Sterling stumbled backward three steps, nearly tripping over a brass wine rack, his face flushing a furious, mottled red.
"Don't touch her," Dante said. His voice sounded like gravel grinding in the bottom of an iron drum.
Sterling caught his balance, chest heaving, his eyes darting wildly between Dante, the armed men inside the room, and Vincent Kane himself. "Now hold on just a minute. This is my establishment! That woman, Mara Carter, she’s just a dishwasher, a temporal hire. She's got some delusions about overtime—"
Vincent Kane didn't look at Sterling. He kept his dark, impenetrable eyes fixed on me. He walked around the polished mahogany table, his footsteps making a crisp, heavy rhythm against the floor. When he stopped in front of me, he crouched down so we were at eye level.