Tomasetti didn’t turn his back to him. Ferguson got the message and started down the hall first. They passed framed photographs of women and children in a sick parody of the all-American family. He was aware of the din of voices behind him. Ferguson walked a few feet ahead, and Tomasetti wondered if he could pull his weapon and shoot Ferguson in the back of the head before someone pulled out their piece and cut him down.

At the end of the hall, Ferguson opened a set of double doors that took them into a paneled study. The scent of woodsmoke and pipe tobacco met Tomasetti when he stepped inside. Mahogany hardwood shelves filled with thousands of books comprised three walls. The fourth offered another stunning view of the lake. A corner hearth crackled merrily, giving the room a warm glow. Despite his hatred for the man, Tomasetti was impressed.

Ferguson seemed completely at ease as he crossed to a bar, where crystal decanters sat atop gleaming mahogany. “Can I get you anything? Scotch? Or maybe you’re a bourbon man?”

Instead of taking one of the two visitor chairs, Tomasetti strode to the window and looked out at the lake, placing himself between Ferguson and the desk. “I don’t need anything from you.”

Ferguson tossed ice into a tumbler and poured amber liquid from a decanter. “You’re not going to do something you’ll regret later, are you?”

“I haven’t decided.”

Ferguson must have seen something in Tomasetti’s eyes because suddenly, he didn’t look quite so sure of himself. “A hasty decision at this point would be unfortunate for you.”

“It would be unfortunate for one of us.”

Making a sound of annoyance, Ferguson picked up the tumbler and threw back the alcohol in a single gulp. “So talk. I don’t have all night.”

“So, how is it that you get the six-thousand-square-foot mansion on the lake,” Tomasetti said breezily, “and Vince Kinnamon gets a trial with the possibility of life in prison?”

Ferguson smirked. “Don’t you love the criminal justice system?”

Tomasetti was across the room before the other man could set the glass down. Vaguely, he was aware of Ferguson’s eyes going wide. He took a step back, opened his mouth as if he couldn’t believe Tomasetti was actually going to cross the invisible line that had been drawn. Tomasetti slapped the glass from his hand. The tumbler thudded dully on the floor. He clamped his other hand around Ferguson’s throat, digging his fingers into the flesh, and shoved him against the bar.

“You cut a deal, Joey?” Tomasetti ground out. “Is that what you did?”

Ferguson clawed at Tomasetti’s hand. “Can’t … do … this,” he choked out. “You’re … cop.”

Crushing the other man’s throat with his fingers, Tomasetti leaned so close, he could smell the whiskey on his breath, the stink of fear coming off his skin. He could feel Ferguson’s pulse raging beneath his fingertips and he marveled at how easy it would be to kill him. He squeezed harder, long-buried rage driving him toward a precipice and inevitable drop.