Chapter 3 - The Dining Room Ambush
Marco, a broad-shouldered man with a scar slicing across his jawline, shoved open the heavy service exit and guided me briskly through a labyrinth of concrete corridors. My feet felt leaden, my chest aching with an unbearable emptiness without Ellie in my arms. When we reached the back loading dock, I didn't step into the black SUV waiting with its engine purring. Instead, while Marco looked left toward the alley gates to clear our perimeter, I slipped around the corner of the pantry service corridor. I couldn't run away. A mother’s instinct is deaf to logic—I couldn't leave my baby in a building crawling with Sal DeLuca’s wolves.
I pressed myself against the heavy two-way swinging doors of the kitchen, peering through the small circular glass portal that looked into the main dining room. The restaurant was eerie and dim, tables dressed in white linen under crystal chandeliers that hung completely dark. In the center of the room stood two enormous men in leather jackets, their hands tucked deep into their pockets, looking around with arrogant smirks. Standing between them, pale and sweating profusely, was my manager, Richard.
"I told you, she’s downstairs with the big boss," Richard stammered, his voice carrying through the silent dining hall. "She brought her stupid kid to work again. She’s probably getting her walking papers right now. You can take her the second she steps outside. Just don't cause a scene in here, please—Mr. Moretti doesn't tolerate mess."
"Shut your mouth, little man," the taller collector, a brute with a broken nose, sneered. "We don't care about Moretti's rules. We're here to collect DeLuca's property."
"Is that right?" a smooth, deadly voice echoed from the shadows near the wine cellar.
Vincent stepped into the center aisle. But he wasn't alone, and he wasn't carrying a weapon. He was carrying Ellie, resting calmly on his broad shoulder, her little face tucked into his neck, peacefully drifting to sleep. Flanking Vincent were four towering men in immaculate dark suits, their hands folded neatly across their waists, their expressions carved from granite.
Richard gasped, stumbling backward against a service station, knocking over a tray of water glasses that shattered across the hardwood floor. "M-Mr. Moretti! I told these gentlemen that Emily was being dismissed immediately for gross misconduct—"
"Richard," Vincent interrupted softly, not even looking at him. "You're fired. Get your coat and leave through the back door before I have Marco break your legs for bringing filth into my dining room."
Richard turned white as paper, looked at the cold fury radiating from Vincent's men, and bolted toward the rear exit without uttering another syllable.
The broken-nosed goon stepped forward, attempting an intimidating grin, though his eyes twitched nervously at the sight of the suited enforcers boxing him in. "Moretti. We have business with the girl, Emily Hughes. Her late husband owed our boss a heavy debt. We take the girl, we take the kid, we settle the books. Sal said you wouldn't get in the middle of a private collection."
Vincent took a slow, deliberate step forward, gently tapping Ellie’s back with one hand while keeping his eyes locked onto the intruder. "Sal DeLuca assumes too much. Emily Hughes is no longer an employee at this restaurant. She is under my personal protection. And this child," Vincent paused, his voice dropping to a gravelly, lethal whisper, "is off-limits to everyone walking this earth."
The second collector reached beneath his leather jacket, his fingers brushing the handle of a concealed weapon. "You're starting a turf war over a dead roofer's brat, Vincent?"
Before the man's fingers could even wrap around his grip, two sharp cracks resonated through the dining room. Vincent hadn't flinched, but the two suited men behind him had already drawn suppressed firearms with terrifying speed. Two non-lethal rounds tore through the kneecaps of both collectors simultaneously. The goons collapsed onto the hardwood floor, screaming and writhing in agony, clutching their shattered legs as blood pooled onto the polished oak.
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Ellie stirred, letting out a small, startled whimper. Vincent instantly began to sway gently, humming a low, soothing Italian lullaby, patting her back rhythmically. Within seconds, her whimpers ceased, and she settled back into his chest.
Vincent looked down at the bleeding men with an expression of pure, detached disgust. "Call Sal DeLuca. Tell him that if anyone bearing his name comes within five miles of Emily Hughes or her daughter again, I won't aim for the knees. Clean this mess up," he commanded his men. Then, turning his gaze directly toward the kitchen door where I stood trembling behind the glass, he added, "Emily. Come get your daughter. We are going home."
