his fingers brushing the grip. I grabbed his ankle and yanked him backward, dragging him across the floor. He kicked out, his heavy boot catching my jaw. Stars burst in my vision, a coppery taste flooding my mouth.
He scrambled up, pulling a jagged piece of wood from the broken table. He swung it like a bat. I ducked, feeling the wind of it graze my ear, and drove a savage punch into his ribs. The same ribs he had bruised on Maggie.
He wheezed, dropping the wood.
I grabbed him by the throat and slammed him against the only intact bookshelf left in the room. The mahogany groaned under the impact. I squeezed, watching the smug arrogance drain from his eyes, replaced by pure, suffocating panic.
“You touched her,” I snarled, my grip tightening. “You touched my son’s mother. And you touched Maggie.”
His face was turning a dark, mottled purple. He clawed at my hands, his legs kicking uselessly against the shelves.
I was going to kill him. It was a cold, absolute certainty. The monster I kept buried beneath bespoke suits and corporate titles was entirely awake, and it wanted blood.
“Vincent!”
The voice was tiny. Shaking.
I didn't stop.
“Daddy. Stop.”
The word froze the blood in my veins. Daddy.
I turned my head.
Owen was standing out from under the desk. He wasn't looking at Darren. He was looking at me. His small hands were clutching the wooden elephant.
“Don't be the bad man,” Owen whispered.
The rage evaporated, leaving only a hollow, aching clarity. I looked back at Darren, who was seconds from passing out. I opened my hand and let him drop to the floor. He collapsed in a pathetic, gasping heap.
Sirens wailed in the distance. Elias had recovered enough to hit the panic alarm. The police—my police—were coming. Darren Cole would disappear into a federal black hole so deep he would forget what sunlight looked like.
I stepped over him and walked toward my son.
I dropped to my knees, ignoring the glass cutting into my trousers, and pulled Owen into my chest. He buried his face in my neck, his little fingers clutching my shirt.
Maggie crawled out from behind the desk, trembling, her face covered in dust.
May you like
Darren, coughing up blood, managed to push himself up on one elbow. He looked at me, a vicious, bloody sneer on his lips.
“You think you won?” he hacked. “Go open the box, Calder. Read the ledger. Read why your precious wife was paying me. She wasn't scared of me, Vincent. She was running from you.”
