Chapter 3 - The Stand at Rosy'sEmily stared at the bands of hundred-dollar bills, then looked at my face. She didn't ask questions. She didn't scream. Something in my eyes told her everything she needed to know.
She reached down, gently scooping Luca into her arms. Luca didn't fight her; his small hands clutched the green crayon tight against his chest as Emily carried him swiftly past the counter and through the swinging stainless-steel doors of the kitchen.
The front bell chimed loudly above the entrance.
The three men from the SUV stepped into Rosy's Diner.
The lead shooter was a scarred, heavy-set enforcer named Dominick—Anthony Moretti's chief lieutenant. He swept his eyes across the booth, saw the empty seats and the abandoned pancakes, and his sneer turned ugly.
"Vincent," Dominick called out, his right hand buried beneath his leather coat. "Where's the kid? Don't make this messy in front of these nice folks."
The three construction workers near the counter went quiet, sensing the sudden, lethal drop in atmospheric pressure.
I stood up slowly from the booth.
At six-foot-three, wearing a midnight-blue tailored suit, my coat thrown back slightly to reveal the leather harness across my chest, I stepped into the central aisle between the tables.
"Dominick," I spoke, my voice calm, velvet-cold, and dripping with an absolute, terrifying sovereignty. "You brought weapons into my childhood diner. You aimed a camera lens at my son."
"Anthony wants the North Jersey docks, Romano!" Dominick spat, taking a step forward, pulling a suppressed Glock from his coat. "Sign the transfer deeds today, or the kid doesn't see seven!"
He raised the barrel.
He never got the chance to align his sight.
I moved with blinding, practiced speed. My right hand drew my SIG Sauer in a single, fluid sweep.
THWIP-THWIP!
Two suppressed rounds tore cleanly through Dominick’s kneecaps before his finger could squeeze his trigger.
"ARGH!" Dominick bellowed, collapsing flat onto the checkered linoleum floorboards, his pistol clattering across the tiles.
The secondary two shooters reached inside their coats, but before they could clear leather, the front doors of the diner were kicked open from the outside.
Six broad-shouldered men in dark tactical suits, wearing gold-crested Romano crest pins on their lapels, swept into the diner with suppressed carbines raised.
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"DROP YOUR WEAPONS!" Marco, my chief security director, roared.
The remaining two Moretti shooters dropped their guns instantly, raising their trembling hands high into the air as Marco’s team forced them flat onto their faces, locking heavy steel handcuffs around their wrists.
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