The entire restaurant erupts in a collective scream.
“Does this mean we get to chew and screw?” Edge mumbles under his breath.
“Nobody gets up!” Sergey Senior shouts.
His normally slicked back hair is mussed, and there’s a gash on his forehead, blood dripping from it into his eyes so that he’s forced to wipe them every so often with the back of his hand.
His son hasn’t fared much better.
Even from where we’re seated at the opposite end of the restaurant, I can plainly see that his nose has gone from broken to smashed and flattened against the side of his face. His two top front teeth also seem to be missing. He’s holding the pistol in our direction, but it seems to be too heavy for him. It’s like his knees are about to buckle, and he’s going to collapse on the spot.
I take a quick lo
