The bar's air thickened with a suffocating tension, the earlier crash of splintering tables still reverberating as the fat man, his face swollen and bruised from Marcus's punch, staggered back with a venomous sneer.
Blood oozed from his split lip, the gaping hole where his gold tooth once gleamed a grim trophy of the earlier blow. Behind him, shadows shifted, coalescing into three thugs—leather jackets creaking, knuckles cracking with menace, their eyes glinting with retribution.
The gamblers scattered like startled pigeons, chairs toppling, glasses shattering into glittering shards, transforming the room into a chaotic arena under the bar's dim, flickering lights.
Vincent's heart thundered in his chest, the $6,000 pot forgotten as the thugs closed in, their gazes locked on him like predators scenting prey.
