Tom McCarthy
Tom sat in his office long after Kingsley Salvatore had been escorted out, staring at the door as if the man might suddenly walk back in and continue the confrontation they had just had. His jaw was still tight, and the muscles in his shoulders felt coiled with the kind of anger that refused to settle.
The audacity of that man.
Kingsley had walked into his office like he belonged there and spoken to him as if he had the right to question how Tom handled his own wife. The memory of it made Tom’s fingers curl slowly against the surface of his desk.
His phone vibrated suddenly, breaking through the silence.
Tom glanced down and saw the name of his accountant on the screen.
He picked it up and answered without bothering to soften his tone.
“Mark, this better be important.”
