Chapter 8 - Shadows at the Door
The storm outside chose that exact moment to make its final, furious return. A violent gust of wind slammed against the plate-glass windows, and the neon sign above the entrance flickered once, twice, and then went completely dark, plunging the front of the diner into a deep, amber-tinted shadow.
The brass bell didn't chime this time. The front door simply creaked open.
Vincent’s hand slipped away from Alina’s with fluid speed. In the fraction of a second it took for the door to clear the rubber stop, the relaxed, almost conversational posture vanished. He didn't flinch, but his shoulders squared, and his dark eyes hardened into chips of obsidian glass.
Three figures stepped out of the sheeting rain and into the darkened diner.
They weren't sloppy, drunken brawlers like Carl. They wore heavy dark trench coats, their faces obscured by the brims of fedoras, and as they moved into the dim light of the overhead fluorescents, Alina caught the dull, metallic glint of heavy steel tucked neatly beneath their wool coats.
Jimmy Sacco’s men.
The lead man—tall, gaunt, with a deep scar slicing across his pale cheek—stopped just inside the threshold. He let the door swing shut behind him, cutting off the roar of the storm. His cold, dead eyes swept past Alina and locked directly onto Vincent.
"Well, well, well," the gaunt man rasped, his voice sounding like dry leaves scraping across concrete. "Word on the street is that someone's been doing a little unauthorized remodeling in Jimmy's neighborhood. Throwing out his boys. Buying up his blocks."
Vincent didn't turn around immediately. He picked up his coffee cup, took a slow, deliberate sip of the bitter black liquid, and then set it back down on the saucer with a soft, perfect clink.
Only then did he turn his head to look at the intruders.
"Jimmy sends his regards through errand boys now?" Vincent asked, his voice dripping with cool, aristocratic disdain. "Standards truly have plummeted in the lower wards."
The gaunt man’s face twisted into an ugly snarl. He reached inside his trench coat, his hand wrapping firmly around the grip of a snub-nosed revolver. "Jimmy says you've been overstepping your bounds, Vincent. This district belongs to the Sacco family. And you're going to pay a tax for the real estate you just bought."
Alina’s heart leaped into her throat. She gripped the edge of the prep counter, her eyes darting between Vincent and the armed men. There were three of them, and Vincent was completely unarmed—or so it appeared.
"A tax," Vincent repeated, a low, dangerous chuckle rumbling in his chest. He turned around completely, leaning his hip casually against the counter, facing the three armed thugs as if he were discussing a menu. "Tell me, did Jimmy explain to you what happened to the last group of men who tried to collect a tax from me?" The gaunt man hesitated, his hand tightening on the gun hidden beneath his coat. "Jimmy says you're getting too big for your suit, Vincent. Time to cut you down to size."
"Is that right?" Vincent murmured.
In a movement so fast it defied human physiology, Vincent didn't reach for a weapon—he kicked the heavy stainless steel sugar dispenser off the counter.
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The glass jar shattered against the floor right between the gaunt man's feet, sending a blinding cloud of white sugar and shards of glass exploding upward into their faces. The thugs flinched instinctively, blinded and disoriented for a single, critical second.
That single second was all Vincent needed.
