Before he could blink, I lunged forward with the speed of a man who had spent a decade in the field. I twisted his arm behind his back, the familiar weight of a body under control ending his arrogance in an instant.
The metal click of the handcuffs echoed through the silent restaurant as I secured them around his wrists. Miller’s face was pressed into the very bill he had just shredded, his mouth hanging open in a silent, terrified gasp.
“You just insulted the wrong person,” I whispered into his ear as the crowd began to cheer and film the collapse of the bully. I wasn’t just a husband out for dinner; I was from the Internal Affairs Bureau, and I had his badge number.
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