Chapter 3 - An Invitation to the Corner Booth
Arthur stopped two feet away from us. Up close, his sheer physical presence was staggering—tall, broad, and radiating an absolute, chilling authority that made Derek’s trembling frame look like a brittle twig.
Arthur didn't look at me. His winter-ocean gray eyes settled squarely on Derek’s hand, which was still twisted around my upper arm.
“Is there a problem with the service here, friend?” Arthur asked. His voice was low, smooth as aged bourbon, and entirely devoid of warmth.
Derek swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing violently. He tried to puff out his chest, though the alcohol sweat gleaming on his forehead betrayed him. “Look, pal, this is a family matter. Back off. It has nothing to do with you.”
“Family matters,” Arthur repeated, tasting the words as if they were deeply offensive. Slowly, deliberately, Arthur raised his gaze from Derek's hand up to Derek’s terrified eyes. “In my experience, men who grab women by the arm in public establishments don't usually possess much family honor.”
“I said butt out!” Derek snapped, his voice cracking with rising hysteria as he let go of my arm to shove a finger against Arthur’s chest.
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It was a fatal mistake.
Before Derek’s finger could make contact, one of Arthur’s guards moved with blinding speed, catching Derek’s wrist in a crushing grip and twisting it downward with a sharp, sickening pop of joints. Derek let out a high-pitched yelp of pain, stumbling sideways into the service station counter and sending a stack of clean linen napkins fluttering to the floor.
