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The trek back to the kitchen is worth the squeal of surprise she gives me when I wrap an arm around her waist from behind. With a low, wordless growl, I snatch her up and press a savage kiss to her exposed neck.
“What was that for?” she breathes giddily.
“Because I fucking wanted to.”
This time, when I return to the front door, leaving feels much, much easier.
“I need to see Senator Brennan. Now.”
The senator’s assistant, a mousey little man by the name of Barney Fitz, stares at me with wide, fearful eyes and a gaping mouth. He puckers like a fish before he finally manages to squeak out, “D-do you have an appointment?”
“I’ve been trying to make one. Since he’s been so busy, I figured I’d save him the time.”
“Ah. Right.” Fitz shuffles through some paperwork on the desk as he collects his thoughts. “I’m s-sorry, but the senator is unavailable today.”
Fucking figures. “When will he be back?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but…” Fitz glances at the computer screen, at me, and back down at the papers he keeps fiddling with. “The senator has several prior engagements he cannot miss. I will let him know you stopped by.”
My gaze narrows.
I have a few options here, and I only like one or two of them. I could grab this poor excuse of an assistant by the shirt collar and make him regret ever standing between me and the office door.
I like that one.
I could just shove the scrawny runt aside and kick down the door to Brennan’s office. If he’s there, I could give that fuck a full shakedown until he signs the contract in front of me. If he’s not there, I could turn his office over until the right paperwork falls out and just forge his damn signature myself.
I like that option even more.
But there’s a third option that involves diplomacy and doesn’t involve me getting arrested: swallowing my frustration, dealing with my impatience, and pretending to be a reasonable corporate CEO who plays by the politician’s game.
I despise that one.
And yet it’s my only real choice.
“It’s imperative that Senator Brennan contacts me as soon as humanly possible.” I reach into my coat pocket and pull out a Chekhov Industries business card with my office information on it. I grab one of the pens from Fitz’s desk and jot my personal cell phone number on the back. “Here’s my personal number. It seems he may have lost it.”
Fitz accepts the card from my hand with shaky fingers. The way this man’s sweating under the collar, it’s like I’m holding a gun to his head.
Not that the temptation hasn’t popped up in the back of my mind. One of many blood-soaked options I considered.
“I will—I mean, I’ll be sure to pass the message on to the senator.” Fitz tucks the card under the corner of the desk phone and shrinks back down in his cheap office chair. None of this inspires any confidence that he’ll do what I’ve ordered.
But I’m the head of an organized crime syndicate, currently standing inside a government office.
Sometimes, it’s best to just play ball.
With the bare minimum accomplished, I turn to leave this office and return to my own. I make a mental note to see if Mak will have any luck applying pressure to Fitz—that man is so tense, a simple poke would probably make him burst wide open with information and intel.
But before I can reach the exit, Brennan’s office door opens and the man himself emerges…
… laughing and chatting with the last motherfucker on earth I wanted to see.
Jeffrey fucking Alisher.
Part of me can’t help but admire Alisher. He runs a shipping corporation that has caused me no end of grief over the last decade. Everywhere I go, there they are, bidding me up, undercutting me at every turn.
The far bigger part of me wants to skip rope with his fucking entrails, though. But he’s got a Q score as high as my body count. The public loves him, for reasons I will never understand. His smiling mug is pasted on damn near half of Alisher Industries’ advertisements.
