Grayson shook the sting from his knuckles, his gaze never leaving the man trembling in the chair.
"I’m going to make this very simple for you," Grayson said, his voice dropping to a low, serrated edge that cut through the humid air of the warehouse. "You have two choices. You return every single thing you took from Betty—every heirloom, every scrap of paper, every piece of her life you thought you could pawn off—or you don't leave this building. Not on your own two feet, anyway."
Francis tried to swallow, but his split lip made it a painful, wet sound. He looked at Marcus, then back to the cold, dead vacuum of Grayson’s expression. He opened his mouth to argue, perhaps to plead ignorance or bargain for more time, but the words died in his throat. He saw the way Grayson stood, perfectly
