Chapter 3: The Lethal Countdown
Marcus’s eyes go completely wild. He reaches violently into the inside pocket of his suit jacket.
I can’t stop the pathetic sound that escapes my throat. It’s something between a choked gasp and a desperate plea.
The bartender hears it instantly. His dark eyes flick downward in my direction for the very first time. He doesn’t look afraid. He doesn’t look surprised.
“Four,” the bartender says casually, turning his attention back to Marcus.
Marcus rips a black handgun out of his jacket and levels it directly at the bartender’s chest.
“Please don’t let him take me,” I whisper to no one, my body curling entirely in on itself. “Please.”
The bartender steps entirely out from behind the protective mahogany counter. He walks forward, his large hands completely empty, his facial expression utterly bored.
“Three.” His voice is a lethal, hypnotic calm.
The entire bar violently tenses. Marcus aims the gun straight at the bartender’s head, snarling.
“She belongs to me!” Marcus screams, spit flying from his lips. “Back off, or I blow your brains out!”
“Try,” the bartender says softly.
He says it like a sacred promise. He says it like a dare. He says it like the entire world will not survive if Marcus takes one more step forward.
Marcus actually hesitates. His confident swagger falters for a microsecond.
And in that one breathless breath of hesitation, I suddenly see everything. I see the intricate, dark tattoos curling aggressively up the bartender’s thick forearms. I see the heavy, custom gold chain resting against his collarbone.
He isn’t just a bartender. He’s a boss. And I just accidentally fell headfirst into his dangerous world.
“You don’t know what you’re doing,” Marcus’s hand trembles slightly around the grip of his pistol.
“I know exactly what I’m doing,” the mafia boss replies, taking another slow step forward. “Two.”
It’s the very first time I’ve ever seen Marcus actually look unsure. I don’t breathe. The massive bikers in the room don’t breathe.
“One,” the boss says.
“She’s mine!” Marcus hisses.
That word. Mine. I hate that disgusting word so much I can literally taste blood in the back of my mouth.
The mafia boss’s dark eyes flick away from the gun and look down at me, huddled in the dirt. Direct. Deep. Unbroken.
“She doesn’t look like she wants you,” he says softly.
Then, everything explodes.
I don’t even see who moves first. I don’t see the gun go off. I don’t see anything except the mafia boss stepping forward, moving so fast he becomes a blur of pure, calculated violence.
Marcus stumbles backward, screaming in shock. The gun clatters violently onto the hardwood floor.
Someone shouts a command. Two massive men tackle Marcus into the nearest table, shattering the wood into splinters.
“Get off me! Do you know who I am?!” Marcus screams, bleeding from his nose as two men pin his arms.
“Boss,” one of the men asks, kicking Marcus’s gun away. “You want him handled?”
The boss lifts a single hand. One incredibly small, subtle gesture. And the entire chaotic bar instantly goes dead quiet.
“Take him out,” the boss says quietly. “But not far.”
His men violently drag Marcus backward toward the alley door. I hear Marcus screaming curses, threatening lawsuits, threatening murder.
And then, I hear the distinct sound of Marcus actually begging, right before the heavy steel door swings shut.
Suddenly, it’s just me and him.
He turns his massive frame toward me. His dark eyes meet mine, and I swear the entire room shrinks until it’s just the two of us standing in the wreckage.
“You hurt?” he asks. His voice is a low, rough rumble.
I shake my head far too fast. “No. Yes. I don’t… I don’t know.”
He steps closer, just enough that I can smell the faint, intoxicating mix of citrus cologne and smoke on his shirt. “Which is it?”
“I’m… I’m not bleeding, if that’s what you’re asking,” I swallow hard.
His intense gaze runs slowly down the length of my trembling body. It isn’t hungry. It isn’t invasive. It is deeply protective.
“You don’t look okay,” he murmurs.
“I’m not,” my voice completely cracks. “Not even close.”
He nods once, slowly. He doesn’t offer empty platitudes. Instead, he gestures with a heavy hand toward a dark, quiet side hallway.
“Come with me,” he commands softly. “It’s louder out here.”
I hesitate. Following strange men into private spaces is a habit I unlearned the hard way.
He sees that hesitation. His expression softens by a millimeter. “You’re safe,” he says. “With me, you’re safe.”
Something in his gravelly tone pulls at my chest like gravity. I follow him.
True protectors don’t demand your immediate trust; they simply hold the space until you are ready to give it. When was the last time someone truly made you feel completely safe?
