The leader's smile widened.
He stepped in and patted Don's shoulder with the easy condescension of a man who believed the matter settled.
"Good kid. We want the money in cash, clean—"
The sentence never finished.
Don's hand closed around the man's forearm and twisted. Bone gave with a wet, brittle sound.
The scream that tore out of the leader was high and raw; he dropped to his knees, the broken arm cradled against his chest, face already white with shock.
The others froze for a single stunned moment. Then one rushed forward, fist driving toward Don's jaw.
Don caught the punch cleanly. A visible shockwave rippled outward from the point of contact, overturning a nearby table and sending bottles tumbling from the shelves in a cascade of glass and liquor.
The attacker was superhuman—strength enough to force the issue—but the power behind the blow was still limited, still mortal.
