Pucked by Alphas The Omega Hockey Tomboy

DOMINIC’S POV

My footsteps echoed through their pathetic excuse of a home as I stormed in, my jaw clenched so tight I could feel a vein pulsing in my temple. The air reeked of desperation and fear—exactly what I expected from someone who owed my family money.

"Jimmy Pierce." I didn't ask. I stated his name like the verdict it was.

The man who stumbled forward looked nothing like the confident businessman who'd approached my father six months ago. His eyes darted around the room like a cornered animal, hands trembling as he attempted to straighten his wrinkled shirt.

"Mr. Blackwood... I wasn't expecting you today." His voice cracked. Pathetic.

I raised an eyebrow, letting the silence stretch uncomfortably before responding. "That was rather the point. My father sends his regards." I pulled out the ledger from my jacket pocket, tossing it onto their coffee table. "And his bill."

This debt is long overdue, and I'm not leaving without something of value. These people are beneath me, but business is business.

Jimmy grabbed the paper with shaking hands, his face draining of color as he read the figure. His wife hovered nervously in the doorway, her knuckles white as she gripped the wooden frame.

"There must be some mistake," Jimmy stammered. "This is twice what I borrowed. The interest—"

"Is exactly what you agreed to," I cut him off. "You knew the terms when you signed."

"Please, Mr. Blackwood." Jimmy took a step toward me, hands outstretched in supplication. "I can offer you something else—a partnership in my new venture. It's going to be big, I swear. Just give me another month and—"

The crack of my fist connecting with his jaw echoed through the room. He crumpled to his knees, blood trickling from his split lip.

"I don't negotiate." I towered over him, adjusting my cufflinks. "And I certainly don't enter partnerships with men who can't honor their debts."

His wife rushed forward with a strangled cry. "Please don't hurt him! We'll find a way to pay, I promise!"

They're both on their knees now. Good. They should know their place.

"You had six months," I said, my voice dangerously soft. "My father was generous. I am not."

My gaze drifted around their living room—cheap furniture, faded carpet, nothing of value except... My attention caught on a silver-framed photograph on the mantel. I stepped toward it, ignoring their continued pleas.

The girl in the photo was stunning—raven hair cascading over one shoulder, eyes that seemed to challenge the camera, a slight curve to her lips that wasn't quite a smile. Something twisted in my chest as I picked up the frame.

"Who is this?" I demanded, not taking my eyes off her image.