“Please, Just One Bowl…” She Begged—The Waitress Ignored Her, Until The Mafia Boss Heard Her

Lorenzo laughed, a sharp, barking sound, but his eyes darted nervously toward the dark corners of the room. "You're alone, Vito. No bodyguards. No drivers. Just you and a couple of poor vagrants."

"I am never alone," Moretti replied.

He lifted his right hand and snapped his fingers once.

From the shadows near the coat rack, two tall men in dark charcoal suits materialized as if stepping out of the air itself. Simultaneously, the side door leading to the wine cellar swung open, and three more men stepped into the dining room. Every single one of them had a hand tucked inside a tailored jacket.

Lorenzo’s smile evaporated instantly. His two henchmen froze, their eyes darting wildly between the five armed men who had suddenly surrounded them.

"You think I sit in a public restaurant without my house being swept?" Moretti asked, rising slowly from his chair. He towered over the room, his presence completely filling the space. "You are foolish, Lorenzo. But worse than that, you are uncivilized."

Moretti stepped around the table, walking slowly toward the scarred man. Lorenzo backed up a step, his bravado crumbling into panic.

"Vito, wait... we were just delivering a message—"

"I have received it," Moretti interrupted. He reached out and gently laid a hand on Lorenzo’s shoulder. The grip was so firm that Lorenzo groaned, his knees buckling slightly under the pressure. "Now hear mine. The docks remain under my protection. The workers' families remain under my protection. And if I ever see your face in a place where people are trying to enjoy a quiet meal again, I will have you fed to the crabs in the harbor."

Moretti let go of his shoulder and patted Lorenzo’s cheek twice, a terrifying, condescending gesture. "Get out."

Lorenzo didn't wait for a second invitation. He turned and stumbled out into the rain, his two men scrambling after him like beaten dogs. The heavy oak door slammed shut behind them, the brass bell ringing one final, sharp note.

The dining room remained frozen. Nobody dared to breathe.

Moretti turned back toward Table Eleven, adjusting his cuffs with practiced elegance. His face immediately softened as his eyes landed on Mia, who was peeking out from behind her mother’s coat.

"I apologize for the disturbance, little one," Moretti said softly, sliding back into his seat. "Some men were never taught proper manners by their mothers."