Mr. David, bless his soul, is the only one standing his fists balled at his sides, surrounded by four men circling him like sharks, each step deliberately predatory. His brown grey hair sticking to his forehead with sweat.
The first goon is tall, a jagged scar slicing down his cheek; the second is broad, a stocky figure with a shaved head; the third is lean, his cold gaze never wavering. The tension in the room is almost suffocating, and I know I have to move fast.
I drop my bag to the floor so hard it echoes. "What the fuck do you think you're doing here?" I bellow.
It's almost muscle memory at this point—this is the fourth time I've had to walk in and ask what the fuck they're doing here. Why do they keep coming back? Do they really think I won't show up? Do they think I'm scared?
The men all shift to face me, and I notice immediately they are nothing like the ones before, there's a raw, vicious energy in them that sets my nerves on edge. My eyes catch the fourth man, a tall figure with a cold, flat stare lingering behind the others, and a chill runs through me. Cold dread tries to grip me, but I shove it aside. I refuse to back down. Every nerve in my body screams alert, my fists loose at my sides, ready for anything.
He steps forward, grinning, and I can see it in his eyes—he wants trouble. "Well, well, well," he drawls, loud enough for everyone to hear, "if it isn't the little feminist."
I stand my ground, refusing to show any fear. My pulse is racing, but my voice is steady when I answer.
"Well, if it isn't the coward who can't fight unless he's got three backup dancers and a paycheck from a dying regime."
His face twists with anger as he starts toward me, his strides quick and heavy, every step radiating that need to intimidate. I don't move. I lock eyes with him, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me flinch.
He stands right in front of me, breathing heavy, his eyes blazing with hatred. But I don't step back. I tilt my head, taunting him.
"What? You wanna call me names again, or do I need to call your owner to come collect you?"
He raises his hand, ready to swing at me. Instinct kicks in and I grab his wrist, but he's stronger and easily shoves me back. I stumble on my heels, almost losing my balance. That's when it hits me. If I don't have a weapon, I still have my shoes.
As I catch myself, I slip off one six inch stiletto and jab it straight at him. He dodges, cursing, but I don't back down. The other three guys rush me at once. Four against one. They circle around, trying to grab me. Two of them manage to twist my arms behind my back, pinning me, one yanking my ankle at a painful angle until I'm forced to drop the shoe.
I grit my teeth, refusing to give them the reaction they want, but pain shoots up my leg and my shoulder burns as they keep me locked in place.
He laughs maniacally, the sound echoing off the factory walls. "Well, Ms. Feminist, this is equality," he says, lifting his hand like he's some kind of movie villain about to launch into a monologue. "You think just because you're a woman I wouldn't hit you?"
Then he smacks me hard across the face. My head snaps to the side, pain burning through my cheek, the taste of copper filling my mouth. I'm bleeding.
One of the guys steps forward, looking uneasy. "Look, look, it's fine. We already did what we needed to do. No need to hit the woman more than this."
The main guy barks, "Shut up. What would you know? Do you know how she almost killed the last of our guys here? And besides, we're here on Ilay's order to rough her up."
My mind races—Ilay? After what happened in his office? I can't believe he'd actually send these idiots to harass Mr. David and hit me. Oh, he's so dead. Next time, I'm not missing.
Just as the guy lifts his hand to hit me again, the third man grabs his arm. "That's enough. The boss said you were unhinged. Stop."
He yanks his arm free, spits on the ground right next to my shoes, and finally, the two men holding me let go. They all turn and walk out, leaving me in the wreckage, bleeding and shaking, fury burning in my chest.
After they leave, Mr. David hurries over, his face pale with worry. "Are you alright?" he asks, hesitantly.
I don't answer at first. I look around, scanning the wreckage.
I finally look at him and say, "I'm going to see the person behind all this."
Mr. David grabs my arm. "No, don't. If it's Mr. Ivanovich that sent them, it's only going to get worse. The man already put us on his radar. You shouldn't go."
I pull my arm free. "I'm going. He should face me himself, not send goons. If he wants to start something, he can do it to my face."
• • •
Sterile white walls greet me the moment I step into the building. I glance around looking for a familiar brown haired brown eyed woman. There. I sight her in the far corner of the lounge coming out of a room looking down at some papers.
My shoes must have made enough noise because in the next instant she’s looking up in my direction. Her face paling.
She’s the same one I barrelled through last time to get to that pompous rich ass.
