Vin deliberately shifted forward and put his elbows on his knees. Bringing his fist into his palm, he slowly swiveled his head toward the guy who’d spoken.

Wiry. Tattooed up the neck. Earrings. Hair cut so short that his skull showed. And as the SOB smiled like he was looking forward to a meal he intended to enjoy, he flashed a chipped front tooth.

Clearly he thought he had a dime-sized newbie by the tail.

Vin flashed his own teeth and one by one cracked the knuckles on his striking hand. “You like my threads, asshole?”

As the reply came back at him, Mr. Personality was instantly cured of his this-is-gonna-be-funsies. His brown eyes did a quick measure of the size of Vin’s fist and then returned to the steady stare that was locked on him.

“I asked you,” Vin said loud and slow, “do you like my threads, asshole.”

While the guy considered his answer, Vin hoped the response was obnoxious, and something about that must have come through: As the rest of the men made like spectators at a tennis match, going back and forth, back and forth, the tension eased out of the motherfucker’s shoulders.

“Yeah, it’s real nice. Real nice suit. Yeah.”

Vin stayed right where he was as the other guy settled back on the bench. And then one by one he met the stares of the peanut gallery…and one by one the men looked down at the floor. Only then did Vin relax a little.

As half of his brain stayed plugged into office politics, such as they were, the other part went back to churning over how the hell he’d ended up where he was. Devina had lied through her teeth to the police, and so help him God, he was going to find out what the fuck had really happened. And “buddy”? What the hell was she talking about?

He thought back to the blue dress that had smelled like men’s cologne. The idea that she’d been fucking around on him made him dangerously psychotic, so he forced his brain to consider the more important stuff. Like, oh, the fact that she had been beaten by someone other than him, but it was his cock and balls in the clink.

Christ, if only his security system at home had the same kind of monitoring shit his office did. Then he’d have a video of every room, twenty-four/seven.

The chiming of keys announced the arrival of a guard. “DiPietro, your lawyer is here.”

Vin got up off the bench, and as the door slid open with a clang, he stepped out and put his hands behind his back, presenting himself to the guard for cuffing.

Which seemed to surprise the guy with the keys, but not the ones who’d just witnessed Vin be all ready to Rocky it with the motherfucker.