The elevator opens to honey wood floors and steel-framed windows over a leather bench.
“It was nice meeting you,” I lie, smiling.
Regret is a raggedy bitch who always shows up in hindsight. All the times I wanted to try the Michael Myers challenge but never did return to haunt me. Maybe if I practiced sprinting to my door with keys in hand and the killer behind me, I’d be ready for Bane’s meaty fingers to shoot through the elevator.
He barrels left, bypassing the other penthouse on the floor, heading straight for me.
“Hey!” His vise-like grip tightens over my arm. “This is unprofessional!” I shout in Italian.
My kitten heels stutter over polished wood to find some type of friction to stop Bane from dragging my Black ass down the hall. I’m on my tiptoes like that one witch inThe Craftbefore she hocus-pocused that man out of the window.
“Open.” Bane’s patience is shorter than his neck. He pushes me toward the door.
He’s lucky he’s a heavyweight. Otherwise, I’d fight his big ass for trying to manhandle me. What kind of security training encourages such behavior?
“This conversation would go over better if you unhanded me.” I ease my key into the lock.
De-escalation through calm tones and neutral body language is muscle memory from years in HR. Identify a mutually beneficial, shared goal and maybe they won’t kick me out.
“Open.” He nudges me again.
“I am, Bane!” Damn him and his pushiness. “HR will have a field day with you after I’m done.”
The foyer is suffocating with him squeezing me into the bite-size space of stone walls and art in gilded frames. Does he want to check the thermostat too, being so damn nosy?
I snap my fingers. “I demand to speak with your boss right now before I call the police.La polizia!”
When I leave here, I’m treating myself to a getaway on the private island I’ll buy after winning my lawsuit from this bullshit. Sunshine, piña coladas, and millions in my bank account. Pedicures on the beach and a naked, oiled man to work every ounce of grief out of my body.
I’ve heard stories about racial discrimination in Italy, but all of this over housesitting is excessive.
“Who are you working for?” Bane pushes past me.
“I’m unemployed,” I answer through an exhausted sigh. “I want to speak to your boss. Now.”
His bushy brow quirks, dissolving his stony expression into a curious glance. “He’s been looking for you.”
“And what, you’re his bounty hunter?” I scoff. “You tell him if I don’t get an apology and some form of reparations for harm caused, I will rain down hell on his doorstep.”
“Who do you work for?” Bane asks again.
I fold my arms across my chest. “I don’t repeat myself.”
He steps forward, heat wafting from his big-ass head under recessed lights. “Who do you work for?”
“Kiss my ass.” Proof of employment was not a requirement to stay here.
“Who do you work for?”
“None of your business. I already answered your question. You don’t scare me.”
He does, very much so.
His torso alone eclipses me and all but swallows the black shirt glued to his boulders for arms. Bane’s jaw works from side to side before he reaches for a baton holstered at his waist.
Now we’re adding security brutality to the running list of crimes? I think the fuck not!
His meaty hands are too slow to wrap around the black handle that I grab. My thumb slides over a button I accidentally push in our tug of war that sends him to his knees. Bane convulses as zaps ricochet through his body. He collapses to the ground in a scream louder than Marv fromHome Alone.
