Chapter 8 - THE BALANCE OF DEBT
Caleb was still huddled against the leather cushions of Table Six, his hands flat against the white tablecloth, but as Sebastian’s gaze locked onto him, the man seemed to shrink by half.
"Sebastian," Caleb whimpered, his voice shaking so violently his teeth chattered against his lip. "I told you... I didn't mean anything by it. I had too much to drink. It was a joke. I’ll pay her. Whatever she wants—five hundred, a thousand dollars—I’ll write a check right now—"
"Shut your mouth," Sebastian said softly.
The words were barely louder than an exhale, but Caleb snapped his lips together instantly, a bead of cold sweat rolling down his red temple and dripping onto his silk tie.
Sebastian slowly lowered Nina’s arm, his fingers lingering for a fraction of a second against the warm pulse point beneath her palm before he let go. He did not look at her as he stepped past the dog, moving directly to the edge of Caleb’s table.
The three men sitting with Caleb scrambled sideways out of the booth, knocking over an empty water glass in their desperation to clear the blast zone. They backed against the mahogany wall, their hands raised, abandoning Caleb to the predator standing over him.
Sebastian reached out with his left hand. He picked up one of the heavy crystal tumblers of bourbon that Marcus had set down on the adjacent service stand.
He didn't drink it. He held the crystal in his large palm, turning it slowly, letting the amber liquor catch the low light of the sconce.
"Your father owns three cold-storage warehouses on the Calumet River, Caleb," Sebastian said, his tone entirely conversational, like a man discussing the weather over breakfast.
Caleb swallowed hard, nodding frantically. "Yes. Yes, sir. Whitmore Logistics. You know my father—"
"I know your father," Sebastian agreed quietly. "I know he pays my syndicate forty-two thousand dollars a month to ensure that his trucks cross the state line without being torched on the highway."
Caleb’s face drained from red to a sickly, mottled gray. "Mr. Crowe, please..."
"Your father understands value," Sebastian continued, taking one slow, deliberate step closer until the toe of his polished Oxford shoe touched the base of Caleb’s booth. "He understands that when a man enters a house that does not belong to him, he treats the furniture with respect. And he treats the people under my roof with absolute reverence."
Sebastian tilted the heavy crystal glass.
Slowly, steadily, he poured the double pour of Blanton’s out onto the pristine white tablecloth directly between Caleb’s hands.
The dark amber whiskey soaked into the linen in an expanding, fragrant stain, splashing across Caleb’s silk cuffs, soaking into the sleeves of his expensive navy suit. Caleb didn't move. He didn't dare flinch as the alcohol pooled against his stomach.
Sebastian set the empty crystal glass down with a soft, hollow clack right in the center of the wet stain.
"You broke my furniture, Caleb," Sebastian murmured, leaning down slightly, his dark wavy hair falling over his forehead, his gray eyes burning into the trembling man's soul. "And you laid hands on someone who does not belong to you."
"I’m sorry," Caleb sobbed, real tears of terror finally spilling over his lashes, his voice cracking into a high-pitched, pathetic rasp. "Tell me what to do. Please. I’ll do whatever you want."
Sebastian stood up to his full height, his broad chest expanding as he drew in a slow, clean breath of the club’s conditioned air.
"You have sixty seconds to walk out the front doors of this building," Sebastian said, his voice flat, final, and absolute. "If you are still inside my perimeter when the clock runs out, my men will take the hand you used to grab her, and they will leave it on your father's desk in the morning."
Caleb didn't ask for his coat. He didn't reach for his phone or his wallet.
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The thirty-eight-year-old heir scrambled out of the booth on his hands and knees, nearly tripping over the edge of the parquetry, his leather shoes skidding on the wax as he bolted toward the grand revolving doors of the entrance. His three associates followed him like frightened sheep, shoving past each other in their panic to clear the threshold before the seconds expired.
The heavy glass doors spun with a dull, rhythmic whoosh, and then they were gone, swallowed by the cold Chicago rain outside.
