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“Well, well, this the boyfriend then?” The man who faces me now bears a striking resemblance to a young Phillip Prescott. Dahlia favors him, too, right around her eyes.

But that’s where the resemblance ends.

Because Scott Prescott—or rather Swanson as Dahlia knows him—is a madman.

“Let her go,” I say, keeping my tone low.

“See, I can’t do that. You went and ruined everything!” he screams it, and Dahlia flinches, shutting her eyes tightly. “I faked my own death, Dahlia. Do you know how hard that was? Yet here you are, sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong, just like your gold-digging mother!”

The bruising on her face has faded a little, but there’s a fresh red mark on her cheek.

Fury burns in my veins. Three on one? I like my odds. Even if I am still technically injured.

“Which one of you put your hands on her?” I look from each man, starting with the one to my left, then slowly working my way over to Scott.

The other two men pale, but Scott? He continues staring me down like an arrogant man who has never heard the word no. I can’t wait to be the one to introduce him to it.

“Would you shut him up already?” Scott snaps and waves the gun in his hand.

One of the men moves forward, and I slam my fist into his chest, then spin around and plant my boot into his gut. He falls backward, slamming into Dahlia’s kitchen table.

The second man attacks. I dodge a fist, grip him by the front of his shirt, and ram my head into his. Pain hits me for a brief moment before the adrenaline takes over. He stumbles backward, so I face off with Scott.

He raises his gun at me.

“It was you, wasn’t it? You put your hands on Dahlia.”

“Who do you think you are?”

“You had your father killed. Then you tried to have your own daughter killed, and for what? Money?”

“I never really was cut out to be a father. She never had to deal with my dad’s constant corrections. I did! Why should she—” I don’t even give him the chance to finish the sentence. I sprint forward, closing the distance between us in two strides and taking him back into the wall. Sheetrock dust rains down on us.

I rear my fist back and slam it into his face. Bone crunches, and blood pours from his broken nose, so I take a step back before I do what I really want to do and put him down for good.

“Do you even know who I am?” he bellows.

“I do.” I turn at the sound of Dahlia’s voice. Her eyes are full of tears, her hand shaking as she holds a gun—aimed directly at her father. “I know who you are,” she says. “You’re the man who abandoned me. Who broke my mother. Who killed my grandfather. And who tried to kill me.”

I move closer to her. “Dahlia, lower the gun.”

“He did all of that, Ryker. He—” She trails off, then shakes her head and lowers the gun. “A bullet pales in comparison to what’s heading your way if you don’t ask forgiveness.”

“Forgiveness?” he laughs. “I have nothing to be sorry for. I owe you nothing!”

“I’m not talking about me,” she replies, then turns away.

“Don’t you turn your back on me!” He charges forward, so I slam my fist into his face. He stumbles backward, hitting the wall and passing out.

Right as I shake my fist, Detective Ford rushes in, weapon drawn, four uniformed officers behind him.

I reach out and pull Dahlia into my arms and look up at him. “There’s two more cases closed up for you, Detective. The faked death of Scott Prescott, and the guy making the deposits into Leon Smith’s account.”

Alec looks from me to Scott, then back to me. “I should probably buy you some Scotch.”

“I don’t drink.”

“A houseplant then. How do you feel about orchids?”