Chapter 3 - The Breaking Point
"I need another!" Donovan barked suddenly, slamming his empty glass down onto the wood with enough force to make the chips rattle.
I approached quietly, picked up the crystal tumbler, and asked, "Same again?"
Donovan finally turned toward me, his bloodshot eyes narrowing. He smelled of sour sweat, cheap cigars, and desperate panic. "Are you deaf? I said I need another."
Before I could turn away, Donovan lashed out and grabbed my right wrist. His thick fingers clamped down directly on my bruised, inflamed tendon—the exact spot where my wrist had popped days earlier. A blinding spike of white-hot pain shot up my arm, and my knees nearly buckled.
"Let go of me," I said, my voice dropping into a flat, exhausted whisper. I didn't scream or beg; I was simply done being pushed around. "I just poured the Scotch. Let go of my arm."
Donovan scoffed, tightening his grip maliciously. "Feisty little waitress. Where did you find her, Roman? Training wheels must be loose."
Before I could wrench my arm away, the temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.
"Donovan," Roman said. He hadn't raised his voice at all, but the single word carried the quiet, absolute terror of a loaded gun.
The entire table went dead silent. The other men froze, their hands hovering over their chips. Donovan blinked, momentarily startled by the sudden shift in the atmosphere, but he didn't let go of my wrist. Instead, he sneer-laughed, turning back to Roman.
"What? I'm just having a little fun with the help. Every boss needs a—"
Roman stood up so fast his chair screeched loudly against the hardwood floor. In three long strides, he was around the table. Before Donovan could finish his sentence, Roman’s hand shot out, grabbing Donovan by the back of his expensive silk tie and yanking him violently upward across the table.
May you like
The glass of Scotch shattered against the felt, spilling dark amber liquid everywhere.
"She is not 'the help,'" Roman said, his voice terrifyingly soft. "And you are touching my property."
