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Good riddance,I thought.

As I made my way down the corridor and into the men’s room, I couldn’t help feeling bad for the poor kid though. Hattie had told me to give him a chance, let him join.

I shook my head as I stepped into the men’s room. I’d think about that later.

The cold muzzle of a pistol pressed against the base of my skull.

“Say one fucking word and I’ll blow your head off.”

My gaze flicked to the line of mirrors above the sinks. I caught the reflection of a man standing next to me, dressed head to toe in black—hoodie, jeans, boots, and baseball cap pulled low over his face. A slim build, wiry with muscle, like a long-distance runner. But I didn’t need to identify him to figure out who I was talking to.

“You must be Anderson Barber,” I said.

“And you must be the asshole who killed Cooley,” Barber replied.

He lifted my cut and yanked out the pistol I kept tucked into the back of my jeans. He tossed it in a nearby toilet.

“His first mistake was putting hands on my wife. His second mistake was getting caught.”

Barber bared his teeth with a hiss, digging the pistol deeper into my skin. I stifled a growl.

“Do you know what happens when you fuck up a man’s brain stem? He turns into a drooling vegetable. Pisses himself. Sucks his meals out of a goddamn tube. Can’t fight back. Can’t screw his pretty wife either.”

I went rigid, envisioning beating Barber’s head against the tile wall until he stopped moving, stopped running his mouth.

He leaned in, bringing a cloud of sour breath and cigarette smoke with him.

“A big, tough guy like you would hate it. Reduced to nothing but a useless sack of shit in a hospital bed. Meanwhile, I’ll torture your wife right in front of your eyes, the way you tortured Cooley. Hell, just for the fun of it, I might do even more than that while you watch—”

I rammed my elbow into his nose. Barber yelped as blood cascaded down his mouth and chin. The gun went off—a deafening explosion in the enclosed space. The bullet bit into the plaster wall inches above my right shoulder.

I couldn’t hear a damn thing through the ringing in my ears. But I lunged at Barber anyway.

He drove his fist into my ribs. Pain lanced up my torso, seizing the air from my lungs. I grabbed for the gun, slamming Barber’s hand against the wall—once, twice.

The gun hit the floor and skidded across the tile.

A moment later, the door burst open. Big G took a step forward, prepared to jump in.

“He’s mine,” I gritted out.

I pinned Barber to the floor, cocked my fist back. A flash of fear crossed his face.

“Wait—wait!”

“Your first mistake was threatening me on my turf,” I said. “Your second mistake was threatening my wife.”

I hit him. Again and again. The crunch of bone and the sickening sound of colliding flesh filled the room. Blood splattered the tiles. A broken tooth pinged against the floor.

“That’s enough.”

Big G’s voice cut through the red haze that filled my mind. He hooked his hands under my arms and hauled me to my feet.

Chest heaving, ribs still aching, I surveyed the pulpy mess of Barber’s face.

“No onefucking touchesmy wife,” I rasped.

I turned away to the sink, blood coating my hand up to my wrist. Bits of flesh and hair stuck to my knuckles. I flexed my fingers open and closed.