Page 87 of Choices

“You got them. Your brother came here one time for an hour, if that, and left. End of story. We would have no fucking reason to lie or to do anything to the kid. The Kings and Carnells are friends. We took care of the scum who hurt him—for you.” Callan takes another step in his direction.

Michael’s chest deflates as he raises his hands to his face and roars into them. “Fuck.” Dropping his hands, he nods, his lips pursed. “I know. I know that. Shit.”

“It’s okay,” Pres assures him, reaching out and squeezing his shoulder.

My eyes slide to Grease and Dodger and I jerk my chin toward the bodyguard closest to them.

In one swift movement, Grease swings his arm around the suit’s neck from behind, restraining him as Dodger grabs his arm and slams the guy’s hand on one of the tables. The poor bastard’s expression is a mix of rage and confusion as he looks back and forth between Callan and Pres in panicked fear. A zap of power passes through the room, charging the atmosphere. You can taste it with every inhale, like electricity over the tongue.

Blanching, Michael asks sternly, “What’s going on?” The other two goons crowd around him in hopes of protecting him from any assault. I could throw this blade into his skull right now and they wouldn’t be able to do a thing about it. My fingers twitch. Adrenaline sparks inside my chest at the possibility.

Pres calmly proclaims, “I’m a lenient and merciful man.” He holds his hands up and does a full circle, gaining grunts of confirmation from the brothers. “You blowing in here at the ass crack of dawn is forgivable,” he tells Michael. “You’re still grieving, you’ll always be grieving and I can understand that.” Tension clings to the air like fog over a lake. “However, actions do have consequences.” Placing a hand to his chest, he pushes his lips together, taking a concerned pause. “I’m merciful, but when it comes to his sister, my son is not.”

Pointing the meat cleaver in Michael’s face, Callan growls, his voice deadly, “No one puts fucking bruises on my sister.”

“Callan…” A ghost of fear passes over Michael’s eyes before his features smooth out in resignation. “Do what you have to do.”

“Get him off me,” the guard splutters, attempting to break free from Grease’s hold.Good fucking luck.“Boss?” he asks Michael, who shakes his head no.

Raising the cleaver, Callan brings it down fast and hard, severing the guard’s hand. Blood sprays, painting over Michael and the other two guards. An unnatural wail rips through the room and bounces off the walls, settling into the foundation.A sliver of sunlight creeps through the bar, highlighting the carnage spilling like a red waterfall to the floor.

No one moves. The squelching of blood pissing from the stub is the only sound as the guard passes out like a fucking pussy. Grease releases him, and the guard hits the floor with a thud. “You might want to put some pressure on that,” he informs the other guards.

“If you ever touch my sister again, it will be your head I take. I don’t give a fuck who you are, how long we’ve known each other, or how much money we make together.” Callan holds the cleaver up, blood dripping down the blade and onto his forearm.

Marching over to the table, I stab through the severed hand with my blade and hold it up for Michael to take, resisting the urge to jam it through his eye.

“We showed you mercy tonight because of your father. Don’t make him lose another son,” Pres states.

“I won’t.” Reluctantly, Michael tugs the hand free and slaps it against his guard’s chest, gesturing to the one on the floor bleeding out from a wound that should have been his. “Get him up.”

“Don’t come back here unless you’re invited,” Callan adds, moving toward the bar. He jerks his head toward Diamond, and she maneuvers around Dodger and Grease to make him a drink.

“Which you’ll never be,” Kitty pipes in, coming to stand beside Pres and me. “And if you ever lay a hand on me again, it won’t be my brother you have to worry about.” As quick as a cat, she whips the blade from my hand and jams it into Michael’s shoulder.

Gasping, he stumbles back. His guards drop their injured third and push Michael behind them, stretching their arms out to stop any advance.

“Kitty,” Pres growls. She smiles big and fucking proud.

Yanking the blade out and dropping it with a clank, Michael rolls his neck and nods in acceptance. Around two inches of the blade is covered in blood from where it punctured his flesh—two inches more than he’ll ever give her. Fucker.

Michael turns to leave, stalling when Claire’s voice chimes, “Michael?”

She’s standing at the entrance he came through. She takes in his shoulder then steps back, wheezing when she sees the guard on the floor. “What the hell?”

“Do I know you?” Michael asks, confusion in his tone.

Her gaze flits to mine then lands on Pres before she shakes her head and stammers for her next breath. “N-o…” Moving out of his way, she watches his departure then points behind her. “I’ll be in our room.”

Kitty waltzes off in the other direction, and I turn to follow her when Pres grinds out. “Your wife went that way.”

We stare at each other for a couple silent beats before I grit my teeth and take off after Claire.

CHAPTER 26

BRUISES

KITTY

---