CHAPTER 3
The freezing wind coming off the Pacific Ocean whipped across the open pier, biting into my face as I lay on the wet asphalt. The pain in my ribs was a deep, burning throb that spiked with every shallow breath. The enforcer, satisfied with his physical dominance, slowly circled me like a vulture admiring a dying animal.
He stopped near my head, his shadow falling across my face. I opened my eyes. inches from my nose was the polished toe of his expensive, custom-made Italian leather dress shoe. It was stained with a smear of thick, gray dockside mud from where he had stepped in a puddle earlier.
“You know how much these cost, old man?” he asked, his voice conversational, as if we were discussing the weather over coffee. “Two thousand dollars. Imported. And you’ve made me dirty them in this miserable shipyard.”
I didn't answer. I focused on managing my breathing, keeping my heart rate as low as possible. Through the tinted window of the Ferrari, I could see Maya’s small hands still pressed desperately against the glass, her face pale with terror. I needed to keep this arrogant kid’s attention focused entirely on me.
“I think you owe me an apology,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, tightening with a cruel, dangerous edge. He pressed the toe of his muddy shoe lightly against my cheek. “In fact, I think you should clean it for me.”
He dug his heel slightly into the ground, forcing the mud-stained leather closer to my mouth.
“Lick it clean,” he commanded. “Lick the mud off my shoe, and maybe I won’t shatter your other leg before I leave you here to bleed out.”
The humiliation was intentional. It wasn’t about the shoe. It was about absolute psychological destruction. Men like him—men who worked for Marcus Thorne—were cowards masquerading as kings. They needed their victims completely broken to feel safe.
I looked at the mud. Then I slowly tilted my head up, my eyes locking onto his. I didn’t blink. I didn’t show a fraction of the agony radiating through my chest.
I gathered the thick saliva in my mouth and spat a heavy, wet glob directly onto the polished toe of his two-thousand-dollar shoe.
The silence on the pier became instantly suffocating.
The enforcer stared down at his ruined leather. The muscles in his jaw tightened, a hard, violent pulse beating visibly in his neck. The arrogant composure vanished, replaced by an uncontrollable, humiliated rage.
“You stupid old bastard,” he hissed.
He leaned down, grabbing the lapels of my thick, heavy leather jacket with both hands. He didn't punch me. His rage demanded something more theatrical, something that would strip away the remaining shreds of my dignity. With a furious roar, he violently yanked the heavy leather apart.
The worn seams of the jacket gave way with a loud, tearing rip. The aged material split violently down the center, exposing my chest and back to the biting ocean wind. The cold air hit my bare skin like ice.
But as the jacket fell open, sliding off my shoulders, the enforcer’s hands suddenly stopped moving.
He stumbled half a step backward, his breath catching in his throat.
My back was not the frail, empty skin of a mechanic. It was a roadmap of extreme, surviving violence. Thick, jagged scar tissue crisscrossed my shoulder blades—memories of knives, broken glass, and close-quarters combat from a life I had tried to bury.