Chapter 5 - The Contractor
Brenda took a fast step back toward the wall. “Greg... it’s Shawn. He came back.”
Greg looked me up and down, his eyes scanning my clean sweater, my leather shoes, and my ordinary winter coat. A slow, condescending sneer spread across his weathered face.
“Oh,” Greg snorted, tossing the fast-food bags onto the entryway table. “The long-lost big brother. The one who sends a tiny check every month so he can pretend he’s a good son.”
He took two deliberate steps toward me, using his broad six-foot-two frame to try to intimidate me.
“Listen to me, city boy,” Greg sneered, leaning in close. “You’re in the middle of something you don't understand. Your parents signed a legal agreement giving Brenda authority over their property months ago. The deed is being processed right now.”
“They didn't sign anything voluntarily,” I said calmly, my hands resting at my sides. “And you locked them in a cellar for three days without medicine or heat. That’s attempted murder.”
Greg laughed—a sharp, obnoxious sound. “Attempted murder? Who are the police gonna believe? A local businessman who’s been taking care of this property, or an old couple with dementia and a son who disappeared for twelve years?”
He reached out, resting his dirty hand heavily on my shoulder, pushing me back an inch.
“Take your bags and get back in your car, Shawn,” Greg warned, his tone turning ice-cold. “Before I throw you down those cellar stairs too.”
I looked down at his hand on my shoulder.
Then I looked up into his eyes.
For twelve years, I had built a multi-million-dollar logistics empire in the toughest industrial hubs in the Midwest. I had dealt with union enforcers, corrupt inspectors, and dock boss thugs who made Greg Vance look like a nervous amateur.
I grabbed Greg’s wrist, twisting it sharply outward while driving my elbow directly into the side of his jaw.
CRACK.
Greg let out a grunt of pain, stumbling backward into the wall, his hand flying to his swelling cheekbone.
“Brenda!” Greg yelled, his eyes wide with shock and fury. “Get the truck keys!”
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I didn't give him a second to recover. I stepped in, grabbed the collar of his jacket, and slammed him face-first against the heavy oak front door.
“Touch me again,” I whispered into his ear, “and I won't just call the police, Greg. I will buy every debt you owe in Pennsylvania and destroy everything you’ve ever built.”
