She's liable. " Frank walked over. He moved quietly, but the crowd parted for him like the Red Sea. He stopped inches from the suit. "You see a sign on the door that says collection agency?
Frank asked calmly. No, but this is a private club, Frank said. Sarah is an employee. That means she's under my roof. And under my roof, nobody touches her unless I say so.
You got a problem with Gary? You find Gary. You harass my bartender again, and you won't be walking out to your car. The suit looked around. He saw Snake toying with a large buck knife.
He saw 20 men standing up, arms crossed. He scoffed, trying to save face. "This isn't over, lady. The debt stands. " "Get out," Frank said.
The men retreated, backing out the door. Sarah stood there, shaking. She looked at Frank. "I didn't know they would follow me here. I'm sorry.
I'll leave. " She started to untie her apron. "Stop," Frank said. Sarah froze. "You break a glass?
" Frank asked, gesturing to the shards on the floor. "Yes. " "Clean it up, then pour me a beer. You're still on the clock. " Sarah looked at him, confused.
"Why? " "Why did you do that? " Frank leaned on the bar. His eyes were hard, but there was something else there. Recognition.
"Because nobody walks into my house and threatens my people. You work here. You're my people. For tonight, don't make me regret it. Sarah swept up the glass.
As she worked, she realized something. For the first time in six months, she felt safe. It was a twisted, dangerous kind of safety, guarded by outlaws and violence, but it was safety nonetheless. She finished her shift at 4:00 a.m. Frank handed her $300 in cash. "Come back tomorrow," he said.
"I will," Sarah replied. As she walked to her car, she saw Big Mike standing by the gate, watching the road. He nodded at her. She nodded back. She had survived the lion's den.
But she had the distinct feeling that the collectors were just the beginning. The look in the lead suit's eyes hadn't been just about money. It was personal. And Frank Russo, for all his power, didn't know what kind of storm was coming. Sarah started her engine.
She had a job. She had protection, but she also had a target on her back. And she had just dragged the Hells Angels into the crosshairs. Two weeks settled into a rhythm that was as volatile as nitroglycerin. Sarah learned the intricate dance of the Iron Piston.