Chapter 2 - The Rules of the House
Vincent Moretti pushed through the kitchen doors and stepped back into the dining room of Lucia’s Bistro. The atmosphere had shifted; the elderly couple had left, leaving their cash on the table, and the old Italian owner, Marco, was behind the cash register, counting the nightly earnings with a tired sigh.
Marcus remained at the bar, his hand resting casually inside his gray suit jacket. Leo, the younger brother, had moved away from the door and was now standing by the wait station, his eyes scanning the empty tables for Clara.
Vincent didn't return to his booth. Instead, he walked directly to the bar, his leather-soled shoes clicking softly against the old linoleum floor. He sat down on the stool right next to Marcus, leaving exactly one empty seat between them.
“Marco,” Vincent called out, his voice cutting through the soft Sinatra track playing overhead. “Another bourbon for my friend here. And a clean glass for me.”
The bartender, a young guy named Leo who knew exactly who Vincent was, grew instantly pale. He nodded quickly, pouring a generous double of the premium reserve and sliding it across the polished mahogany counter.
Marcus turned his head slowly, his eyes narrowing as he evaluated Vincent. To Marcus, Vincent looked like a wealthy, older gentleman enjoying an expensive suit—perhaps a lawyer or a corrupt politician. He didn't see the scars beneath the silk shirt, or the absolute authority carried in the set of Vincent’s shoulders.
“I didn't ask for another drink,” Marcus said, his voice clipped, carrying a distinct Detroit accent.
“You didn't have to,” Vincent replied smoothly, taking a slow sip of his own glass. “In Chicago, we believe in hospitality. Especially to travelers who look like they’ve had a long drive.”
Marcus stiffened, his hand shifting slightly beneath his jacket. “We’re just passing through, pal. Not looking for any conversation.”
Across the room, Leo noticed the interaction and began walking toward the bar, his hand resting aggressively in his leather jacket pocket where the outline of a compact semi-automatic was clearly visible.
“Leo,” Marcus warned quietly, keeping his eyes on Vincent. “Stay back.”
Vincent chuckled, a dry, humorless sound that sent a chill through the young bartender behind the counter. “Your brother is impatient, Marcus. Impatience gets men killed in this neighborhood. You see, this restaurant belongs to an old friend of mine. And the staff… well, I consider the staff part of the scenery. I don't like it when people tamper with the scenery.”
Marcus’s demeanor shifted from casual arrogance to cold calculation. He realized, with a sudden jolt of adrenaline, that this wasn't a random encounter. The waitress had talked.
“Look, mister,” Marcus hissed, leaning in closer, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “I don't know who you think you are, but you’re sticking your nose into family business. The girl belongs to Donald Vance. She stole something that doesn't belong to her. We’re taking her back to Detroit tonight, and if you get in the way, you’re just statistics.”
Vincent set his glass down with a soft clink. He didn't look angry; he looked amused, the way an apex predator might look at a stray dog barking at its shadow.
“Donald Vance is a cockroach who forgot his place,” Vincent said, his voice dropping to a whisper that somehow filled the entire room with a suffocating weight. “He operates in Michigan because I allow him to breathe. But this is Cook County. This is my city. And you are currently sitting in my house, threatening a woman under my protection.”
Marcus’s eyes widened as the realization hit him like a physical blow. The expensive suit. The absolute deference of the staff. The quiet, terrifying certainty.
May you like
“Moretti,” Marcus whispered, the color draining from his face.
“Very good,” Vincent smiled, though his eyes remained as cold as a frozen lake. “Now, tell your brother to take his hand off his weapon before my driver takes his arm off his torso.”
