Sterling’s hand froze mid-spin on his shiny car key. The gold Rolex on his wrist suddenly felt heavy, like an anchor. He forced a greasy, nervous smile, patting down his slicked-back hair as he hurried across the polished hardwood floor, stepping past the partition that separated the main dining room from the exclusive inner sanctum.
"Mr. Kane! I—I didn’t realize the little brat wandered in," Sterling stammered, his voice climbing an octave too high. He reached out a hand to grab my shoulder, his fingers heavy and damp. "Stupid single mothers, you know how it is. Can't watch their kids for five seconds. Security must be slipping at the back door—"
He didn't get to finish the sentence.
A security operative named Dante—a mountain of a man with a scar splitting his left eyebrow—stepped into Sterling's path faster than humanly possible. Dante didn't punch him. He didn't even draw a weapon. He simply placed one massive hand flat against Sterling’s chest and pushed.