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"They’ve got guns and won’t give them up," Nathan replied bluntly.
"Yeah, we don’t allow people with weapons into this place," I told Tony, crossing my arms over my chest. Tony squared up to me, like he stood a chance. He might have been a couple of decades younger than me, but I didn’t fancy his chances at all. I had dealt with plenty of upstart bastards like him, who thought they knew how to handle themselves but were reliant on their security teams to handle anything for them.
"How am I meant to feel safe here?" Tony demanded, shaking his head. "I thought this place was—"
"This place runs by our rules," I shot back, voice taut. His jaw tightened, and he gripped the bottle of beer he was holding a little tighter.
"I could come in here and take this place over myself," he snarled at me. "I could call my men in right now—"
"And you wouldn’t get ten steps into this place before we’d dealt with you," I told him. "That clear?"
Anger flashed over his face. He wasn’t used to being told what to do, how to handle himself, and it showed. He was entitled, and right now, all he wanted was to defy me.
All at once, he lifted the beer bottle and smashed it against the post holding up the velvet rope of the VIP section, sending beer and glass scattering everywhere. He lifted the remains of the bottle and jabbed them in my direction.
"Listen to me, you fucker—"
I caught his arm calmly and twisted it up behind him, forcing it against his back. He let out a howl of pain, the bottle falling from his grasp. I could feel the gaze of a few of our patrons on me right now, and I wasn’t going to let this asshole ruin their night.
"You try that shit with me again, Tony, and I’m going to break your arm," I growled to him, lowering my head down so he could hear exactly what I was saying. "Is that what you want?"
Tony struggled, trying to break loose, but it was no use. I had a firm grip on him, and he knew as well as I did that all it would take was for me to apply just a little more pressure and his arm would shatter beneath my grasp.
"Fine," he spat back at me, and I dropped his arm, shoving him towards Nathan.
"Get him out of here and get someone down here to clean that shit up," I told him, gesturing to the mess on the floor. "Tony, you or your men show your face here again, and you’re going to pay for it. You understand?"
He didn’t look me in the eyes. I grabbed his chin, forcing him to face me.
"I asked you a fucking question," I warned him. He nodded, snatching his head back from me.
"Yeah, yeah, I get it," he snarled, and Nathan began to lead him towards the back entrance. I watched until I was sure he was gone, and then made my way back to the office.
Or, at least, that’s what I had been intending, until I felt something warm running down my arm. I looked down to see a cut on my palm, leaking blood along my skin. I had been so focused on getting Tony dealt with, I hadn’t even noticed that I had been cut on the beer bottle he had tried pushing into my face. Shit. I would need to get that cleaned up before I did anything else.
Heading to the elevator at the back of the club, I climbed in and leaned back against the wall.
I was getting too old for this shit, and I knew it. I was in my forties now, and fighting was a young man’s game. I knew I had to deal with people like Tony without any questions asked, or they were going to do everything they could to exploit that crack in our facade, but for the most part, I wanted to leave it to the security team we’d put so much trust in. I knew they could handle themselves.
I reached the apartment once more and made my way towards my room. Maxim was probably at the gym, where it felt like he had been spending all of his spare time lately. He always got that way when something was bothering him, and I was sure Mina was the cause of his concern right now.
"Damyan?”
I stopped in my tracks and looked up to see Mina emerging from the kitchen. Her eyes were wide as she stared down at my hand, horror painted over her face.
"What happened to you?" she gasped, rushing over to me and grabbing my arm, flipping it over in her hand so she could get a better look at it.
"Nothing," I replied, pulling it back. "I’m fine."
"You’re bleeding," she protested. "You’re hurt. What happened?"
"Nothing," I repeated myself. I wanted to pull away from her, but there was something about the feel of her hands on my skin that made it difficult for me to think straight.
"Let me help you," she replied firmly. "You need to get cleaned up. You can’t leave that kind of wound alone; it needs tending to."
"How do you know?" I demanded. I wasn’t sure why I was being so defensive, but there was a part of me that just didn’t know how to handle her treating me like this—a part of me that wanted to push back against her right now, that wanted to keep a distance between us.
"Just … trust me," she told me. "Your bathroom’s right through here, isn’t it? Come on …"
