Aha.
“What’s this again, Redmoor?” Kittridge drawled as he stepped into the warehouse, his silhouette sharp in the dim light. “I thought we were becoming fast friends. Then I hear you’ve been asking about me, imagining it wouldn’t reach my ears.” He gave a slow, mocking smile. “Another empty accusation? Or some tale you and your allies have stitched together? I suppose it’s tiring, being the man everyone can’t stop talking about. I could help you, you know. Navigate theton, silence the whispers.”
Alasdair’s eyes narrowed.How dare this bastard?
“That’s not what I need, Kittridge,” he said coldly. “What Ihaveis what matters. A forged letter. The very one that condemned me faither. It locked him away, made him easy prey for those who wanted him dead.Yeordered it. Ye framed him.”
Kittridge’s smile didn’t falter, but the temperature in the room shifted. “Let me be clear, Redmoor. I tried to be civil. But your father was always a criminal. This little piece of paper, forged or not, changes nothing.”
“He wasnaea criminal,” Alasdair growled, stepping forward. “Ye made him one in the eyes of the world.”
He held out the parchment, the proof he’d paid dearly for. His face was carved from stone, every line taut with fury. “Ye ken what this is. Even if ye try to hide it with yer lies, yeken. And it’s time to set things straight.”
Kittridge snatched the letter with a sneer, unrolling it lazily—carelessly, as if it were beneath his concern. But Alasdair saw the flicker of recognition in his eyes, the twitch of panic.
Then Kittridge moved.
So fast, so sudden, Alasdair barely saw the pistol until it was too late. But adrenaline surged. He lunged, striking the man’s wrist. The shot rang out, echoing through the rafters, startling gulls into flight outside the warehouse.
The pistol clattered across the floor.
“Scottishscum,” Kittridge snarled, launching himself forward.
Alasdair met him head-on. They slammed into crates, fists flying, boots scraping on the wooden planks. The warehouse erupted in chaos—splintered wood, crashing crates, the brutal sound of flesh on flesh. It wasn’t a duel. It was a war.
A sharp punch to Kittridge’s ribs gave Alasdair a moment’s breath, but the older man was already reaching into his boot.
Alasdair saw the glint too late.
The blade came up, slicing across his side. He cried out, staggering back as pain bloomed through his ribs.
“We’re almost done, Redmoor,” Kittridge spat, voice gleaming with triumph.
He drove Alasdair against a stone pillar, arm crushing his throat, knife poised to finish it.
“Who’s the criminal now?” Alasdair gasped. “Ye seem awfully comfortable with murder.”
“I have years on you,” Kittridge hissed. “I know when to fight, and when toendit.”
Alasdair’s vision darkened at the edges. But the fire in him refused to die.
“Years,” he rasped, “and ye learnednothin’. Still hurtin’ folk to get ahead.”
Kittridge sneered. “You should’ve stayed in Scotland,boy. You don’t belong here. You never did.”
Alasdair gritted his teeth, pain radiating from his side, his back, his throat, but he wasn’t done. He never would be.
“Neither do ye,” he spat. “Ye belong in prison.”
With a surge of fury, he slammed his forehead into Kittridge’s. The older man reeled. Alasdair twisted, flipped their weight. They crashed to the ground, and this time, Kittridge was beneath him.
Alasdair drove his knee into the man’s chest, pinned his wrist, and slammed it to the ground until the knife skittered away. Bloodied and panting, he raised his fist.
He could end it.
Right now.
He could destroy the man who ruined his family, shattered his youth, murdered his father.