When Gods Cook

The man glared now, anger flashing across his face. "Get your hands off me, you rich little shit," he snapped, trying to shove Parker back. "You think you matter because your daddy—"

The rest of his sentence was cut off by the sickening crack of bone. Parker twisted the man's wrist hard enough that the joint gave way with a pop, the unnatural angle making the crowd gasp.

The man howled in pain, his knees buckling slightly. "You broke my fucking wrist!" he yelled, clutching his arm.

But Parker wasn't done. Not even close.

The first punch landed square on the man's nose, the crunch of cartilage breaking echoing through the boutique. Blood sprayed down his face, dripping onto the polished floor.

The man staggered back, one hand clutching his face. "What the fuck, man?!" he shouted, but Parker didn't let him recover.