Micah knew Damon well enough by then to recognize the flat, almost soft, tone as dangerous. Paul did not. He did, however, appear taken off guard by the question. “It’s the cheeseboard you asked for, sir.” He paused. “It features aged cheddar, Swiss, and Pepper Jack, as well as a variety of cold-cut meats and-”

“And what is this?” Damon interrupted, cutting Paul off with a hiss, gesturing at the perfectly formed sushi rolls.

“It’s… sushi, sir?” It came out as more of a question, and Paul looked nervous now, like he realized he’d done something wrong, but he wasn’t sure what.

“And you dare serve us sushi when Micah’s allergic to shellfish?”

Paul paled upon realizing the severity of his mistake.

“I explicitly told Morgan that everyone on staff was to be informed of Micah’s shellfish allergy. Did she fail to tell you?”

Micah could only assume this “Morgan” person was Paul’s boss.

“No, I- I just forgot. I’m so sorry,” Paul blathered, grabbing the sushi with his bare hands in his desperation to fix his blunder. “Here, let me-”

Damon snatched Paul by the wrist, and squeezed hard enough that the man yelped and folded in on himself.

“Damon,” Micah hissed, having had about enough of Damon’s hissy fit, “stop it. It’s fine. I’m fine.”

It was like the man didn’t even hear him.

Micah had seen Damon pissed before. He’d watched him kick a man’s ribs in during their first meeting, after all. But Micah’s adrenaline had been pumping at the time, and he had never thought that Damon looked scary. But he certainly looked the part of menacing mafia don now.

“What would have happened if Micah had eaten the shellfish and suffered a reaction?” he demanded in a tone that promised violence. “All the way up here? Away from all possible medical care?”

“Actually, I have an EpiPen in my bag,” Micah appealed reasonably, glancing first at Damon and then the ghost-like Paul. “And I’m sure there’s an extra one in whatever first-aid kit the plane is equipped with.”

Neither paid him much attention.

“It will never happen again,” Paul whimpered. “I swear.”

“No, it won’t,” Damon hissed, “because by the time I’m done with you, you won’t be fit to clean toilets let alone work at another airline again. Consider yourself blacklisted.” He – finally – let go of Paul’s wrist, shoving him backward. “Take this tray away – all of it, everything’s contaminated now – and get out of my sight. I don’t want to see you for the rest of the flight.”