What a way to end a night

“It’s done!” Victor shouted, waving off Liam.

The Irishman was frothing at the mouth like a rabid dog, demanding to get at Marc, but the skinny Italian was holding him back.

Marc, meanwhile, was leaning against one of the metal I-beam support pillars twenty feet away as Sinead grimaced at him with a concerned frown and ran her fingers along his jaw, testing it. “You fucking idiot,” she murmured to him.

“Now we know where the money is coming from,” Marc murmured back, catching her wrists in his hands and lowering them as he looked into her eyes.

“He could have done serious damage, Marc,” Sinead whispered. “Now he wants to kill you.”

Liam had rolled out of the way of the flying knee and the fight had become a scramble of thrown punches and elbows. The key was that it had been happening in the broken remains of the tall, slender crate that Marc’s knee had busted through.

Neither man had gotten the upper hand when they’d both been grabbed and dragged away from each other and the busted crates. Victor had tried to hide his horror at the potential damage to his goods - it looked like there were antiques of some sort, packed in straw.

“I had him,” Marc said with more confidence than he necessarily felt. Then he let go of her wrists and brushed a thumb over her cheek. “Tu vaux bien quelques bleus, ma petite rebelle.”

“Marc,” she sighed, hearing the tone in his voice without knowing what he was saying.

Victor was apparently attempting to throw the skinny Italian man out with Liam in the most polite way possible. The Irishman was still irate despite his bloody nose and chipped tooth, or maybe because of them. Marc had gotten a couple of good, clean strikes with his elbows. Not exactly Karate that his old Master would have been proud of, but it had been working.

“We should have gotten out of here before them,” Sinead murmured. “They could just wait outside for us.”

“Then we stay for drinks,” Marc said. “And enjoy the hospitality of the host. And when their boss is done with his card game, we leave with him.” He could practically feel the argument bubbling inside of her, but he pulled her hands to the buttons of his shirt. She’d put it on him but it was still undone. “Please,” he requested.

She grimaced but started doing them up while he took a breath and then lifted a foot to slide his shoes back on.

“Marc,” Victor said, finally coming over to the pair - half of the small crowd had already headed back up to the parlour room, and the other half were on their way now that the after-fight show was finished. The middleman looked frazzled, and his eyes were drifting over to the broken crates in concern before he brought his attention back forward. “Look, man, that was… Fuck.”

“Please, Victor,” Marc said, holding up a hand. “I do not blame you for that at all. I’m just sorry it disturbed your event, and I hope your merchandise over there isn’t too badly roughed up.”

“I… well, let’s hope,” Victor sighed. “It might not be a good idea for you two to leave for a while.”

“Sinead was just thinking the same thing,” Marc said, sliding a hand onto the small of her back. “We will rejoin the party upstairs for a drink or two, if that is alright with you?”

“Right, right,” Victor said, then blew out a breath and looked over at the antiques again. “Right.”

<U>Translations</U>

• Tu vaux bien quelques bleus, ma petite rebelle. = You're worth a few bruises, my little rebel.

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