Chapter 9 - The Last Stand at Eleven
The glass panel of the left entrance door shattered into thousands of glittering shards across the marble floor.
Marcus Vance stepped through the broken frame, his eyes completely bloodshot, his face twisted into an expression of unhinged, apocalyptic rage. He carried a heavy iron crowbar in his right hand, his leather coat soaking wet from the falling snow outside.
Behind him stood three desperate-looking men carrying heavy handguns.
The dining room erupted into instant chaos. Wealthy patrons screamed, dropping their wine glasses and scrambling beneath the white tablecloths for shelter. Servers dropped their trays, backing away toward the kitchen doors in absolute terror.
I froze behind the host stand, my breath catching in my throat as Vance’s men pointed their weapons at the room.
Moretti did not flinch.
He sat calmly at Table Eleven, setting his wine glass down on the white cloth with a quiet, deliberate click. He slid his body smoothly in front of Emily and Sophie, completely shielding them behind his broad shoulders.
“Vance,” Moretti said, his voice dropping into a low, terrifying register that somehow cut through the screams of the panic-stricken patrons. “You’re making a loud scene in a quiet restaurant.”
“You ruined me, Dominic!” Vance roared, taking three heavy steps down the carpeted aisle, his iron crowbar dripping rainwater onto the carpet. “The feds seized my warehouses! The union canceled my security contracts! My men are in handcuffs! All because of you and that damn bitch you picked up off the street!”
Vance raised the iron crowbar, his muscle-bound frame shaking with violent intent as he charged toward Table Eleven.
Before he could take another step, three loud, thunderous cracks echoed through the dining room.
Moretti’s security guards, who had been standing silently near the kitchen arches, moved with terrifying, practiced speed.
Vance froze mid-stride, his bloodshot eyes widening in shock. The iron crowbar slipped from his fingers, clattering loudly against the carpet. He dropped to his knees, clutching his shoulder, as his three armed guards were tackled to the floor and disarmed by Moretti’s men in less than ten seconds.
The entire confrontation lasted less than fifteen seconds.
The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the soft jazz music still playing from the ceiling speakers and the distant sound of approaching police sirens howling through the Chicago night.
Moretti stood up slowly from Table Eleven. He adjusted his suit jacket, stepped around the table, and walked over to where Vance was kneeling on the carpet, holding his bleeding shoulder.
Moretti looked down at him with a cold, absolute indifference that was far more terrifying than anger.
“I told you three weeks ago, Marcus,” Moretti said softly, leaning down close to Vance’s ear. “A hungry child belongs anywhere there is food. But a dog that bites the hand that feeds the neighborhood... belongs in a cage.”
Two of Moretti’s men grabbed Vance by his leather collar, dragging him out into the snow to await the arriving police officers.
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Moretti turned around, his gaze moving past the disheveled dining room, past the broken glass on the marble floor, until his dark eyes met mine standing behind the host stand.
He gave me a single, slow, quiet nod.
