“It ain’t our fault your father passed before paying his debt. Whatever you grab is all you’re getting.”
Beck stood in the middle of the small cottage, knife in hand while his goons stood out front. I stuffed blankets, clothes, and anything else that seemed useful into a bag.
“Wrap it up.”
I shouldered the bag turning towards him, “You’re a real piece of work.”
“Maybe, now get the fuck off my prop...