Chapter 9 - The Final Gambit"A rat is always a rat, no matter how expensive the coat," I said in crisp, flawless Italian.
Marco flinched. For a fraction of a second, his composure cracked, and he looked at me with genuine shock.
Salvatore frowned, lowering his gun slightly. "What did she say?"
"She said you're standing on borrowed time," a new voice echoed from the shadows of the back hallway.
Everyone froze.
Slowly, stepping out from the shadows where the storage room door hung off its hinges, came a figure nobody expected to see. It was old Joe, the dishwasher who had supposedly gone home sick an hour before the ambush even started. Only Joe wasn't wearing his stained apron anymore. He was wearing a crisp black suit, and in his right hand, he held a silenced pistol aimed directly at the back of Salvatore’s head.
Salvatore’s face drained of all color. "Joe? You're supposed to be in Florida!"
"And you were supposed to stay out of my territory, Salvatore," Joe said, his voice smooth, steady, and carrying the unmistakable weight of a founding Don who had faked his own death a decade ago to watch his captains tear each other apart.
Marco’s face turned white as paper. "Boss... I thought..."
"You thought I was dead, just like everyone else," Joe walked forward into the light, his eyes cold as winter ice. "And you thought you could carve up my empire while I watched from the beach. Dante may have gotten sloppy, but you, Marco, are a plague."
Moretti, still pinned to the floor by the guards, let out a rough laugh. "I told you, Salvatore. You can't outsmart the house."
Panic erupted among Salvatore's men. One of the guards raised his rifle to shoot Joe, but Joe was faster.
Puff. Puff.
Two silent shots rang out, and Salvatore’s guards dropped instantly to the floor. Salvatore spun around, raising his pistol toward Joe, but before he could pull the trigger, I reached across the counter, grabbed the heavy iron skillet I had used earlier, and hurled it with every ounce of fury in my soul.
The skillet smashed square into Salvatore’s wrist. His pistol clattered harmlessly across the shattered linoleum.
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Moretti broke free from the stunned guards, lunged forward, and slammed Salvatore face-first into the laminated counter, knocking him out cold in a single, brutal motion.
Silence fell over the ruined diner once more, broken only by the steady dripping of the rain outside and the hum of the neon sign.
