Chapter 2
“He is trespassing,” Victor snapped, stabbing an index finger toward the contract on the desk. “He was offered a standard administrative remedy for an irregular account. He refused service, became belligerent, and demanded access to restricted internal departments. This is private property, Frank. Escort him off the premises immediately.”
Across the counter, Leah Dawson had frozen entirely. Her knuckles were white against the edge of the teller counter, and the receipt tape she had been pretending to change spilled into a tangled white coil on the gray carpet. She looked at Nathan with an expression so nakedly terrified that Nathan felt a cold flare of protective fury settle behind his ribs.
Nathan didn't move. He leaned back into the leather visitor’s chair, crossed one worn work boot over his knee, and rested his hands loosely over the armrests.
“Frank,” Nathan said calmly, “if an employee calls you over to remove a customer simply because that customer asked to read a contract before signing it, which section of the Harbor Crest Security Manual covers that? Is it Section 4.2 on disruptive conduct, or Section 8.1 on fraud reporting?”
Frank’s brow furrowed. “Sir?”
Victor’s laugh was sharp, brittle, and edged with malice. “Now he thinks he’s a bank examiner. Look at him, Frank. He’s a day laborer who got twenty grand from an injury settlement or a second mortgage, and he thinks he can lecture us on banking operations. Take his arm. Escort him to the curb.”
The younger guard, a kid in his early twenties with a close-cropped fade and an eager posture, took a half-step forward, his hand drifting toward his side holster.
“Don’t touch me, son,” Nathan said softly.
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't make a sudden movement. But the tone in his words carried the weight of a man who had negotiated debt restructurings across tables filled with Wall Street litigators and international trade ministers. It was the tone of command, effortless and absolute, completely at odds with his faded denim jacket and frayed cuffs.
The younger guard hesitated, his boots stuck to the floor.
“Victor,” Nathan said, turning his gaze back to the branch manager. “Before Frank makes a mistake that costs this institution a seven-figure civil suit, let’s talk about Westbridge Asset Solutions.”
Victor went utterly, terrifyingly still. The color drained from beneath his manicured stubble, leaving his skin the color of skim milk. His hand, which had been resting flat against the mahogany desktop, twitched toward the contract.