Page 67 of Whiskey Kisses

“Distillery seems quiet today,” I comment, opening my briefcase and pulling out my copy of the contract. “Is there some Southern holiday I’m not aware of?”

“Gave everybody a day off, told ‘em we had a few renovations to do,” he says, his glazed eyes hardening. “Didn’t know what you had planned.”

“I told you what I had planned,” I say calmly, sliding the contract across the desk. “There you go, in case you misplaced your own.”

Randall glances down at it for barely a second before refocusing on me.

“I’m sure you’ve gone over the fine print, but in case you haven’t, let me explain,” I say. “This contract states what was agreed upon before—Kelly Logistics assumes control of the distillery as of today. If you choose to stay on in a managerial role, overseeing daily operations, you will report to either myself or Conlan. If not, we will hire someone else.Either way, an independent accounting firm will come on to handle the books, including payroll. They’ll make sure distillery’s bills, debts, and repairs are handled. Once we received our monthly cut”—I pause, tapping on the payment schedule addendum—“you receive yours.”

Randall gives the contract another disinterested glance. “You really expect me to sign this?”

“Do you have three hundred thousand, fifteen dollars on you?” I ask. “Cash. I don’t take checks.”

“Not liquid, but I can?—”

I push the contract closer to him. “Stop fucking around and sign.”

Randall lunges for the contract, crumples it like an angry toddler, and tosses it into what I assume is a wastebasket beneath his desk. Rage rises up so fast that for a second, my face throbs with it. Every instinct I have is screaming at me to just smash his fucking face into the gleaming mahogany of his desk, see if that helps. We have Randall over a barrel, and the only one who doesn’t seem to be catching onto that is this fucker himself. It’s time he learned that actions have consequences.

Instead, I rise calmly from my seat and walk around his desk. He leans back from me, watching warily, very likely imagining the same scenario I just did. I signal to Malachi, who locks the office doors, before slipping my Glock from my waistband. Sitting on the edge of his desk, I rest the gun on my lap.

“You screw your business associates, your friends, and your own family. You’re still trying to screw me. But you can’t, because you’re at the end of the line, Randy,” I say pleasantly. “Grab another copy, Finn.”

Finn obeys, placing a fresh contract and a pen on the desk. Randall recoils as I raise the gun and tap it against the paperwork. “You’re out of chances and I’m out of fucks to give. Sign it.”

“I’m not signing that,” Randall grits out, but his face has gone pale.

I can’t tell if he’s brave or just so arrogant and entitled that he thinks he can still get his way. Leaning forward, I yank his tie down swiftly, stopping just shy of smashing his face against the desk. Alex comes to the other side of the desk, squeezing his hand around the back of Randall’s neck to hold him in place.

Tapping Randall’s cheek with the gun, I smile. “Yes, you are.”

He goes still, forehead gleaming with sweat. “This is unbelievable,” he whispers. “Does your father know what a thug you are?”

“Why do you think he sent me? Sign it,” I command.

With a shaky hand, he scrawls his signature across the bottom of the contract. Then I have him sign the “original” contract, the one detailing the loans he took from my father and the agreed upon repayment plan. It’s dated eight years ago, when Dad lent Randall money the very first time, and contains addendums for every additional loan.

“Thank you, Mr. Doyle,” I say, slapping the man’s back as I step away. “It’s been a pleasure.”

“Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?” he cries, the rims of his eyes going red. “There is no distillery without Doyle! It’s been in my family longer than this country has existed. My great-great-great-grandparents brought it over from Ireland and built it up with their own blood, sweat, and tears, passed on from one generation to the next. This is my life’s work! My land?—”

“And you squandered it all.” I put my gun away, unmoved by his passionate, drunken monologue. “With your gambling and your shitty business practices. You should be on your knees right now, thanking God it’s the Kellys taking over and no one else. We’ll do right by this place, not because of you, but because of your family’sblood, sweat, and tears.” I lean in, close enough that I can see the pores on his nose. “And because your daughter deserves better. They both do.”

Randall stumbles back against the edge of his desk, his chest rising and falling in deep, agitated breaths.

“Will you be staying on as a manager?” I ask.

“Hell no!” he roars. “You can kiss my ass!"

“Good. I’ll be changing the locks to both warehouses today, then. Figure that’s a good place to start, right? How are the repairs over at West Julian coming along? They fix that water damage yet?” I sigh, shaking my head as I scan the contracts with my phone.

“This is robbery,” he croaks.

“Sucks, doesn’t it?” I send Lucky PDFs of the contracts, promising to FedEx the originals as soon as I leave. “The distillery, warehouses, and contents of both now belong to us, Randall. You may not remove anything from the premises.” I glance around his office. “Well, you can take the stuff in here. Don’t forget your rye whiskey.”

“You will live to regret this,” he says, looking shellshocked. “Let Owen know he’ll be hearing from me.”

“Oh, now you want to talk to him? Typical.” Straightening up, I tuck the signed contracts into my briefcase and head for the door. “Listen, you got one week to get your affairs in order, okay? After that, you need to be gone.”

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