His voice doesn’t sound right. Something’s off. I can hear it in the heavy way he’s breathing, as though it’s a struggle just to talk.
“Gregor approached you,” I guess.
He sighs. “Not personally. But his brain-dead goons brought a message from him. Gotta say, they may be brain-dead and all, but they sure know how to pack a punch.”
I stiffen. “How bad is it?”
“According to the esteemed Dr. Ogilvy, I have two broken ribs, a deviated septum, and a fair few bruises and cuts. Oh, and my pinky finger hurts like a motherfucker.”
“He gave the order to accost my right-hand man on the street?” I growl.
“They asked about your whereabouts. They even asked nicely at first. But when I said that I’d rather f**k a one-legged hooker with herpes than tell them a goddamn word, that’s when the punching
