The entourage chuckled. Chloe rested her hand on Braden’s shoulder, smiling at his supposed wit.
“Three bottles of Crystal, three Tomahawks, rare.” Mack repeated, his tone completely neutral. He wrote nothing down. “Any appetizers while you wait?”
Braden finally looked up, his dark eyes locking onto Mack. The champion was used to deference. He was used to awe. He expected waiters to stutter, to ask for autographs, to tremble slightly in his presence. But looking into Mack’s pale blue eyes, Braden found absolutely nothing. No fear. No respect. Just a profound, impenetrable emptiness, like looking into a deep, freezing ocean. It irritated Braden immediately.
“Did I ask for appetizers, Mack?” Braden said, leaning back in his chair, intentionally mispronouncing the server’s name. “No, sir.”
“Then just bring what I ordered and move fast. I hate waiting.”
Mack gave a slight, courteous nod and turned away. As he walked toward the kitchen, he mentally cataloged Braden’s physiology. The fighter favored his right side, likely a dominant right-hand striker. His neck was thick, muscled to resist chokes, but his posture at the table was sloppy, his weight shifted entirely to his back leg.
*He’s an athlete,* Mack thought, pushing through the swinging kitchen doors. *Not a warrior.*
An hour later, the tension in the dining room had thickened from a slight annoyance to a suffocating blanket of dread. Braden’s table had become the black hole of the restaurant, sucking all the energy and joy out of the room. They had grown louder, more obnoxious, and heavily intoxicated. Braden had already sent back two side dishes, claiming the truffle mash was garbage, and had loudly insulted a busboy who had accidentally brushed against his chair.
Sylvia was pacing near the hostess stand, visibly sweating. Several tables had requested their checks early, unable to endure the crude language and boisterous shouting radiating from the champion’s table.
Through it all, Mack remained the eye of the hurricane. He delivered the food with the same mechanical precision, ignoring the insults, the dismissive waves, and the deliberate provocations.
The boiling point arrived with the presentation of the check. The bill was astronomical, totaling over $4,000. Mack placed the leather binder on the table, setting it down gently near Braden’s right hand.
“Whenever you are ready, sir,” Mack said softly.
Braden, his face flushed from the champagne and his ego pumped full by hours of sycophantic praise from Eric and his sparring partners, snatched the leather binder. He opened it, scanned the total, and scoffed.
“Four grand?” Braden said loudly, ensuring the tables around them could hear. “For this absolute trash? The steaks were chewy, the champagne wasn’t chilled right, and the service…” He looked Mack up and down with utter contempt. “…was pathetic.”
