The violence coils in my chest, black and hungry, demanding its pound of flesh. It takes every ounce of the control I’ve spent sixty years cultivating to keep myself rooted to this spot instead of painting his foyer walls red with his f*****g intestines.
Preston must see some fraction of that rage in my eyes, because he takes a step back. Then another.
I don’t advance on him. I don’t need to. I simply walk forward at a measured pace as he keeps scurrying away. When his back hits the edge of his piano, though, he’s run out of room to flee.
“You touched something that belongs to me tonight,” I inform him.
Preston’s laugh is wheezy and anxious. “Lukas, come on. We were just talking. She’s your assistant; I didn’t realize you two were—”
I watch the moment true fear flares in his eyes. He
