Chapter 5 - The Bullet and the LedgerBefore David could squeeze the trigger a second time, a heavy cast-iron skillet came flying through the air with terrifying speed and precision, catching him squarely on the wrist.
The revolver slipped from his numbed fingers, clattering loudly against the tiled floor.
Before David could even yell in pain, Marcus and three other bodyguards materialized out of nowhere. They didn't punch him—they dismantled him with cold, terrifying efficiency. One guard swept his legs out from under him while Marcus slammed him face-first onto the stainless-steel prep table, pinning his arms behind his back with a bone-crunching twist.
The kitchen door swung open wider, and Vincent Kane walked in.
He didn't run. He walked with the slow, measured pace of an executioner. His suit jacket was unbuttoned, revealing the gold chain of a pocket watch across his vest.
Vincent stopped inches from where David was pinned to the table, sobbing hysterically as Marcus pressed a heavy knee into his spine.
"David," Vincent said softly, leaning down so his mouth was right next to David’s ear. "I gave you a choice. I gave you a way out. And you chose the hard path."
"Please, Mr. Kane—Vincent—don't kill me, please!" David whimpered, tears streaming down his bruised face. "I was just angry! I lost my mind!"
"You didn't lose your mind. You lost your leverage," Vincent said coldly. He straightened up and signaled to Marcus. "Take him to the basement meat locker. Call Detective Miller from the Chicago PD. Tell him a deranged intruder broke into private property with a deadly weapon and resisted arrest violently."
"Understood, Boss," Marcus grunted, hauling David up by his collar as the disgraced former owner screamed and thrashed like a fish out of water.
Within thirty seconds, the kitchen was quiet again, save for the hum of the industrial refrigerators and the heavy breathing of the terrified line cooks.
Vincent turned around, running a hand through his dark hair, and let out a long, slow breath. His eyes immediately locked onto Mom, who was still standing frozen by the prep station.
He crossed the room in three long strides, stopping right in front of her. His hands came up, gripping her shoulders firmly.
"Are you hurt?" he asked, his voice uncharacteristically urgent, the cold mask completely slipping away to reveal raw, burning concern beneath.
Mom shook her head slowly, her chest heaving as the adrenaline finally hit her system. "No... no, I'm fine. Vincent, you... you saved my life."
"We're even now," Vincent murmured, his thumb instinctively brushing a stray lock of hair away from her forehead.
From the doorway of the office, I peeked out, wrapped in my red hoodie. "Did the bad man go away?"
Vincent looked over at me, a soft, warm smile finally touching his lips. He let go of Mom's shoulders and walked over, dropping down to one knee so we were at eye level.
"He went away for a very, very long time, Rory," Vincent said gently, tapping the tip of my nose with his finger. "No more bad men. I promise you that."
"Good," I said seriously, folding my arms across my chest. "Because you still owe me a favor."
Vincent raised an eyebrow, genuinely amused. "Oh? And what do I owe you, little boss?"
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"Ice cream," I said. "Three scoops. With purple stars on top."
Vincent threw his head back and laughed—a rich, booming sound that echoed through the newly saved kitchen, completely shattering the myth of the untouchable Chicago mob boss.
