Page 12 of Mob Boss's Second Chance

He takes a step forward as his lip curls into a sneer. “They’ll say your power has weakened, Ethan Cross. You were lax enough to let the wrong people into your house.”

Knowing Solomon, it’s not an empty threat. But I’ve never been one to cower, no matter how much punch is behind the threats.

“Get out,” I repeat without a change to my voice inflection. “Now.”

“I warned you,” Solomon hisses. He reaches into his pants, but I’m quicker—a swift hit to his wrist. His hand falls out, and so does the gun.

I kick it far when he bends to pick it up, and my other hand cracks his cheek, sending him to the floor. The sole of my feet meets his chest,over and over,as I keep him from trying to get up.

There’s no malice to the hits I deliver other than the slight from the sheer insult of his presence.

Picking him up by his shirt, I push him towards the wall. He lunges for me with a blow, and it bounces off the corner of my face, nicking my chin. My eyes turn to slits and anger pouts through me as I pin him with my hand around his neck.

“Remember what I said I’d do to you if you ever showed up in front of me again?” I ask, squeezing harder. Solomon’s face is turning a pale shade, and he tries to fight my hands off in an effort to breathe. “Remember?!” I yell.

I exhale sharply, forcing my tone down. I lean in, staring into his eyes. Into the fear that shines through. “I told you I was going to kill you. And if I see you anywhere around me or my cousin or my men, I will make good on my promise.”

I let him go.

He crumbles to the ground, coughing and wheezing.

Fuck.

He’s a pathetic sight.

Two of my men burst into the room, their footsteps heavy against the polished floor. Anthony must’ve sent them, thinking I needed backup. Their eyes land on Solomon, sprawled on the ground, but neither looks surprised—it’s almost as if they’d expected this.

“Get him out,” I say, my tone sharp. “I don’t want anyone identifying him. If you need to cover his face, do it.”

They nod silently and bend down, each taking hold of Solomon by the arms. His head lolls forward, the cocky smirk long gone from his face, replaced by unconscious defeat.

I watch them effortlessly lift him, his shoes dragging slightly against the floor as they move toward the exit.

“Make sure he’s dropped far enough that he can’t find his way back,” I add, my voice cutting through the tense air.

They pause at the door, nodding once in acknowledgment before disappearing. The heavy silence that follows feels deafening, and I stand there, frozen for a moment, before dragging a hand through my hair.

The gesture is automatic as I exhale roughly, trying to release the tension that’s coiled in my chest.

There’s blood on my left knuckles, not enough to draw attention, but I must’ve punched him at some point. My shirt is also ruined from when his fingers kept digging through, trying to loosen my hold around his neck.

“I need to get changed,” I mutter under my breath, stating the obvious aloud.

I shove my right hand into my pocket, dragging my feet towards the stairs. My thoughts are on getting changed and joining the party, and it occupies my mind well enough that I don’t see her.

I smell her.

Lavender and pressed roses.

It doesn’t drift past my nostrils the way you would for something insignificant. Instead, it hits me hard enough that I glance in her direction without thinking.

Our eyes meet, and I pause, but then her eyes widen a fraction as though caught between shock and confusion. I frown, wondering what must’ve caused her to react like that, when I realize what she’s looking at—my shirt.

My knuckles. I had the wrong hand tucked into my pocket.

Shit.

She must think I got into a fight. Or worse—that I’m some gangster who automatically hates everyone I cross paths with. Honestly, I wouldn’t blame her.

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