Out of the shadows of the nearby alleyway, a figure emerged. The streetlights caught the edge of a familiar, smug grin. It was Ace. He wasn't hiding; he was waiting. He looked at the wreckage of his car, the great Ice-cold CEO, brought low by his own distractions.
"Look at you, Max," Ace sneered, his voice dripping with a poisonous satisfaction. "The mighty Maximillian Byron, bleeding in the street over a girl who doesn't even want you. You look pathetic."
Max wiped the blood from his eye, his gaze sharpening into something lethal even through the haze of a concussion. He didn't need a gun. He didn't need his guards. He just needed to get his hands on his throat.
"You should have stayed in the shadows, Ace," Max rasped, his voice a low, guttural growl that promised nothing but pain. "Because now, there's no one here to stop me from doing what I should have done years ago."
