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 f*****g 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. Ev
