On any normal day, if someone dared speak to the blond punk—the one his buddies called “Boss”—the way Ace Kane just had, the kid would’ve drawn a knife without blinking. That was the foundation of his reputation. The blade was his confidence, and violence was his dialect.
But today?
Today he didn’t even have the courage to breathe too loudly.
Because for the first time in his life, he met someone who wasn’t playing at violence—
someone who was using money to play with his life,
and could do it with the effortless calm of a man tossing coins into a fountain.
That kind of person was an entirely different species from street punks.
He didn’t shout.
He didn’t posture.
He didn’t need backup.
He just stood there, smiling like a man choosing wine, while deciding whose future to destroy.
