The restaurant hummed with the muted conversations of wealthy patrons and the clink of expensive glassware. Eliot sat in his usual corner booth, legs spread wide, one arm draped casually over the backrest as he watched the room through hooded eyes. His presence was a tangible thing, a dark cloud of authority that made even the most entitled customers speak in hushed tones.

"You see something you want, baby?" his date, a model with legs that went on forever, purred, running a manicured hand up his thigh.

Eliot didn't look at her. His gaze had locked onto something – someone – across the room. His fingers tightened around his whiskey glass until his knuckles whitened.

"Something I want?" he repeated in a low growl, never taking his eyes off the target. "No. Something that belongs to me."

She followed his gaze to where a new server was taking an order at table nine. A young woman with her hair pulled back severely, her uniform skirt riding just above the knee as she leaned forward slightly to hear the customer.

Eliot stood abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the marble floor. Conversations faltered. Heads turned.

He ignored them all, striding across the restaurant with the predatory grace of a big cat. By the time he reached her, she'd just finished writing down the order and looked up, freezing when she saw him.

"You have five seconds to drop that notepad and get into my office," he said quietly, his voice cold as steel. "Before I publicly remind you exactly who you're dealing with."

Her eyes widened with fear and something else – recognition, maybe even defiance. That spark of resistance only made his smile more dangerous.

"One," he began counting, his voice carrying clearly throughout the suddenly silent dining room.