I gasp, try to pull away, but the ropes hold.
“Gilbert owes me five hundred thousand dollars,” Vincent says, voice cold. “That’s half a mil. He’s been on the run fortwo years. Two. Fucking. Years. And you had the perfect in—his daughter, his son—and you threw it away for what? Pussy?”
“I’m close,” I manage. “I’m close to finding him.”
Vincent pauses. “How close?”
“The daughter. She doesn’t know where he is, but she’ll lead me to him eventually. People like Gilbert, they can’t stay away from their kids forever. He’ll reach out.”
“And when he does?”
“I’ll make him pay. Everything he owes. Plus interest.”
Vincent studies me. Then he smiles. “I like the sound of that.”
He stands, walks to a metal table in the corner. When he comes back, he’s holding a crowbar.
“But you still fucked up. And fuck-ups have consequences.”
The pain comes in waves.
He breaks two of my fingers. Maybe three. I lose count after the first one.
He doesn’t hit my face—can’t have me showing up to hockey practice looking like I went through a wood chipper—but everything else is fair game.
Ribs. Shoulders. Thighs.
Each hit sends shockwaves through the drug-induced haze, and I’m grateful for it. The high dulls the pain just enough that I don’t pass out.
“You work for me,” Vincent says between hits. “You don’t make decisions on your own. You don’t play savior. You don’t deviate from the plan. Understand?”
“Yeah,” I gasp, feeling my ribs ache. “Understand.”
“Good.”
He drops the crowbar. It clatters on the concrete.
“Get him the fuck out of here.”
Travis and Tony untie me. I slump forward, barely able to hold myself up.
They drag me to my car, throw me in the passenger’s seat.
“Sleep it off,” Tony says. “Boss wants you functional for practice tomorrow.”
The door slams and someone drives off. I’m too dazed and in pain to know where the fuck I’m going. Eventually, I close my eyes.
When I wake up, the sun is too bright.
I’m parked on the side of a road I don’t recognize. Trees on one side, empty field on the other.
My phone says it’s 7:47 a.m.
Fuck.
I try to move and immediately regret it. Everything hurts. My ribs scream. My fingers are broken. Shit.
I check my hands. Two fingers on my right hand are bent at wrong angles. I force them straight, biting down on a scream, and tape them together with athletic tape from my gym bag.
