Chapter 4 - Blood and Broken GlassThe lead Russian—a scarred brute named Viktor who served as Volkov’s primary muscle—began cutting a straight line through the center of the dining room, ignoring the panicked gasps of patrons as he shoved a startled city councilman out of his way.
I didn't wait for him to reach our table. I stepped past the edge of the white tablecloth, my broad shoulders squaring off as I moved forward to meet him in the middle of the aisle, right beneath the glittering cascade of the crystal chandelier.
“Dominic Moretti,” Viktor barked, his voice thick with a harsh Slavic accent, flashing a yellow-toothed grin that didn't reach his dead eyes. “Boss says hello. Says New York is big enough for everyone, but apparently not for—”
He never finished the sentence.
Before Viktor’s hand could clear the heavy wool of his overcoat, Marcus dropped out of the balcony mezzanine above the dining room, landing squarely on top of Viktor’s second-in-command and driving him face-first through a mahogany service cart loaded with crystal decanters. Glass exploded across the floor in a dazzling, deafening shower of shards.
Chaos erupted instantly. Screams echoed off the high ceiling. Politicians and judges dove under tables, scrambling like frightened mice.
Viktor cursed in Russian, ripping his hand out of his coat with a Glock 19 already clearing leather. But he was half a second too slow. I closed the distance between us with explosive speed, grabbing his wrist and slamming it upward against the nearest marble pillar with a sickening crunch of bone.
The pistol clattered across the polished tile floor.
Viktor roared in agony, throwing a massive right hook with his free hand. I ducked beneath the wild swing, driving a brutal, short-jab right into his solar plexus, followed instantly by a devastating knee strike to his jaw. The big Russian crumpled like a sack of wet cement, collapsing unconscious at my feet.
I stood there amidst the wreckage of broken crystal and spilled wine, breathing heavily, adjusting the cuffs of my tailored suit jacket with cold, methodical precision. Not a single drop of blood had touched my shirt, but my knuckles throbbed with a dull, satisfying ache.
I turned slowly back toward Table 4.
Amelia was still sitting in her chair.
She hadn't ducked under the table. She hadn't screamed. She was sitting with her back straight, calmly sipping the remainder of her martini as if a full-scale tactical assault by the Russian mob was nothing more than an inconvenient dinner theater intermission.
As I walked back over, stepping carefully over a groaning Russian enforcer, Amelia set her glass down and looked up at me with an expression that defied all human logic.
She looked impressed.
“Well,” she said, her voice completely steady. “That certainly beats working the espresso machine in Allston.”
I stared at her, a mixture of disbelief and grudging admiration warring in my chest. Most women would be hyperventilating, demanding an escort out of the building, or weeping from shock. Amelia Bryant was critiquing my performance like an English professor grading a freshman term paper.
“You’re out of your mind,” I muttered, pulling out my phone to dial Marcus, who was currently zip-tying the two surviving Russians with clinical efficiency. “Get her out of here, Marcus. Use the private service elevator in the kitchen. Make sure she gets home safe.”
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Amelia stood up, smoothing down the front of her black dress with unhurried grace. She picked up her small leather handbag from the chair and stepped around the debris, walking right up until she was standing inches away from me. The scent of jasmine and rain drifted up from her skin, cutting straight through the acrid smell of gunsmoke and spilled whiskey.
“I’m not going anywhere in a secure car while you stay behind to clean up a war zone, Dominic,” she said softly, reaching out to lightly brush a speck of dust off the lapel of my jacket. “We didn't finish our dinner. And more importantly... we haven't finished our conversation.”
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