Sandro slaps it into my open palm. I shake it until the papers unfold and show it to Brett. “This look familiar?”
I loosen my grip just enough for him to answer.
“Let go of me!” His nails drag against the leather.
I glance down. Fuck, he left a scratch.
“This is my favorite jacket,” I warn. “Get your fucking hands off it or you might make me mad.”
I guess there’s a brain cell or two left in his thick head, because he does as he’s told.
“Good boy.”
I move my palm from his neck to his jaw and force it open. Then I show him the lease again. “You sure you haven’t seen this before?”
The idiot shakes his head.
“Wrong answer.” His eyes bulge as I ball up the papers in my palm and shove them into his mouth. “You owe us the fucking key.” I push it farther and farther past his teeth until he’s gagging on the paper, and then just as he looks like he’s about to throw up, I shove him to the ground.
He coughs for a good minute. When he finally catches his breath, he lifts his gaze to me from where he’s huddled on the floor, and it’s pure, unadulterated hatred. “Fuck you. The agent shouldn’t have signed that. I refuse to have my family’s company do business with you.”
“Does your father even know you pulled this move? Or is this you showing initiative?”
When he doesn’t answer, I click my tongue. “I think if I went to your daddy and told him all about how I’m planning to sue yourcompany for this, he’d fold pretty fucking fast.” I tip my head sideways. “But where’s the fun in that?”
Fear zigzags across his face before he can mask it. “Get out.”
“Nah, don’t think I will.” I grab him by his shirt and throw him up against the wall.
And then I reach behind me, take out my gun, and press it right below his chin.
Sandro, who’s been staying out of this for now, sucks in a harsh breath behind me. “Rowan.”
Brett stills, his eyes growing wide. “What do you think you’re—“
I click off the safety. “Shut the fuck up.”
His jaw snaps shut. It looks like he’s finally getting the message.
“I want the keys, right now. Do you understand? Nod once if you do.”
A second passes before he does.
“Does the leasing agent have them, or do you?”
A flick of his eyes toward his desk tells me the answer.
“Sam, check his desk. Ought to be there.”
A moment later, I hear Sandro rummaging through the desk drawers.
“Got 'em,” he calls out.
Brett mutters a curse, but I press my gun harder against his chin to shut him up.
“Now, I want you to listen to me very carefully. You’re going to stop talking to Blake unless it’s required for her job. No more private office conversations. No more begging or apologies. She’s mine, Brett.Mine. And the sooner you accept that and move on, the better things will go for you.”
Impotent fury simmers inside his eyes. “Who the hell are you?”
