The locker room in Danton's private gym reeked of expensive cologne, flop sweat, and the unmistakable tang of seven rich boys collectively shitting themselves.
Brett Castellano stood in the centre of the circle like a defendant who'd already been found guilty and was just waiting for the judge to decide between hanging or firing squad. Head bowed. Shoulders curved inward.
Looking about as threatening as a wet tissue someone had used to wipe up a particularly disappointing orgasm.
Pathetic, Danton thought. Absolutely fucking pathetic.
Three years. Three solid years Brett had been the golden enforcer of Ashford Elite's underground food chain. Three years of watching him dismantle anyone dumb enough to step up. And now here he was, reduced to a quivering puddle because he'd lost to Phei.
Phei.
The charity case. The human speed bump. The kid who flinched if you looked at him too hard.
That Phei.
