The manager rushed forward, his face pale with terror. "Mr. Vance, please! Not in front of my restaurant!"
Bruce Vance barely glanced at him. "Stay out of this, Leo. Business is business."
"But the police—"
"Won't be a problem." Bruce's gold teeth gleamed. "They know better than to interfere with my work."
Leo backed away, hands trembling. The few remaining diners scattered, chairs scraping against the floor as they fled.
I stood perfectly still, watching Bruce's men advance. They moved with practiced coordination, weapons gleaming under the streetlights.
"Last chance, boy," Bruce called out. "Get on your knees and beg. Maybe I'll only break one arm."
"I don't beg."
"Your funeral."
The first thug swung his baseball bat at my head. I caught his wrist mid-swing, twisted sharply, and heard the satisfying crack of bone. He screamed and dropped the bat.
