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Ian stood transfixed for a heartbeat, his entire body locked up in horror. It was a police raid. The police were storming his restaurant, but he couldn’t imagine why. Horror gave way to rage as Ian spotted a man wearing a bulletproof vest rather than body armor with ICE emblazoned in yellow across the front.
It wasn’t a police raid. It was fucking immigration.
Someone had called immigration on Rialto.
Ian charged across the restaurant, heading straight for the man with salt-and-pepper hair who was giving orders. He was vaguely aware of Hollis right on his heels, and he only hoped both of them didn’t end up in jail. Neither were good about keeping their tempers when there was an injustice. And ICE storming Rialto was an absolute crime.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Ian demanded as soon as he reached him. Before he could even answer, there was a surge of outraged shouts from the kitchen. Ian almost darted toward the noise, but Hollis’s hand landed on Ian’s shoulder, holding him in place. Probably for the best if Ian wanted to avoid being accidentally shot.
“Are you the owner of this place, Ian Pierce?”
“Banner,” Ian automatically corrected.
“Banner what?”
Ian growled. “It’s Ian Banner now. I got married. And yes, I’m the owner. This place is Rialto, a five-star restaurant. I repeat, what the hell are you doing here?”
“We’ve had reports that your kitchen staff contains several illegal aliens. We’ve also got reports that drug smuggling has been operated—”
“I beg your pardon!” Ian shouted.
He took a step toward the ICE agent and despite being nearly a foot shorter than the man, the agent took a nervous step back. His hand dropped to his sidearm and Hollis pulled Ian away. Thank God, because he was leaping past rational thought. The idea that he was harboring illegal aliens was ridiculous, and to say his restaurant was involved in drug smuggling as well was ludicrous.
“You have no right to conduct a search of the premises without a search warrant,” Hollis tossed out.
But the agent had been waiting for it, and he shoved the document in Ian’s face. Ian snatched up the paper and tried to read it, but it was all legalese gibberish, and he was too pissed to try to decipher it. He handed it over to Hollis and waited. His former cop husband skimmed it, his frown deepening before he nodded at Ian.
“We advise that you stay out of our way while we question your staff and search the premises. We will be bringing drug-sniffing dogs to check over every inch of this place. If you try to hinder our investigation at any point, you will be arrested. Do you understand, Mr. Banner?”
“And do you understand if you bring dogs into my restaurant that I’ll have to close everything down and throw out food in order to re-sterilize everything?” Ian snarled.
“No interference, Mr. Banner,” the agent repeated, apparently not giving a shit that he was wasting both Ian’s time and money.
“He understands,” Hollis said sharply before Ian could continue, and it was for the best. He’d been about to call the man a goose-stepping idiot.
“Can we at least allow the guests to leave so you don’t traumatize them with your antics any further?”
The agent gave a stiff nod before turning back to his men. Rage burned through Ian as he shrugged off Hollis’s restraining hand, and he turned to a too-pale Carla. She was a second-generation Mexican American. She’d been born in the United States to parents who had naturalized years ago. But that didn’t matter in today’s political climate. Her skin was too brown for her to be a real American for some people.
“Hey, look at me,” Ian said gently as he approached Carla. He took one of her shaking hands in both of his. “Nothing is going to happen to you. No one is taking you out of here today, I promise.”
She turned tear-filled eyes on Ian. “But what if—”
“There’s no what if. You’re not leaving here. You’re an American. You belong here. Everyone who works here belongs here. There is nothing illegal happening in my restaurant.”
Carla nodded, looking reassured but still frightened. Ian couldn’t blame her. There were too many horror stories of American citizens being detained because they looked foreign, regardless of their actual citizenship. It was fucking bullshit.
“Why don’t you help Hollis escort customers quietly out of the restaurant? I’m going to call my lawyer.”
Hollis’s brow furrowed. “Sarah Carlton?” Ian nodded. “I don’t think immigration is her thing. I thought she was mostly corporate law.”
“Maybe not, but she’s scary enough to take a chunk out of these fucking assholes.”
Hollis smirked at him. “That is very, very true.”
Sarah Carlton had been Lucas Vallois’s lawyer for almost as long as Ian had known Lucas. She stood five-foot-nothing in her stiletto heels and looked as if a stiff breeze would knock her over, but the woman was an absolute shark. Men ran in terror from her, and Hollis had confided that half the Cincinnati police force was scared of her.
