Duncan Greene and Big Bill were standing on the walk next to Clay’s carriage, waiting. Duncan’s face was twisted with rage, a fearsome thing to behold, while Bill’s smirk made it clear he was enjoying this. The bastard had gone and told Duncan about Clay and Florence.

This was the end, then. Tonight ended his association with her. The realization made him want to punch something.

You knew this day was coming.

Yes, he’d known. There had never been any hope of avoiding it, really.

I wanted more time.

That thought floated into the cool Manhattan air like mist, unattainable and ethereal. He might as well have asked to sprout wings.

Clay stepped around Florence and shoved his hands in his trouser pockets. He locked eyes with Duncan. “Evening, gentlemen.”

“Turn around and go back inside,” Duncan said from behind gritted teeth. “I won’t have this conversation on the street.”

“Daddy—” Florence started, seemingly coming out of her stupor.

“Inside!” her father snapped. “Now, Florence.”

Spinning, she lunged for the door and disappeared into the saloon. Clay waited, unmoving, as Bill sauntered by. “I warned you,” the assistant superintendent said. “But you didn’t listen.”

Clay didn’t bother responding. He’d deal with Bill later. Right now Duncan was more important.

Duncan stalked forward, his hands curled into fists. His body was tight and angry as he advanced on Clay. “Get inside before I break your goddamn jaw,” her father snarled.

“I’d like to see you try,” he taunted. “Fair warning, I don’t fight by your Queensberry rules. My rules were learned on the streets of the Lower East Side, where men like you wouldn’t last a fucking day.”

Duncan pointed a beefy finger in Clay’s face. “Inside, Madden. Or I’m having Bill arrest you right here on the street.”

“For what?”

“Does it matter? He’ll do whatever I ask and you’ll spend a few weeks in the Tombs. Is that really what you want her last memory of you to be?”

Clay glared, unblinking, furious that Duncan had played the one card Clay couldn’t refuse. Florence. Turning, he yanked on the door handle and went in. Florence stood in the middle of the room, her skin as pale as flour, arms wrapped around her waist. Her eyes darted between Clay and Duncan, who had just closed the door behind him.

Duncan’s brows pinched as his gaze swept the saloon, taking in the intimate table for two, cocktails and wine. Any fool would know what had transpired here tonight—except for the part where Florence came on Clay’s fingers.

That memory belonged to Clay, and he planned to savor it in the long nights ahead.

“Daddy, I can explain.”

Duncan crossed his arms over his huge chest. “Is that so, Florence? Because I have to warn you. I am not in the mood for your lies. Again.”