Chapter 5 - The Glass Shatters
The calm, warm atmosphere inside the dining room evaporated in less than a second.
The heavy front doors shuddered under a violent, coordinated kick. The cheap brass latch I had forgotten to deadbolt gave way with a sharp crack, and the doors slammed open against the interior walls.
Three figures poured into the restaurant.
They weren't wearing tailored Italian suits. They wore dark, hooded tactical jackets, heavy boots, and black neoprene masks pulled up over their noses. In the dim amber light of the chandeliers, the dull, menacing gleam of heavy firearms was unmistakable.
“Stay down!” the lead intruder roared, waving a suppressed submachine gun erratically across the empty dining room.
My blood turned to ice water.
Chloe let out a terrified shriek, dropping her fork against the plate with a loud clatter. She scrambled backward into the corner of the booth, pulling James Moretti’s oversized cashmere coat over her head like a shield.
“Mommy!” she sobbed, her voice muffled beneath the heavy fabric.
“Chloe! Don't look, baby, don't look!” I cried out, instinctively throwing my body across the table to cover her, my heart hammering like a sledgehammer against my ribs.
James Moretti didn't flinch.
He didn't dive under the table. He didn't blink.
He slowly stood up from his chair, his movements smooth, deliberate, and terrifyingly calm. The ambient light caught the cold, predatory glare in his blue eyes.
The three intruders finally spotted him standing by the back booth.
“Well, well, well,” the lead gunman sneered, lowering his weapon slightly as he recognized his target. “Look what the Christmas cat dragged in. The great James Moretti, dining in an empty restaurant like a common vagrant. Boss says hello, Moretti.”
Moretti’s bodyguards—the ones who had been standing guard by the kitchen doors—moved with the terrifying speed of striking cobras.
The scarred bodyguard drew a sleek, matte-black Glock from his shoulder holster with a sharp schwick, while the other two materialized from the shadows behind the bar, their own weapons leveled dead-center at the intruders' chests.
“Drop your weapons,” the scarred guard barked, his voice laced with absolute lethal intent. “Right now, or you won't make it three steps out that door.”
The lead gunman laughed, a harsh, jagged sound. “You think we came alone, Moretti? There's a car full of boys outside with automatic rifles pointed right at these glass windows. One twitch from you, and this whole place becomes a slaughterhouse.”
My breath hitched in my throat. Glass windows. We were sitting right next to a massive wall of floor-to-ceiling glass windows facing the street.
If a shootout started here, Chloe and I wouldn't stand a chance. We were sitting ducks.
I looked up at James Moretti, expecting to see panic, or rage, or desperation.
Instead, his face was carved from absolute granite. He took one slow step forward, away from our booth, putting himself directly between the armed intruders and my daughter.
“You’re working for Sullivan,” James said, his voice dropping into a low, glacial register that seemed to lower the temperature in the room by ten degrees.
“Sullivan says Merry Christmas, Moretti,” the gunman snarled, tightening his grip on his weapon, swinging the barrel toward James’s chest. “Time to hand over the North End docks, or—3
Bang.
The sound of a silenced gunshot was a sharp, muffled cough, but in the enclosed space of the restaurant, it felt like a thunderclap.
The lead gunman’s eyes widened in sheer shock. A small, dark red bloom blossomed instantly across the center of his tactical jacket. He staggered backward, dropped his weapon with a heavy clatter, and collapsed hard against the marble floor.
The other two intruders panicked, raising their submachine guns to fire.
“Down!” James roared, his voice cutting through the chaos.
Before the intruders could pull their triggers, Moretti’s bodyguards opened fire with devastating, professional precision. Two more muffled thud-thud sounds echoed through the room. The remaining two gunmen dropped their weapons and hit the floor, writhing in pain from non-fatal leg wounds.
Silence descended upon the restaurant once more, broken only by the smell of cordite, gunsmoke, and the frantic, terrified sobbing of my little girl.
I didn't care about the blood. I didn't care about the men bleeding on the floor.
I threw myself back into the booth, tearing James’s coat away to reveal Chloe, who was shaking uncontrollably, her face stained with tears.
“I’m here, baby! I’ve got you! You’re safe, you’re safe!” I sobbed, pulling her tightly against my chest, shielding her eyes from the carnage just a few feet away.
James Moretti turned slowly away from the fallen intruders.
He didn't look at his men. He didn't look at the blood pooling on the pristine white tiles.
His eyes locked directly onto our booth.
May you like
He walked over slowly, his movements entirely devoid of adrenaline jitters, as if he had just stepped out of a casual business meeting. He knelt down beside the booth, ignoring the mess on the floor, and looked directly into my terrified, tear-streaked face.
“Grace,” he said, his voice softer now than it had ever been. “Are you both alright?”
