Hank finally spoke. His voice was low, carrying a rough, gravelly weight that didn't need volume to command absolute authority.
"I know exactly who you are, Victoria," he said calmly.
He took another step closer. The wealthy friends sitting at Victoria's table practically scrambled over each other to get away, abandoning her entirely.
"Dad, please," I pleaded, my heart hammering wildly in my throat. I grabbed Dutch's leather sleeve. I couldn't understand what was happening. Hank was fiercely protective of me, yes, but this was insane. He must have missed our weekend phone call, decided to surprise me at work, and lost his temper when he saw me get hit. But this wasn't some dive bar where a brawl could be swept under the rug. This was Oakhaven. The Sterlings destroyed people for minor inconveniences. If Hank assaulted Victoria, he would go to federal prison for the rest of his life. "Dad, stop! It's not worth it. I'm okay. Let's just leave. Please, they'll call the police!"
Hank briefly met my eyes. The cold fury in his gaze softened just a fraction, a father's deep sorrow flashing beneath the surface. "The police are already here, Claire," he said softly.
Before I could process what he meant, the heavy mahogany doors of the private dining suite in the back of the room swung open violently. Richard Sterling marched out, flanked by two private bodyguards. He was a silver-haired man who radiated absolute entitlement, wearing a custom tuxedo and a scowl that usually made the local mayor tremble.
"What in God's name is going on out here?" Richard boomed, surveying the scene. He saw the bikers. He saw me bleeding on the floor. He saw his daughter trembling by the table.
"Daddy!" Victoria sobbed, running toward him, though she refused to drop the diamond bag. "These animals are threatening me! That waitress tried to steal my bag and now they're trying to attack me!"
Richard's eyes hardened. He assessed the situation with the cold calculation of a billionaire used to buying his way out of anything. He looked at my father, taking in the worn leather vest and the Iron Hounds patch.
"I don't know how you trash got past the front door," Richard said, his voice dripping with venom, "but this ends now. I will ruin every single one of you. Marcus! Why are the police not here yet?"
"I... I called them, sir," Marcus stammered from the corner.
"I told you, Richard. The police are already outside," Hank said. He reached inside his heavy leather jacket.
Instantly, Richard's bodyguards tensed, reaching for their own weapons. The sound of twenty bikers shifting their weight in unison, arms crossing, hands casually resting near their own waists, echoed through the room. The bodyguards froze.
Hank slowly pulled his hand out of his jacket. He wasn't holding a weapon.
He was holding a clear plastic evidence bag.
Inside the bag was a large, jagged piece of custom silver metal, attached to a shattered LED headlight casing.
I stared at the object. My breath hitched. It looked exactly like the piece of metal the police had shown me in the hospital waiting room six months ago. The only piece of evidence left behind at the hit-and-run that took Mark's life.
But this wasn't a photograph. And as my eyes darted between the silver metal in Hank's hand and the terrified, hyperventilating face of Victoria Sterling, a new memory hit me like a physical blow. The custom silver Porsche in the VIP valet lot. The mismatched, hurried paint job on the front right fender.
"Listen to me very carefully, Sterling," Hank said, his voice dropping into a deadly, quiet register. "I didn't come here tonight because your spoiled brat slapped my daughter. Though heaven knows she's lucky I have self-control."
Hank tossed the evidence bag onto the white linen tablecloth of table four. It landed with a heavy, final thud next to Victoria's spilled champagne glass.