64

Asher

The bullet wound in my shoulder still burns days later. The cuts on my hands from shattered glass are barely healed. A normal man might have taken time to rest up and heal, but I don’t have the luxury of wasting a single second. There are more pressing matters at hand.

Turning the wooden bat in my fist, I slap it into my opposite palm. Blood flicks from the bat, staining the front of my shirt. Mila stands behind me, watching with a bored expression on her face as I turn my attention back to the object of my fury.

“Stop, God, please fucking stop!” Sergio roars.

“Damn,” I mutter. “Maybe wearing white was a bad idea. Then again, your black clothing isn’t helping you much, now that I think about it.”

Sergio’s shirt collar and shoulders are soaked with blood from his broken mouth. Every wheezing breath he takes or desperate cry he makes sends more red splattering onto the material. “Asher Volkov … stop this. I’m begging you.”

“Not until you tell me where Yannick took my wife.”

“I don