Send the broke waitress into the private room with the deaf syndicate boss. No interpreter, no warning, no way out. Watch her scramble. Watch him erupt. Take bets on which limb he breaks first.What nobody bet on was what actually happened behind that door."Ladies and gentlemen, I want to settle something. Driver, get over here.""I'm on duty."[laughter]"60 seconds on the mat. On the mat. That's all I'm asking.""Tyler, the man drives my car.""Exactly my point. $5,000, Dad. One round. Call it entertainment.""5,000. Consider it done.""Breathe easy, old man. I won't break anything important."Tyler Cole had spent months convincing himself the black belt made him dangerous. So, when he spotted Jack Hayes standing near the service entrance, quiet and still while the party moved around him, Tyler did what came naturally: he made it public. He announced the challenge loud enough for every investor on that terrace to hear, offered the money, and left Jack no exit.What Tyler failed to notice was the way Jack's eyes moved when the crowd closed in: not startled, not searching, just calm in a way that had nothing to do with fear. Tyler had just handed an open challenge to a man he assumed was harmless. How badly he had miscalculated was still ahead of him.The fluorescent tube above the service station at Del Vecchio's had been flickering for three weeks. Nobody fixed it. The maintenance budget, like most things at the restaurant, was swallowed by the owner's gambling problem, and the staff had simply learned to work beneath the sickly, stuttering light.Tatum pressed her thumbs against her eye sockets and breathed through her nose. 11:47. Her shift had ended at 9:00. Three tables had stiffed her tonight. A bachelor party in the west wing had left a crumpled $5 bill on a $400 tab, and the busboy had already pocketed it before she made it back to clear the plates. Her feet were burning inside shoes she'd bought two winters ago when they still had actual arch support. The eviction notice was folded into a tight square in the front pocket of her apron. She hadn't thrown it away; she kept it close like a blister you couldn't stop pressing."Tatum."Yusuf, the floor manager, came through the swinging doors with sweat already on his collar, even though the kitchen was running cold tonight. He was holding a small rectangle of cardstock between two fingers like it was contaminated."Private room. Someone's asking for you specifically."She didn't move. "Who?"Yusuf set the cardstock on the steel counter. She read it without picking it up: Table nine. Mr. Callum Briggs and associates. A bottle of Glenfarclas. Two glasses."Briggs has been at table seven all night," she said.