The door closed with a quiet snick behind me.
In the hush of my satellite office, it sounded like a gunshot.
The man seated inside jumped, his knee banging against my desk as he swiveled to face me.
I recognized him from last night’s tech event. Some low-level entrepreneur who’d weaseled his way into the gathering.
I’d let him wait in here alone because I wasn’t worried about him stealing or snooping. I reserved my satellite office for more…unsavory conversations, and it didn’t contain anything except basic office furniture.
“I’ve been waiting for half an hour.” He stated the fucking obvious like I couldn’t tell time.
“Have you?” I gave negative shits about how long he’d had to wait. Frank Rivers was a bottom feeder. He would wait two hours if I wanted him to. “Apologies.”
I walked to my desk and took the seat opposite him.
Silence descended again as I studied him. My dispassionate gaze swept from his thinning brown hair to his tacky green shirt. His jacket stretched a little too tight across his shoulders, and a film of perspiration dotted his upper lip.
“Do you know why I asked for this meeting?” I asked conversationally.
“No. Your guy didn’t say.” Frank’s eyes darted around. I’d had Kage bring him in, and I would’ve laughed at his obvious nervousness if I had an ounce of amusement left inside me. “I assume it has to do with my new business.” His chest puffed up a little.
“Your new business.”
He deflated. “Yes. I…I thought you wanted to talk business. Offer me security.”
This time, I did laugh, though the sound lacked humor.
I wouldn’t provide security for Frank Rivers even if he paid me a billion dollars and offered to wipe my ass every day for the rest of my life.
“No. That’s not why I wanted to see you.” I pulled open my desk drawer. “I heard you’re a big fan of whisky.”
Surprise flitted across his face, followed by confusion. “Yes…”
“I’m a fan myself.” I retrieved a distinctive black box with gold lettering.
Judging by Frank’s sharp inhale, he recognized it immediately.
“Yamakazi twenty-five-year-old whisky,” I confirmed with a smile. “Cost me twenty grand.”
I owned a bottle of fifty-five-year-old Yamakazi that cost forty times that, but I would never waste it on scum like Rivers.
“Would you like some?” I asked politely.
At Frank’s eager nod—the man was practically salivating—I opened the bottle and filled the two crystal glasses sitting on my desk.
My lip curled with disdain when Frank pounced on his before I finished pouring the second.
No manners. Emily Post must be rolling in her grave.
“I did have one question,” I said before the glass fully reached his fleshy lips. “When you groped my date at the event last night, which hand did you use?”
He froze. All the color blanched from his skin. “What—I—”
“My date.” I leaned back, leaving my own drink untouched. “Tall, curly dark hair, black dress. The most beautiful woman at the event.”
“I—I didn’t know…I didn’t know she was your date.” Frank’s stuttered excuse was almost as pathetic as his etiquette. “I’m sor—”
“I’m not interested in your apology. I’m interested in an answer.” The finely honed edge of my rage sliced through my cordial mask. The thought of him even breathing in Stella’s presence, much less fucking touching her, made acid burn in my blood. “Which. Hand?”
Sweat stains bloomed on Frank’s shirt. “R-right.”
“I see.” My smile returned. “Put the drink down.”
He was holding it with his right hand.
“I swear, I didn’t know! I—I arrived late and—”
My eyes narrowed.
After a beat of hesitation, he set the drink down with a tremble. I could’ve sworn I heard an actual whimper.
My disdain deepened. Pathetic.
I waited until Frank’s palm hit the wooden surface before I pulled the blade from my drawer and drove it through his hand. Flesh and bone yielded like butter to the cold, razor-sharp steel.
An inhuman howl ripped through the room while I frowned at the blood pooling on the vintage mahogany.
Perhaps I should’ve done this on a less expensive surface, but alas, it was too late.
I returned my attention to Frank. His eyes bulged with pain, and wheezing gasps left his throat as sweat trickled down the sides of his face.
“You made a mistake, Mr. Rivers.” I kept my grip on the handle of the blade as I leaned forward.
“You touched what was mine. And if there’s one thing I hate…” I pushed the knife deeper, letting the serrated edge tear through his flesh with agonizing slowness until his cries reached an inhuman pitch. “It’s people touching what’s mine.”
“Please. I’m sorry. I—oh God.” He let out a pained sob.
The sharp smell of urine filled the air.
Oh, for fuck’s sake. That was a custom-made leather chair.
My back teeth clenched, but a glance at the clock told me I needed to wrap this up.
“I’m in a good mood, so I’ll leave your hand intact.” I could’ve stretched our session out for another hour, but it was taco night with Stella, and I needed to buy the ingredients on my way home.
“But if you ever touch, look at, or so much as think about Stella again…” I shoved the blade in all the way until the only remaining visible part was the handle. Frank had lost his voice from screaming and could only choke out a pained sob. “Your hand won’t be the only thing I’ll chop off.”
I straightened, then paused.
“Ah, I forgot you wanted to try the whiskey.” I picked up his glass and tilted it. The contents dripped onto his ravaged hand until the glass was empty and Frank’s renewed screams bounced off the walls.
Hmm. Guess he has some voice left in him after all.
There was nothing like a bit of alcohol on an open wound to drive home the pain.
“Don’t worry about reimbursing me for the wasted alcohol,” I said. “I’ll take it out of your account. Argent Bank, account number 904058891314, routing number 087945660, correct?”
He stared at me, his eyes swollen with tears and glassy with pain.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” I patted his cheek. “Let’s keep this between us, shall we? I’d hate for us to have another chat.”
I made it halfway to the door before I stopped. A mental image of the fucker grabbing Stella’s ass flashed through my mind, and the rage resurfaced, churning like icy black waves beneath my skin.
“I changed my mind.” I turned. “I’m not in a good mood after all.”
The gunshot ripped through the air. Frank slumped onto the desk with a hole in the back of his head and open, lifeless eyes.
I tucked the gun back into my jacket and exited into the hall, where Kage lounged against the wall.
“Don’t tell me you shot him,” he said when he saw me. The office was soundproofed, but he correctly assessed my expression. “What a fucking mess.”
“He pissed me off.” I checked my watch. Dammit. The only grocery store that sold Stella’s favorite salsa closed in fifteen minutes. “Clean that up for me, will you?”
“I always do,” he said dryly.
Not everyone at Harper Security knew about the less legal side of the business, but Kage had seen enough shit in his life to keep his morals flexible. The world wasn’t black and white; no one knew that better than someone who’d lived in the gray.
I washed my hands in the bathroom on my way out and inspected my clothes for any specks of blood before I gunned it to the grocery store.
