by Briar

Again and again, his fists beat a tatoo of rage on this tumbled cove before him, who would play him for a nimenog after slithering into his life like a sneak-theif coward.

Bene, but a vice was gripping that something inside him which he could not carve out bleeding from this guttersnipe brat's chest. If it existed, it would spew venom icewater.

And shame, it was shameful, recognizing shades of the father in the son.

"Amsterdam! ...New York is calling you--"

Deceit was staring him in the face, and he would see it killed. But, oh, it looked pretty.


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