I lift my head to see the car crash still needs assistance. Shit. I’m so wrapped up in my own shit. Pulling out my cell, I dial 911 and give them the coordinates of the crash. While I’m talking, an ambulance arrives. I gather myself and pull back onto the highway.

The ride up to the Milestone is smooth and fast. I do my best to think of nothing other than this drive. A floodlight blares down, illuminating the center of the employee lot. I make sure to park where it’s good and bright, so no one will accidentally hit the bike. Walking through the employee entrance, I focus on what I’m going to find down here. I’m going to focus and get my job done. Be a man.

My phone vibrates.

Vincent: Fucker is downstairs. I’m on the floor now, dealing with some other shit.

The basement is dark, but there’s light shining from the small holding cell that no one other than Vincent and me know about. I follow it, steps sure.

After growing up in the Mafia, Vincent knows how to handle pieces of shit who cause trouble. But, since he left the family and began the Mile, he does his best to keep his hands clean. As the head of security here, I’m often called on to handle the dirty parts of the business. I don’t mind.

The door creaks as it opens, and an excited shiver runs down my spine.

“So”—I rub my hands together, left before right, as I stare at the shitbag sitting before me, a shock of bright red hair on his head—“you cheated at cards. Not once or twice, but three fucking times. Here are your choices.”

His blue eyes widen as they take in my form. Seated on a plastic chair, he bounces a fat leg up and down, his white button-down shirt sticking to his chest from what looks like sweat. “Are you going to hurt me? P-please. D-don’t hurt me. I won’t come back again. I swear it.” He pants.

I chuckle, ignoring him. I’ve got my own agenda. Kick the shit out of him, go home, pop my meds, and sleep. “I can bring you into the authorities. As the Milestone is on tribal land, that would be the Tribal Council. They can deal with you as they see fit. Or”—I pause, cracking my knuckles as I watch my words sink into his head—“I can kick the shit out of you. Either way, you’re never coming back here.”

I’ve used this ultimatum many times. But, tonight, I’ve got a load of tension I need to expend, and my bet is, he’ll take the beating. I’ll rough him up some, scare him good, and then he’ll disappear from our lives.

“Just get it over with,” he says, his voice cracking.

“Feel free to fight back,” I add. “It’ll be more fun that way.” I laugh, knowing he’s got nothing on me. “Get up.”

He stands as I pull off my shirt; blood is hell to remove. His eyes widen at the sight of me, although the truth is, they shouldn’t. Muscles aren’t always equal to strength. Unfortunately for him though, I’m as tough as I look. The bone frog tattooed on my chest? Evidence.