The air in the manager’s office was thick with the copper tang of blood and the suffocating scent of cheap floor wax. Before the manager or the teller could finish their gloating jeers, a hand as hard as forged iron clamped around the manager’s throat. The man’s smug expression vanished, replaced by a frantic, bug-eyed terror as he was hoisted upward. His face turned a deep, bruised purple, his oxygen cut off by a grip that felt less like a human hand and more like a hydraulic press.
Dominic Mylod stood there, his eyes twin pools of glacial frost. The sheer killing intent radiating from him was a physical weight, pressing against the walls of the small room. "You laid a hand on my mother," Dominic said, his voice a low, vibrating rasp that seemed to bypass the ears and strike directly at
