He spins, phone nearly flying from his hand, and his face goes from startled to sneering in the span of a heartbeat. "Oh look, the hired help. Come to beg me to keep quiet?"
"No." I step closer, using my height to maximum effect. He has to crane his neck back to maintain eye contact, and I see the first flicker of uncertainty cross his features. "I came to explain the new situation."
"What new situation?" He tries to sound confident, but his voice pitches higher at the end. Nervous. Good.
"You will not speak to anyone about the contract. You will not approach Colletta. You will not interfere with the wedding in any capacity." I keep my tone calm, factual, as if I am simply outlining the parameters of a mission. "These are non-negotiable terms."
He laughs, a sharp, brittle sound that echoes off the polished cars surrounding us, but there's no genuine amusement in it. The noise is all bravado, a shield he's throwing up against the reality of his tactical disadvantage. "Or what? You gonna beat me up in a parking lot like some thug? I'll have you arrested so fast your head will spin. Do you have any idea who my family's lawyers are? They'll?—"
I move.
The talking phase of this engagement has concluded.
One moment he is standing near his car, the next I have him by the ankle, lifted upside down, and I am carrying him toward the decorative balcony that overlooks the vineyard valley. He yelps, flailing, and I ignore the noise. His phone clatters to the ground.
"What the hell, put me down! Put me down right now, you psychotic, oh god, oh god?—"
I step onto the balcony with measured, deliberate strides, my boots making solid contact with the decorative stonework. The structure is solid beneath me, built to hold garden parties and wine tastings for wealthy patrons of the venue. It will easily support my weight and his combined, though he doesn't need to know that.
It is only the second floor, but the architectural design of the building makes the drop below appear far more dramatic than it actually is. The slope of the vineyard falls away sharply from this side of the venue, creating an illusion of greater height. All decorative rocks and drainage grating spread out beneath us in an artful arrangement that the landscaper no doubt charged a premium for. Not lethal, not even close, I've assessed the fall distance and impact zones with a tactical eye. But certainly unpleasant. Painful. The landing that would cause broken bones, severe bruising, perhaps a concussion if he landed poorly. Enough to make a point without creating a genuine security incident that would disrupt the wedding timeline.
He doesn't need to know the precise calculations, however. Fear is more effective than reality.
I extend my arm further, holding him out over the balcony. The distance between his head and the decorative rocks below increases by another foot, maybe two. His entire body becomesrigid, then starts trembling. The wind catches his expensive blazer, making it flap around his torso.
"You were saying?" I ask, perfectly polite, conversational even, as though we are discussing nothing more significant than the weather or perhaps the quality of the vineyard's latest vintage.
He makes a noise somewhere between a scream and a whimper. "Okay, okay! Jesus Christ, pull me back!"
"Will you interfere with the wedding?" I ask, my voice steady and measured. My grip on his ankle remains firm, unwavering. Below us, the decorative rocks seem very, very far away to him, I imagine.
"No! No, I won't say anything, I swear! I swear to god!" His words tumble out in a panicked rush, his arms windmilling uselessly as he tries to orient himself in the disorienting upside-down position.
I let the silence stretch for a moment, watching him dangle. "Will you approach Colletta?" I continue, as though we are simply having a normal conversation and he is not currently suspended over a two-story drop.
"No! I'll stay away, I promise! I promise!" His voice cracks on the last word, desperation bleeding through every syllable. "Just pull me up, please, oh god, please?—"
I consider his terror with the same analytical detachment I would apply to assessing an opponent's weaknesses in combat, cataloging each detail with methodical precision. The way his face is gradually turning an alarming shade of crimson from the blood rushing downward to his head, pooling in his cheeks and forehead. The genuine, primal fear blazing in his eyes, not the performative anxiety of someone trying to talk their way out of an uncomfortable situation, but the real thing, the visceral terror that strips away all pretense and social veneer. The tremor thathas seized his entire body, starting in his core and radiating outward to his fingertips.
Satisfactory.
The assessment is complete. The message has been thoroughly delivered and, more importantly, received.
I pull him back onto solid ground and set him down carefully. He collapses against the railing, gasping, and I notice with clinical detachment that he may have wet himself slightly.
"If you break these terms," I say, crouching so we are eye level, "I will return. And next time, I will not be polite."
He nods frantically, jerking his head up and down so hard I think he might give himself whiplash. His mouth opens and closes repeatedly like a fish gasping on dry land, working desperately as if trying to form words. No sound emerges except small, pathetic wheezing noises. His eyes are wide, still glazed with residual terror, the whites visible all around the irises.
I straighten to my full height, towering over his crumpled form still pressed against the railing. "Good talk," I say, my tone conversational, almost pleasant, as though we've just concluded a perfectly civil business negotiation over coffee rather than a threat delivered while dangling him off a balcony like a piece of meat.
I turn and leave him there, a trembling, speechless mess against the ironwork, and make my way back toward the stairwell with measured steps. Behind me, I can hear him struggling to catch his breath, small gasping sobs mixing with the evening breeze.
The matter is resolved. The threat has been neutralized without permanent physical damage.
Colletta should be pleased I showed such restraint.
By the time I return to the room, Colletta is gone, already swept up in the chaos of wedding preparations. I find a note on the heart-shaped bed, scrawled in her messy handwriting:Don'tkill anyone. I mean it. Also, your tux is hanging in the closet. Be good. —C
