Page 46 of Violent Possession

Griffin looks from the floor to the chandeliers, to the wood-paneled walls, to the rich, complacent customers. Pushed into a reproduction of civilization. He assesses the exits, the suited guards, the possible blind spots, even the path between our table and the kitchen, he looks with that expression that is half laugh, half threat at anyone who dares to stare for more than two seconds.

Most customers at restaurants like this go for business lunch, order rare steak, discuss hedge funds and market volatility. They pretend not to look, but they look. Women with bare shoulders and men with golden cuffs trying to figure out if he’s a billionaire’s bodyguard or some kind of performance art.

He notices, of course. Griffin registers everyone: the old man stealthily taking photos, the brunette biting her lip, the couple rearranging cutlery to avoid eye contact.

The maître d’ becomes just a human shield between them. And even so, Griffin also observes him up and down, glaresat him. He just doesn’t make a joke because he already understands that the joke is his very presence here.

Nothing, not the excellent service, not the Baccarat chandeliers, can soften Griffin.

Out of etiquette, I stand as he approaches the table. I extend my hand.

He stops. He doesn’t shake it. His confusion grows. He expected a confrontation, I’m sure.

“You don’t look pissed,” he says, low.

“No,” I reply. I withdraw my hand. “Please sit down.”

Griffin owes nothing to etiquette: he sits, leans forward, and spreads his elbows on the table.

The waiter approaches, trembling less than the maître d’, but still visibly intimidated. He pours water into the glasses. Griffin only relaxes when the waiter moves away, giving our table privacy.

“That was an interesting spectacle last night,” I say. The effect is immediate: anger gleams in his eyes, but it’s controlled. He already expected provocation. “The camera certainly loves you. But you need to work on your angles. At times, the lighting didn’t favor you.”

Griffin just laughs. A harsh, short sound that suppresses half of what he feels.

“You really watched, huh, boss?” He speaks slowly, mocking the situation, but there’s something else underneath: authentic curiosity. “Tell me, did the lighting mess up your wank much?”

The cynicism is comforting.

The table wobbles slightly when he rests his forearm, the titanium prosthesis hitting the wooden surface. I don’t take my eyes off him.

I decide that if I’m going to play the game, I’ll play with open cards.

“Not at all,” I say. “You’re surprisingly photogenic, Griffin. Most men in your line of work don’t have that talent.”

He stares at me, trying to find the trap. “And what do you mean by that?”

“What I mean is that people can’t take their eyes off you. In the ring, here in this restaurant. No matter the setting. And the most important thing is what they see.”

“And what do they see, boss?” he asks.

“They see a sad story to pity.”

He recoils. Griffin hates the possibility of being seen as a victim. His biological hand clenches into a fist, his forearm muscles bulge, but I realize he won’t start a fight—not yet. His violence is always conditional, not gratuitous. He wants to understand where I’m going with this.

“Brute force,” I continue. “It’s a product that sells. It attracts gamblers, spectators, and...serioussponsors. It’s beneficial for them to see you accompanied by serious management. Forourprofit.”

Griffin lets out a dry laugh, completely devoid of humor. “It’s always about the money, isn’t it?” he says, bitterly.

He picks up the heavy leather menu from the table, deciding that serious management isn’t worth his interest. Good. I just need him to be seen today, not to ask questions.

He opens the menu and stares.

“What the hell is ‘terrine’?” he mutters, more to himself than to me. It’s the most honest thing he’s said all night.

“It’s a French appetizer,” I explain. “Pressed meat or vegetables, cooked in a mold.”

Griffin watches me with narrowed eyes, no longer disguising the involuntary twitch of someone considering flipping the table. He obviously hates everything: his own ignorance before the menu, the way the waiter returns to our side hoping one of us will untie this social knot.