Emilio had asked his cousins to join him. Both heavily tattooed, Ricky was a baker by trade and Paul worked as a courier driver, both nice guys who worked early mornings and had afternoons free. As soon as Emilio had asked for their help and told them briefly why, they didn’t even hesitate.
I had to force myself not to smile as we walked into Lance’s city building. I wore my usual chinos but added a jacket, though I doubted anyone noticed or cared about me. It was the three Mexican-mafia-looking dudes who flanked me most people balked at.
Lance’s assistant stared at us as we approached her desk. “Spencer Cohen,” I told her with my usual disarming smile. Emilio, Ricky, and Paul stood back with stoic faces, and the poor startled woman eyed the briefcase Emilio held. It held some papers and a few tattoo magazines in case x-ray machines thought an empty case was suspicious, but she didn’t know that. “I’m here for a three o’clock meeting with Lance.”
“Of course,” she whispered. She pressed a button on her phone. “Spencer Cohen is here to see you.”
“Send him in,” he replied curtly.
She led us to his door, and slimy Lance smiled when he saw me. It quickly slid off his face when Emilio, Ricky, and Paul walked in behind me.
It was a nice office with a pretty decent view of the city, and the glass interior walls gave his colleagues full view of us.
And they were watching.
Lance still stood behind his desk, I planted myself in the chair directly across from him, Emilio sat beside me, and Ricky and Paul stood at the door, their tattooed hands clasped in front, and they stared straight ahead. Emilio put the briefcase on the desk. I crossed one ankle across my knee—looking as relaxed as could be—while Lance struggled to sit in his chair. “Spencer…?” He cleared his throat. “What can I do for you?”
“Nice office,” I said, nodding slowly and taking my time to look around. I made a point of looking at his watching colleagues, just in case he wasn’t aware they were staring. “I found Yanni.”
The piece of shit swallowed hard, and his eyes shifted nervously. “How is he?”
“Oh, he’s fine. Now. He’s in a safe house where you can’t ever find him.”
Lance blanched. He knew. He knew we knew the truth. He shook his head. “It’s not like that.”
“It’s exactly like that,” I said. “What did you think would happen? Did you think I’d willingly drag a lamb back to slaughter? Or did you do it just to fuck with his head? Or just because you could? Is it a power thing? Is that what you think? That it would have been quicker to lure Yanni back in rather than lure in some other unsuspecting kid you could belt the shit out of to make yourself feel better?”
Lance paled. “I’ll call security,” he said weakly.
I laughed and sat back in my chair. “That’s right. You would. Because you’re a coward. Only a coward, a spineless fucking coward, would ever raise his fist in anger to someone smaller, weaker…” I sneered at him. “Yet you’d squeal for help when you felt threatened. You’re a worthless piece of shit.”
He gaped like a fish, pale and clammy.
I sighed. “The police have been notified that you breached the restraining order Yanni placed against you. You can probably expect a visit.”
He instinctively looked out the glass partition wall toward the elevators.
“And I will happily give them every email and text you sent me if I’m subpoenaed to do so. So, I’ll tell you what’s going to happen,” I said, like I was bored with the whole thing. “You’re going to forget Yanni. Don’t even look for him, or we will know. In fact, if you ever abuse anyone, physically harm them or fuck with their mental wellbeing, we will know.”
Lance looked at Ricky and Paul nervously.
He was sweating now and looked about ready to piss himself. I didn’t care.
“It’s been psychologically proven that people who perpetuate domestic violence have very little self-worth, debilitating insecurities, and are sometimes impotent or have very small dicks.” I looked at Emilio and shrugged. “Or so I read.”
Emilio nodded seriously. “I believe I read that also.”
I pretended to pull at a thread on the hem in my pants. “So Lance, here’s where you promise, like the piece of shit, small-dicked man you are, that you will leave Yanni alone. Forever.”
Lance nodded.
“Say it,” I prompted.
“Okay, okay,” he said.
“Good,” I said with a smile. “I’m glad you agree.”
Emilio stared him down. “You know, in Mexico we have a saying. Lo prometido es deuda,” he said, his accent thick and clipped. Then he repeated it in English. “What has been promised, is debt.” He stared at Lance until the piece of shit squirmed in his seat. “Don’t make us come collect. Because we will.”