NICK
Richard opens the door himself.
No guards. No security detail. Just a man in a pressed shirt with a glass of wine and the look of someone who’s been sitting in a chair facing the door for hours, expecting exactly this.
“Nicholas. I was hoping—”
I hit him.
His head snaps sideways. The wine glass breaks against the marble and he catches himself on the desk, his hand going to his mouth and coming away red. He stares at his fingers for a moment. Then at me.
“I deserve that.”
“Your man put his hands through a school fence and told my daughter her mother sent him. She was missing for eleven minutes. Her bond collapsed. I bled into her mouth on a school cot to keep her alive.” I step inside and the door shuts behind me. “So whatever you were hoping, reconsider.”
Richard wipes
