Quinton looked down at him from the wheelchair, then nudged my father's face with the toe of his shoe.
"Boss Dunn, times have changed. Money and power make the rules now. That street-thug code of yours? Take it to the gutter where it belongs."
"Go to hell!" Malcolm spat a mouthful of bloody foam.
Quinton's expression darkened. He raised his hand and slashed it through the air. "Beat him."
A cluster of bodyguards closed in and laid into my father with fists and boots.
"Stop!" I roared, lunging forward.
Click.
Three submachine gun barrels pressed against my temples simultaneously.
The lead mercenary spoke in stilted English. "Mr. Dunn. Don't move. Bullets don't have eyes."
Quinton watched me pinned down, his laughter wild and unhinged.
"Reginald! Thought you were tough, huh? Thought you could fight your way out of anything?"
"Go ahead. Hit me again. I dare you."
He struggled out of his wheelchair, limping toward me one agonizing step at a time, and raised his hand.
"That slap from earlier? I'm paying it back tenfold."
His hand came down hard.
But the slap never landed.
Because I caught his wrist mid-swing.