Chapter 4 - The Clean-Up
“Get your hands off me! My arm is broken! You can't do this, I’ll call the cops!” Derek shrieked, clutching his wrist against his chest while sliding down the wood paneling until he hit the floor.
The jazz quartet finally stopped playing. The entire dining room went dead silent, every head turning toward the service station to watch the spectacle.
Arthur didn't flinch. He adjusted the cuffs of his shirt, his expression as calm as a frozen lake. He looked down at Derek with mild, clinical disgust, then turned his gaze toward the restaurant manager, who was currently sprinting out from the front office with a face the color of chalk.
“Mr. Moretti!” the manager gasped, skidding to a halt a few feet away. “I am so sorry, I had no idea—security should have stopped this vagrant at the door—”
“They did,” Arthur interrupted smoothly. He gestured casually toward Derek, who was whimpering on the floor. “This trash is disturbing the guests. Clear him out of here, and make sure he never sets foot within ten blocks of this riverfront again.”
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“Right away, sir! Immediately!” the manager stammered, frantically waving over two bouncers who hauled Derek up by his jacket collars before he could even protest. As they dragged him kicking and cursing toward the service exit, Derek’s frantic eyes locked onto mine one last time, filled with a mixture of hatred and absolute terror.
When the heavy metal back door slammed shut behind him, the suffocating weight in the room lifted just a fraction.
