If there was one thing Damien Sinclair absolutely, fundamentally hated above all else in this world, it was being threatened. The sheer audacity of this spoiled, bankrupt socialite trying to hand him an ultimatum, to give him options regarding the life of his wife, was enough to make his blood boil.
Before Damien could even open his mouth, however, the man standing beside Elena let out a harsh, irritated sigh.
He reached up, popping the visor of his motorcycle helmet open.
"Assez parlé," the man grunted. His voice was thick with a French accent. "Enough talking. Get the girl."
On command, two tattooed Vipers cracked their knuckles, stepping forward from the pack to advance on the Maserati.
They didn't even get to take a second step.
Damien moved with a liquid speed that the human eye could barely track. His hand whipped down to the waistband of his trousers. He drew the Glock 19, raised his arm, and fired.
Bang. Bang.
Two shots rang out in rapid succession.
