The female server, a young brunette with her hair pulled back and stains on her apron, screams, dropping the plate she’s carrying.
The elderly grandparents in the kitchen peer out through the service window, their wrinkled faces going pale with terror.
They know this is no friendly visit and are realizing they’re caught in the middle.
Amar bares his teeth like some rabid dog, pushing back from the table with such force his chair topples over. He stands to his full, massive height. Taller than any of us.
“You don’t belong here, Callahan.”
“Could say the same about you,” I retort. “Yet that didn’t stop you from strolling through SoHo.”
“I was delivering Dren’s message.”
“Yeah? Well, now it’s our turn.”
Sean and Teagan rush at him first, moving in from either side. Amar is ready for them, throwing out heavy punches like the ogre he is. His massive fist connects with Sean’s jaw, sending him tumbling down.
Teagan gets a solid blow to Amar’s ribs that would drop most men, but Amar barely flinches. Instead, he grabs Teagan by the collar and headbutts him with brutal force. Teagan stumbles back, dazed, blood streaming from his nose.
Cian and Eddie go next, tag-teaming. him. Eddie lands a punch to Amar’s gut, and Cian sweeps his leg, trying to take him down. But Amar is a mountain. He grabs Eddie by the shirt with one massive hand and tosses him like he weighs nothing. Eddie crashes through a table, wood splintering, chairs exploding around him. He groans, struggling to get up.
Cian doesn’t fare any better, getting tossed aside just as easily.
Then Killian steps up.
He moves like the predator he is. All calculated footsteps and no wasted motion. Years of professional boxing have honed him into a weapon. He feints left, drawing Amar’s attention, then lands a devastating blow straight to Amar’s face that packs the power of a heavyweight champion behind it.
Amar’s head snaps back violently. His eyes roll, showing the whites. Then he crashes to the ground like a redwood tree that’s been chopped down, the entire restaurant seemingly shaking with the impact.
“Grab him,” I order. “Stand him up against the table.”
Teagan and Sean move despite their injuries, hauling Amar’s large mass up. It takes both of them plus Cian to get him standing. They slam his hands flat on the table, holding him in place. Amar groans, semi-conscious, dazed, and bleeding.
I turn to Killian. “Give me my toy.”
Killian produces a machete from inside his jacket, the blade razor sharp and gleaming. He hands it to me, the weight familiar in my grip.
I run a finger along the sharp edge, delighting in the cool steel.
It’s funny how I’ve used it so many times, how it’s been covered in blood and gunk, yet it always washes off and looks like new after it all.
This time will be no different.
I step toward Amar, completely calm. “You should’ve known better than to do what you did.”
Amar’s head lolls, his eyes struggling to focus on me.
“Nobody hurts what’s mine. And guess what? That includes my fucking wife. It’s time to let Dren know,” I say, “that if he even thinks about coming anywhere near her again, he’s a dead man. He can count on that.”
I raise the machete high, then bring it down.
The blade slices clean through Amar’s right hand—the same hand he used to hurt Simone. The machete severs it at the wrist with a wet, meatythunk.
The hand flops to the floor, fingers still twitching.
The staff in the restaurant scream, huddling together in the kitchen doorway. The grandmother covers her mouth, retching.
Amar howls, the sounds like a deeply wounded animal. Blood sprays in an arc across the white tablecloth, pooling on the floor, and dripping down his arm in thick rivulets.