Chapter 3 - The Alley Reckoning
Before Marcus could respond, the heavy wooden back door of the restaurant rattled. The kitchen loading dock door creaked open, and the heavy, deliberate footsteps of three large men echoed through the back hallway.
Luca, Vincent’s trusted underboss and personal driver for over two decades, stepped into the dining area. He was a mountain of a man, dressed in a dark overcoat, his face permanently scarred from a shotgun blast he had taken for Vincent in the nineties. Behind him stood two younger soldiers, their expressions blank, their hands resting comfortably beneath their open jackets.
Leo, panicked by the sudden appearance of the muscle, drew his weapon—a sleek 9mm Glock—and pointed it directly at Vincent’s head.
“Don't move!” Leo screamed, his voice cracking with the desperate bravado of a boy who knew he was outnumbered. “Marcus, get the girl! We’re leaving right now, or I swear to God I’ll put a hole through this old man!”
The room went dead silent. Marco the owner dove behind the cash register. The bartender froze with a bottle of vermouth in his hand.
Vincent didn't move an inch. He didn't even look at the barrel of the gun pointed at his face. Instead, he looked at Marcus, who was staring at his younger brother with absolute horror.
“Leo, you idiot, put it down!” Marcus yelled, his voice shaking. “Put it down right now!”
“No way, Marcus! They’ve got us cornered! We take him as a hostage, we get the ledger, and we get out of this garbage city!”
Vincent sighed softly, taking another casual sip of his bourbon. “Marcus, your brother lacks the education required for our line of work. A gun is only useful if you are prepared to accept the consequences of pulling the trigger. If he shoots me, he dies before my body hits the floor. And then, every man associated with Donald Vance in the state of Michigan will be hunted down and slaughtered like cattle. Is that what you want for a Tuesday night?”
Marcus lunged across the empty bar stool, grabbing Leo’s wrist and violently forcing the gun down toward the floor. “I said put it down!” Marcus roared, ripping the weapon out of his brother’s trembling hand and throwing it onto the bar counter.
Vincent stood up, smooth and unhurried. He straightened his tie and buttoned his jacket.
“Luca,” Vincent said, not looking back. “Take them to the warehouse on 24th Street. I want to have a proper conversation with them about boundaries. And call Donald Vance. Tell him his package was intercepted, and the delivery fee just went up.”
“Right away, Boss,” Luca grunted, stepping forward and grabbing Leo by the back of his leather jacket, lifting him off his feet with effortless strength. The two soldiers grabbed Marcus, who didn't even bother to fight back. He knew the rules. He knew that fighting Vincent Moretti in the heart of Chicago was an exercise in suicide.
As they dragged the two brothers out through the back door into the rainy, neon-lit alley, Vincent walked toward the back office. He knocked three times—a specific, rhythmic cadence.
The lock clicked, and the door swung open. Clara stood there, holding a heavy metal paperweight like a weapon, her eyes wide as she looked past Vincent into the empty restaurant.
“They’re gone,” Vincent said quietly.
Clara let out a breath she seemed to have been holding for years, her legs buckling slightly. Vincent reached out, his large, calloused hand gripping her elbow firmly to keep her upright.
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“They’re gone for now,” Vincent corrected himself, looking down into her pale face. “But your husband isn't going to let this go. He’s going to send more men. If you want to survive this, Clara, you’re going to have to trust me completely. Can you do that?”
Clara looked into the deep, dark eyes of the man who had just dismantled her worst nightmare with a few quiet words. She nodded. “I don't have anyone else.”
