Chapter 3 - Collateral Damage
Varga didn't release Meera's wrist immediately. Instead, he slowly turned his head, a mocking grin spreading across his leathery face. ""Croft. I wondered how long it would take for you to notice your pet bird left her cage.""
""You have five seconds to let go of her,"" Damian said, stepping forward. He didn't look at Meera. His dark eyes remained fixed entirely on Varga. ""One. Two.""
The sheer menace radiating from Damian changed the temperature of the entire room. The nearby diners finally noticed the tension. The soft laughter died down, the pianist’s fingers faltered, and a heavy silence descended over the rear corner of the restaurant.
Varga released Meera’s wrist with a theatrically casual flick of his fingers. ""Just having a conversation, Damian. Checking in on your talented staff.""
""She’s not on the clock,"" Damian said coldly. He stepped between the tables, his towering frame dwarfing Varga’s standing enforcer. With a movement so fast it looked like a blur, Damian’s left hand shot out, grabbing the enforcer by the throat, slamming the back of the man's head into the heavy mahogany wall paneling with a sickening crack.
The glass sconce above them shattered, raining crystalline shards onto the floor. Patrons screamed, chairs clattered as people bolted toward the exits, and the dining room erupted into instant chaos.
Before the second enforcer could draw his concealed weapon, Damian’s two guards stepped in, disarming him with brutal efficiency and dragging him down into the shadows between the booths.
Varga scrambled out of his seat, backing away with his hands raised, his cocky demeanor vanishing instantly. ""Marcone knows she’s your weak link, Croft! You can kill me, but every crew in Chicago knows that if they take the girl, your whole financial house comes crumbling down!""
Damian didn't answer with words. He closed the distance in two long strides, drove a vicious right hook into Varga’s jaw that sent the man sprawling over an abandoned table of lobster shells and spilled wine, and then planted his polished dress shoe directly onto Varga’s sternum.
""Tell Marcone,"" Damian said, bending down until his face was inches from Varga’s bleeding nose, ""that if he looks at her again, I won't just take his docks. I’ll skin him alive in front of his family. Now get out before I decide to save the city the cost of your trial.""
Damian removed his foot. Varga didn't hesitate; he scrambled across the wet, wine-stained floor on hands and knees, hauling himself up and sprinting through the panic-stricken crowd toward the front doors.
Damian stood upright, adjusting his cuffs as if he had merely brushed lint from his sleeve. His breathing was steady, though the bruised knuckles on his right hand were split wide open again, dripping fresh scarlet drops onto the white tablecloth.
Finally, he turned his gaze to Meera.
She sat frozen in the booth, the cherry silk dress shimmering under the fractured restaurant lighting, her chest heaving as she stared at the carnage surrounding her.
""Your date ran,"" Damian observed, his voice entirely devoid of remorse.
""You brought a war into my dinner,"" Meera whispered, her hands shaking despite her efforts to remain composed. ""You followed me.""
""Of course I followed you,"" Damian replied, stepping closer and offering his uninjured left hand. ""You're carrying three hundred million dollars of my assets in your head, Meera. You think I was going to let you eat risotto with an accountant who doesn't even know how to throw a punch?""
May you like
""I hate you,"" she said, though she didn't pull away when his fingers wrapped around hers, pulling her gently but firmly to her feet.
""I know,"" Damian said softly, pulling his dark coat from his shoulders and draping it over her bare back. ""Now let's go. Marcone's men won't stop with a polite visit.""
