"Move aside." He takes another step forward, closing the distance between us until I can smell the expensive cologne that isn't quite masking the sweat staining his collar. His jaw is tight, a vein pulsing at his temple. "This is a restricted area. Employees only."
I don't budge from my position in front of the splintered door frame, even though my pulse is hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat. "That's funny," I say, keeping my voice level and calm despite the fact that my hands are starting to shake. "Because there's no sign posted. No warning. Nothing that says I can't be here."
His lips pull back in something that might be trying to be a smile but comes out more like a snarl. "Move now, or I'll have security remove you bodily from the premises. How will that look for your little business? The café owner who had to be escorted out of a charity event?"
From inside the room, I hear another crash. The kitten yowls louder. My heart hammers.
"No."
He grabs my arm. Not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to mean it. I react on instinct, bringing my knee up sharp and fast. He doubles over with a wheeze.
The door behind me splinters. Not opens. Splinters. Wood cracks and buckles, and then Grath is there, filling the doorway like a wall of muscle and fury. He's holding the kitten in one massive hand. The tiny creature looks furious but unharmed.
In his other hand, he's clutching a manila folder stuffed with papers.
"Found it," he says grimly.
The assistant straightens, one hand pressed to his stomach. His eyes go wide when he sees Grath.
"You're trespassing. Both of you."
"So are you." Grath holds up the folder. "These bribe ledgers and falsified inspections show demolition scheduled before you even made the purchase offer. You were planning to tear down the rowhouses whether we agreed to sell or not."
"Those are private documents."
"Private documents stored next to a kidnapped kitten and a stack of falsified inspection reports." Grath's voice is stone. "We've got recordings too. Your phone calls to the inspection office. Your bribes to the zoning board."
The assistant's face goes from red to white. "You can't prove any of that."
"Actually," I say, pulling out my phone, "we can."
I hit play. The assistant's voice crackles through the speaker, tinny but clear. Bribes. Threats. Plans to drive out tenants through harassment and false violations.
We recorded it all. Every damning word.
His hand shoots out, grabbing for my phone. I yank it back, but he's faster than I expected. His fingers close around my wrist, twisting hard.
Grath moves.
It's not elegant. It's not even particularly coordinated. It's just pure, protective fury compressed into seven feet of orc launching himself at a problem.
They collide. The assistant goes down like a sack of expensive flour. Grath pulls the punch at the last second, but the man still hits the marble with a crack that makes me wince.
Then the henchmen arrive.
Two of them, built like refrigerators in suits. They take one look at the situation and charge.
What follows is less fight scene and more slapstick catastrophe.
Grath swings. Misses. His fist punches through the drywall. He yanks it back out, trailing dust and electrical wire.
I throw my phone to one of our allies in the hallway, a barista named Ty who catches it and runs.
One of the henchmen grabs for me. I duck, and he crashes into a serving cart. Champagne bottles explode like fragmentation grenades. Foam and glass everywhere.
The kitten, still clutched in Grath's hand, takes a swipe at the second henchman's face. Tiny claws rake across his cheek. He yelps, stumbling backward into a decorative plant.
The plant topples. The pot shatters. Soil sprays across the pristine marble.
