Chapter 9 - Debts Paid in Blood
Julian’s face turned deep purple as Rhett’s grip tightened around his windpipe. The logistics executive clawed frantically at Rhett’s tattooed wrists, his manicured fingers slipping against the corded muscle and iron strength of a man who had killed competitors with his bare hands.
“Mr… Mr. Valin… please…” Julian choked out, tears of sheer, unadulterated panic streaming down his flushed cheeks. “I have… I have the accounts… the offshore manifests… you need me for the coast guard clearances…”
“The manifests were mirrored to my private terminal at midnight, Julian,” Rhett said softly, his voice devoid of anger, flat as an open grave. “I’ve had forensic auditors dismantling your corporate shell companies for three weeks. I already knew you were skimming from the bulk fuel lines. I was going to handle your embezzlement in my boardroom next Friday.”
Rhett’s dark eyes narrowed into lethal slits.
“You should have stayed in the ledgers, Julian. You shouldn't have touched the woman who belongs to my household.”
With effortless, terrifying power, Rhett drove Julian backward across the landing, slamming him brutally against the corridor’s brick wall. The masonry groaned under the impact, plaster dust raining down onto Julian’s sandy hair. Julian let out a strangled, breathless cry, his hands going limp as Rhett’s right hand slid from his jacket, emerging with the matte-black Kimber .45.
Rhett did not aim at Julian’s head.
He drove the heavy steel muzzle of the weapon hard into the soft tissue just below Julian’s right collarbone, pinning him to the brick with enough kinetic force to crack the bone beneath.
Julian screamed, a high, wet, agonized sound that echoed down the stairwell.
“Look at me,” Rhett commanded, his gravelly voice slicing through Julian’s screams like a razor through silk.
Julian forced his terrified, tear-filled eyes open, meeting the cold, abyssal gray of Don Valin’s gaze.
“You have five minutes to sign over every asset, every deed, and every stock option you hold in the Valin subsidiaries,” Rhett whispered, his lips inches from Julian’s ear. “My lawyers are waiting in the car below. If you hesitate by one second, if you breathe a single word of protest, my men will take you to the southern slipway at the docks. And you will discover what the bottom of Lake Michigan feels like beneath three feet of ice.”
“I’ll sign! I’ll sign everything! I swear to God, I’ll sign!” Julian wept hysterically, his body trembling so violently that his knees buckled against the wall.
Heavy footsteps echoed from the staircase below.
Two massive men in tailored black overcoats—Marco and Santino, Rhett’s personal executive enforcers—appeared on the landing, their hands tucked inside their lapels, their faces carved from stone. Behind them walked Dr. Alan Vance, carrying a heavy silver aluminum trauma case.
Rhett released his grip on Julian’s coat. Julian slid down the brick wall like a sack of wet flour, collapsing onto his knees in the stairwell dust, gasping for breath while clutching his bruised throat.
“Marco,” Rhett said without looking back.
“Yes, Don Valin?”
“Take this garbage downstairs,” Rhett ordered, his voice cold as deep space. “Have Miller execute the forfeiture documents. Strip him of his phone, his keys, his coat, and his identification. When he finishes signing, put him on a commercial bus to Omaha with twenty dollars in his pocket. If he ever steps foot east of the Mississippi again, put him in the furnace.”
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“Consider it done, Boss.”
Marco and Santino hauled the weeping, broken executive to his feet by his armpits, dragging him down the wooden stairs, his heels clicking rhythmically against the risers until the heavy front door of the building slammed shut, leaving the walk-up in absolute, blessed silence.
