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"Owen, don't worry about it. It's not important. I'm over it. You don't need to do anything. It was just an accident. It's not worth getting in a fight over."
"Worried? I'm not worried," he bites over his shoulder, his voice a gruff fireball of fury. "I'm outright pissed as fuck. Pissed that some braindead, track-suited fuckhead would be so pathetic as to insult you. And I'm just as pissed that you would think that you're not worth it. Because you are, Dani. You're worth so much more than you give yourself credit for, and I'll be damned if I just stand aside and let anyone, whether it's some fuckface Mafia asshole or even Danielle fucking Green herself, diminish who you are." He throws open the door to the villa and it crashes against the wall with a titanic slam. "This is a problem, and I intend to rectify this problem with as much deadly force as it takes."
Owen storms across the courtyard, a laser-guided missile locked on target.
People on the outskirts of the dance seem to sense him coming. As he nears, they part for him. Unwavering, he stalks to the center of the crowd and I follow in his wake, afraid.
In the center of it all, he stops, scanning the crowd.
"Which one was it? Point him out for me," he says.
There's so much command in his voice, I nearly do. Nearly raise my hand at the offending man, who stands twenty feet away, doing his best to act like he doesn't see us. The man's afraid, I can tell. Afraid, yet trying to seem confident, trying to mask the fear that has turned his countenance white from the second Owen appeared.
Owen follows my eyes with his own; target acquired.
He whirls, storms forward.
Owen doesn't say a thing.
He doesn't need to.
Everyone knows what this is about, everyone knows what's coming, and what's coming is a right hand from the ex-Marine that hits the other man right in the gut and doubles him over.
Owen follows that by grabbing him by his dark, styled hair and holding his head in place while he brings a knee crashing upward into his face. He releases him right after impact, discarding him to land on the ground like trash.
Two of the man's companions step forward and Owen shoots them an icy look that stops them in their tracks.
"You want to join him? Bring it. I’ll rip you both to pieces."
Without waiting for a response, Owen kneels and grabs the prone man by his ear, twisting, wrenching him to his knees. The man screams lowly in pain and he tries to struggle, throwing a punch that weakly hits Owen in the hip. Owen snarls in disdain, then retaliates with an elbow to the back of the man's head that makes his eyelids flutter on the verge of unconsciousness.
"Dani, come here," Owen barks with the ferocity of a drill sergeant.
I obey. Stop just a few steps away from the biker who, with only a few brutal movements, has taken command of everyone here. Onlookers and wedding guests stare in shocked amazement as Owen holds my former tormentor at his mercy.
"Apologize," he orders. A twist of the ear follows, and Owen drags the man forward to stop right at my feet, the man moaning in obvious agony.
The man mumbles something that might be an apology. Over the noise of the crowd and the thudding riot of my heartbeat in my ears, I can't hear it.
It isn't enough for Owen.
He hits the man again and twists his ear until I'm sure he's going to rip it off. The man screams for mercy.
"Just like your mother and every other woman in your fucking life has told you: not good enough, you piece of shit," Owen snarls, and then he hits him with a punch that sends blood shooting from his nose. The crunching noise that comes from the man’s face as Owen unleashes brutality is enough to make me wince and my stomach turn. In fear, I look around, shocked that no one is interfering, but then it hits me — in this community, this probably isn't the first time that two men have fought over a woman or some other matter of honor. There are rules. Even though some of the younger men seem eager to step in, just as much I can see the elders in the crowd — the grandfathers who circled around me during the bocce game — restraining them with just a look. This is between Owen, me, and the offending man who is currently kneeling in front of me, bleeding from his busted face, awaiting my forgiveness.
"Try it again," Owen snarls.
The man mumbles something once more.
Owen keeps his eyes on me, probing. Is it enough?
But I can't hear a word the man is saying, and my lack of a response is enough for Owen to act.
He twists the man’s ear so hard that all the man can do is scream. "I'm sorry. I'm fucking sorry. I shouldn't have said that to you. Please, forgive me."
Owen eases up, a look of satisfaction on his face.
"Better. Now, keep your mouth shut while the lady considers your apology and whether she feels like you should live."
