Chapter 9 - The Siege of Lombardi’s Prime
Panic erupted in the dining room like a bomb going off.
Patrons at table three, unable to pay their bills because of the frozen credit systems, began murmuring anxiously, standing up to grab their coats. Other diners, sensing that something catastrophically illegal or dangerous was unfolding, headed for the front doors.
“Mr. Calabresi! What is going on here?!” a prominent real estate developer shouted from the center of the room. “Your terminal just rejected my card, and I’m hearing sirens outside!”
Sirens?
Vincent whipped his head toward the massive front windows.
Through the rain-streaked glass, a blinding wall of flashing red and blue lights illuminated the entire block. Three black SUVs bearing federal government plates screeched to a halt right outside the front entrance, their tires throwing up sheets of muddy water against the curb. Right behind them came two marked NYPD patrol cars and a large white van marked NYC DEPARTMENT OF HEALTH & MENTAL HYGIENE - EMERGENCY INSPECTION DIVISION.
Before Vincent could even draw a breath, the heavy oak front doors flew open with a tremendous crash.
Half a dozen men in dark tactical gear, accompanied by state health inspectors wearing hazmat-style white coats and clipboards, swarmed into the restaurant.
“Federal agents! Nobody move!” shouted a stern, gravel-voiced man in a tailored suit leading the tactical unit.
The dining room descended into absolute chaos. Patrons scrambled back against the walls; the waitstaff froze in sheer terror.
Vincent stumbled backward, his hands raised instinctively, his voice cracking as he babbled incoherently. “I—I’m the owner! What is the meaning of this?! You can’t just storm my establishment! I have rights! Do you know who my lawyers are?!”
The federal agent didn't even look at Vincent. He walked past him with cold, mechanical efficiency, his eyes locked firmly on the far corner of the dining room.
The agent marched straight across the polished marble floor, stopping at table twelve.
To the absolute horror of everyone in the room—especially Vincent, whose jaw dropped so low it nearly hit the floor—the heavily armed federal agent snapped to rigid attention, brought his hand up in a crisp, flawless military salute, and spoke with profound respect.
“Director Vance,” the agent said loudly and clearly. “Per your direct protocol instructions, the assets have been seized, the federal audit is underway, and the premises are secured.”
Director Vance.
The words echoed off the crystal chandeliers like thunderclaps.
Vincent felt the floor drop out from beneath his feet. His vision tunneled. Director Vance? As in... Dante Vance? Head of the Federal Financial Oversight and National Security Intelligence Directorate?! The man who answered directly to the President and wielded the power to crush multinational corporations with a single signature?!
Dante slowly set his water glass down on the table. He didn't rush. He didn't raise his voice.
He simply slid out of the booth, standing up to his full, imposing height. He smoothed down his torn canvas jacket—a jacket that, upon closer inspection, was made of custom-tailored, reinforced ballistic kevlar disguised as weather-worn work gear.
Dante stepped out from the corner table and began walking slowly toward the kitchen doors.
As he passed Vincent, who was shaking so violently he looked like he was suffering a seizure, Dante paused.
“You have excellent taste in ambiance, Mr. Calabresi,” Dante said, his voice quiet, cold, and dripping with lethal irony. “Too bad your kitchen is managed by animals, and your heart is filled with poison.”
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Vincent couldn't speak. He opened and closed his mouth, but only a dry, terrified wheeze came out.
Dante didn't wait for an answer. He walked past him into the kitchen, followed by two health inspectors and a federal investigator.
