He looks surprised and disappointed. I get it. He wanted to be involved in this.
“Prez?”
“I need his address.”
Nitro pulls out his phone and sends the address to me. I read it twice, committing it to memory before I put my phone away.
My hands are shaking, my rage thrumming through me.
Chopper studies me, like he’s waiting for an eruption, but I keep it locked down. This anger is all for him. “Prez, you sure you don’t want back up?”
“No.” I turn to Nitro. “Keep her safe until I get back.”
His fists clench, but he nods. He knows what this is. Understands this is something a man has to do alone.
“Always,” he says.
“Goes without saying,” Chopper adds.
My nod is curt before I head out to my bike. I’m moving mostly by muscle memory. My brain is so full of death I can’t think of anything else. I’m imagining how I’m going to hurt that fucker. The ways I’ll torture him until he’s crying for mercy I won’t deliver.
I’ll make him scream until the vision of my wife hurt, holding her belly is erased from my mind. And then I’ll hurt him more just so he knows he fucked up touching what’s mine.
By the time I reach his building, my vision is tinted red and my hands are itching to commit violence.
Everything about this fuck’s life is bland. Shit fig trees line the lobby, designed to look chic and modern. That jumped up prick probably thinks this is what success looks like.
My boots are loud on the tile floor, and a woman shrinks back, disappearing into the shadows as I wait for the elevator.
When the doors slide open, the people inside scurry past me like they’re facing a monster.
I’m only dangerous to those who cross me.
I slip inside, hitting the button for his floor and I watch the numbers climb.
When I step out into the hallway, it’s quiet. Good. I don’t need an audience for what I’m about to do.
I knock on his front door, moving so he can’t see me through the peephole and the moment the door opens just a crack, I strike.
I shove inside, ignoring the way he squeals as I fill his hallway and kick the door shut behind me.
I can smell his fucking fear as he backpedals, trying to put some distance between us, but there’s nowhere he can run. I won’t allow it.
Not until he’s paid for what he did.
I use my bulk to back him into the living room, my eyes never leaving his. There are gouges down his cheek—fingernail marks—and a bruise forming on his jaw. Pride swells inside me.
Lexi fought for herself and for our baby.
“You can’t be here. I’ll call the police.” He pulls out his phone with trembling hands, hands that touched my wife. I snatch his phone out of his hands, tossing it across the room.
“You put your hands on my ol’ lady.” I step closer, and his chest heaves in terror. Good. I hope he feels the same level of terror she did.
“She assaulted me. She was pissed about the write up?—”
I don’t let him finish speaking. I crack my hand across his face, open palm, like the little bitch he is.
He stumbles so hard he collides with a sideboard, knocking everything off it.
