Page 68 of Rizzed Up By My Alien Neighbor
Because tonight, in the glow of property records, I choose to learn.
And tomorrow, I bring the battle to his court.
The kitchen table groans under the weight of coffee mugs, crumpled receipts, and eviction notices stamped in crimson. Nessa’s face is etched with strain, exhaustion, apology—three emotions battling for dominion. I watched her this morning as she stumbled into the office, shoulders sagging beneath the weight of moral compromise. I saw how the paper cut across her heart as she prepared to file for those elderly business owners—the ones she grew up calling “Nonna & Papa.” The old Italian couple who handed her biscotti when she was ten. She hated that our world allowed this, but Lipnicky’s legal labyrinth worked against the powerless.
I slip into the kitchen carrying color-coded binders and a tablet glowing with ordinance overlays. The scent of burning espresso meets me, and the sharp tinge of guilt radiates off her in waves.
“You’re here early,” she murmurs, eyes bleary with fatigue.
I place the binders before her. Each tab indicates a specific property, demolition permit, legal loophole: misfiled deed restrictions, zoning discrepancies, outdated transfer documentation. It’s methodical, surgical, tactical.
On the tablet, I pull up a split-screen view: Lipnicky’s latest filings on one side; municipal code annotated on the other. The overlay highlights conflict: his applications violate a clause requiring impact studies in historical districts, and the elderly-owned delis fall under protected status due to 75-year continuity.
I meet her gaze. “I didn’t come knowing. I came because I learned.”
Her eyebrows rise, eyelashes flutter. “You… studied this? Since when?”
I fold my arms, leaning on the edge. “Since I identified a threat. You said he’s waging war through bureaucracy—so I tried to understand the battlefield.”
Her lips part, pain and relief in equal measure. She opens a binder, leafs through the pages. “This clause… but how did you?—?”
“Municipal records are public. I translated the legalese.” I tap the digital overlay. “I found a variance he never applied for—the ‘historical façade’ exception. He’s using it to delay enforcement on his own properties while pushing out the small ones. It’s a decoy.”
Her shoulders tremble with suppressed breath. “That’s… brilliant.”
“Not genius,” I reply gently. “Intent. I spent nights reading until my eyes bled, but I saw the pattern.”
She looks up sharply. The gray exhale of defeat in her eyes morphs into something sharper: hope. She leans forward, fingers tapping on highlighted code sections. “If we file objections to the permits… if we compile historic use affidavits, impact assessments—even get community testimony… we can block him.”
I nod, voice low. “And we preserve the businesses. You and Sammy testify. I provide the technical breakdown.”
She looks at me—eyes bright, shoulders set. I see both relief and a pulse of attraction—something electric vibrating in her gaze. I match it, offering the bond only a warrior and his mate can make.
She breaths out, determination forming. “So… we do it. Together.”
I smile, letting my gold eyes soften. “Together.”
She offers a single nod—and it’s a promise forged in law, courage, and respect.
Around us, the morning sun climbs, lighting every spilled coffee bean on the counter. The kitchen’s battles will shift—papers to courtroom, strategy to testimony, law to justice. But today, at this table, we claim our alliance.
I slide another binder toward her—zoning appeals. “Your turn.”
She opens it, voice soft but resolute. “Richard… thank you.”
I place a firm hand atop mine, covering ours. “Always.”
For once, war is waged not with weapons but with words, and for once, I feel its purpose justified—not by destruction, but by protection of home.
We begin drafting affidavits.
The kitchen is suffused in low lamplight, the night summer air drifting in through the open window, carrying the scent of honeysuckle and freshly cut grass. Nessa and I sit side by side at the table, various binders stacked like fortifications between us. Our laptops hum quietly—the digital pulse of the battlefield. The faint glow illuminates her face, sharp and determined, and mine, calmer now that clarity has settled into my system.
We’ve spent hours cross-referencing filings. Today was monumental. The discovery of that incorporation clause—the one barely visible amid reams of legal text—feels like striking at an enemy’s Achilles heel. When I found it, my blood sang with triumph. A single comma in Lipnicky’s corporate charterinvalidates a host of property seizures. It felt too perfect—as though crafted by destiny. But strict legal logic confirms it: the clause is open, vulnerable.
I lean back and stretch. “Lipnicky’s entire holding company is compromised,” I say, voice steady. “We can reverse every acquisition tied to this fiscal year.”
Nessa exhales, relief washing over her features. She opens the binder titledAffidavits & Witnesses, sliding out crisp pages bearing interviews with local business owners, maps, photos, notarized statements.
