Chapter 5 - The Midnight VisitorAt 4:05 a.m., I was sitting behind the front counter, nursing a cup of black coffee and staring at the platinum signet ring resting beside the cash register. The diner was dead silent except for the hum of the old refrigerator in the corner.
Then, the front bell didn't jingle.
The glass of the front door shattered.
Before I could even stand up, a heavy combat boot kicked the wooden frame inward, sending splinters flying across the floor. Three men in tactical black gear poured into the diner, their faces hidden behind dark balaclavas, automatic rifles raised and pointed straight at my chest.
"Down on the floor! Hands behind your head!" a harsh voice barked.
I froze, my coffee mug slipping from my fingers and shattering on the linoleum, dark liquid pooling around my sneakers.
"Where is he?" the lead gunman demanded, stepping over the broken glass. His eyes were cold, dead pools behind his tactical goggles. "Where is Moretti?"
"I don't know what you're talking about!" I screamed, dropping to my knees as trained, though my mind was racing at a million miles an hour. These weren't Marco’s men. Marco’s men wore tailored suits and expensive overcoats. These men looked like professional assassins—mercenaries hired to finish the job that the ambush had started.
"Don't play games with us, girl," the leader snarled, stepping right up to me and pressing the barrel of his rifle against my forehead. "We tracked his blood straight to your back door. You have ten seconds to tell us which room he's in, or I'll put a bullet through your skull right now."
My breath caught in my throat. The cold steel of the rifle barrel pressed hard against my skin, and for a split second, I thought about my mother, about the medical bills, about the three years of wasted overnight shifts.
No, I thought. I am not dying in a grease trap in Queens.
As the gunman cocked the rifle hammer, I reached out with my left hand—the hand wearing Dante Moretti's platinum signet ring—and slammed it down hard against the metal counter.
"Look at this," I snarled, staring up into his tactical goggles with absolute fury. "Look at the ring, you idiot. If you kill me right now, Moretti’s entire army will hunt your family down to the third generation before breakfast."
The gunman froze. His eyes dropped to the platinum ring glinting under the emergency exit light.
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For a terrifying heartbeat, silence hung in the diner. Then, a slow, cruel laugh echoed from behind the gunman's balaclava.
"That's funny," the leader whispered, tightening his grip on the trigger. "Because Moretti’s death is the exact reason we're here. And you're just collateral damage."
