His thick glasses were askew and he was clutching a heavy wrench to his chest as if it could somehow protect him. Look at him, David commanded. He pushed Vitale's head down slightly, forcing the boy to bow his neck. Vitale was gasping desperately for air, tears of sheer panic streaming down his cheeks, ruining his carefully curated image. He stared down at Toby.
Apologize to the man, David said. Vitale swallowed hard, gagging slightly on the influx of oxygen. I I'm sorry. He rasped, his voice high and broken. It didn't sound like the golden boy of the Apex Martial Arts Dojo.
It sounded like a frightened child. I'm sorry, Toby. Now, pick up his tools. Vitale didn't hesitate. His hands were shaking so badly he could barely pinch the loose screws, but he dropped to his knees on the polished wood.
He scrambled across the approach in his expensive street shoes, frantically sweeping bolts, washers, and wrenches back into the metal toolbox. He didn't look at Tyler. He didn't look at the crowd. He was operating entirely on a desperate burning need to survive the man standing behind him. When the last tool was in the box, David grabbed Vitale by the collar of his championship jacket and hauled him roughly to his feet.
He spun him around to face Chloe. Chloe was still cradling her left wrist. She stood perfectly still, watching her father. The mechanical, detached efficiency with which he had dismantled the situation terrified her as much as it awed her. She saw the man who sat in the armchair every night in a completely different light.
He wasn't absent. He was vigilant. "Apologize to my daughter. " David said. Vitale couldn't even meet Chloe's eyes. He stared at her scuffed sneakers.
I'm sorry. He whispered, a tear dropping onto his collar. I shouldn't have touched you. David let go of the jacket. He smoothed the lapels down with a slow, deliberate motion that somehow felt more threatening than a punch.
"Take your friends. " David said, stepping back and gesturing casually toward the front doors. "Go home. If I ever see you in this building again, if I ever hear that you even looked in her direction, we won't have a conversation. Do you understand? Vitale nodded frantically, a sharp jerky motion.
He didn't say a word. He just turned and bolted. He didn't wait for Tyler, who was scrambling to his feet, slipping in his own mess. He didn't help Craig out of the chairs. Vitale shoved past the double doors, stumbling out into the cold night air, leaving his pride and his reputation dead on the scuffed linoleum.
The heavy glass doors hissed shut, and the silence rushed back into the room, thick and suffocating. David stood completely still for three seconds, his eyes tracking the dark windows to ensure Vitale wasn't coming back with a weapon. Once he was satisfied the perimeter was clear, the terrifying coiled energy evaporated from his shoulders. He didn't deflate, exactly, but the lethal edge softened. He rubbed his grease-stained hands on his jeans and let out a long, slow exhale.
He walked over to Toby. The older man flinched slightly as David approached, his hands tightening around his knees. David stopped a few feet away, dropping down to a deep crouch so he wouldn't be looming over the man. You okay, Toby? David asked.
His voice was entirely different now. The flat glacial tone was gone, replaced by the low, gravelly warmth he used when coaxing an engine to turn over. Toby nodded slowly, his pale eyes searching David's face. He kicked my box, Toby muttered, adjusting his crooked glasses with a trembling finger. He shouldn't be on the wood with those shoes.
No, he shouldn't, David agreed softly. He reached out and righted the metal toolbox, securing the latch. He pushed it gently toward Toby. Lane 8 is a tough fix. Take your time with it.
Toby swallowed, looking down at the box, then back up. You're Chloe's dad. I am. You shouldn't have to fight. Toby said, a deep childish sadness in his voice.
People should just be nice. I agree with you, Toby. David said, standing up. Unfortunately, some people need a little help remembering their manners. David turned toward the shoe rental counter.
Gary, the manager, had finally managed to pry himself out of his office chair. He was walking tentatively across the concourse, his face pale, his hands raised in a supplicating gesture. David, look, I I was just about to call the police, Gary stammered, sweating through his cheap polyester tie. I didn't know it was going to escalate like that. You know how Vitale's dad is.
David stopped and looked at Gary. He didn't yell. He didn't threaten. He just looked at the man with absolute withering disgust. You let an old man and a 16-year-old girl face down three grown boys because you were afraid of losing a car dealership account.
David said, his voice flat. Send her final paycheck to the house. She doesn't work for cowards. Gary opened his mouth to protest, but the look in David's eyes shut his jaw with an audible click. He took a hasty step backward, retreating toward the safety of his office.
David finally turned his attention to Chloe. She was still standing near the approach, her left arm held tightly against her stomach. Her face was pale, but her jaw was set. She had refused to cry in front of Vitale, and she was fiercely fighting the tears now that the adrenaline was crashing. David closed the distance between them.
He didn't hug her. That wasn't their dynamic. Instead, he reached out his large, rough hands. Let me see it. He said quietly.