Part 4: The Seafood Tray
That was when the tray came.
A server passed with seafood paella meant for the center table.
Brett took it.
The server froze.
“Mr. Barrett, please—”
Brett shoved him backward with his shoulder.
Then he turned to the crowd with that rich-boy grin.
“Since our guest smells like low tide already…”
And he slammed the whole tray into Matthew’s face.
The impact knocked Matthew half a step back.
Rice burst across his jacket.
Saffron sauce ran down his cheek.
A mussel shell hit the floor and spun.
Someone gasped.
Someone laughed.
Someone whispered, “Oh my God.”
Phones rose like a field of black mirrors.
Brett bowed.
“This is what happens when barnacles crawl onto a billionaire’s deck.”
Matthew stood still.
The sauce burned one eye.
His jacket was ruined.
His watch was broken.
Every camera was on him.
But he did not give Brett the fight Brett wanted.
He only wiped his face with a napkin.
Then reached inside his jacket.
He touched three things.
A folded Coast Guard ribbon.
A sealed maritime compliance packet.
And a black card with no logo.
Then he said,
“Brett, do you know what a restricted federal docking corridor is?”
Brett smirked.
“Oh, here we go. The old man read a brochure.”
Matthew nodded once.
“Do you know what happens when a private manufacturer uses one without valid Coast Guard and city authorization?”
Brett leaned close.
“You mean the corridor my family owns?”
Matthew looked at him.
“No private family owns federal water.”
The words were calm.
That made them worse.
Brett’s smile faded for half a second.
Then he forced it back.
“You have no idea who you’re talking to.”
May you like
Matthew’s mouth almost curved.
“Funny.”
