Chapter 4 - The Noon Meeting
The steakhouse on 8th Street looked like any other old-school Italian joint in Queens—red-and-white checkered tablecloths, sepia photographs of old movie stars on the wood-paneled walls, and the rich, comforting aroma of garlic, oregano, and slow-simmered marinara sauce. But today, the restaurant was entirely empty.
I sat at a corner booth near the back, nursing a small glass of bourbon, watching the afternoon sunlight filter through the dusty front windows. Tony sat across from me, casually cleaning his fingernails with a small pocketknife. Bruno rested his massive head across my boots, completely still, save for the occasional twitch of his ears as cars rumbled past outside.
"They're early," Tony muttered, nodding slightly toward the front entrance.
The heavy oak door pushed open, and three men stepped inside. Even in civilian winter coats, you could spot them a mile away: broad shoulders, cold, dead eyes that scanned every exit, and the distinct, heavy stride of men who spent their lives carrying military hardware. Dmitri Petrov and two of his elite enforcers.
Dmitri stopped just inside the doorway, his eyes adjusting to the dim interior light. A thin, predatory smile touched the corners of his mouth.
"Vincenzo," Dmitri said in heavily accented English, his voice like grinding gravel. "I didn't expect the big boss himself to grace us with his presence. Where is Marco? He said he was handling this shipment personally."
I took a slow sip of my bourbon, setting the glass down on the wooden table before looking up.
"Marco had a change of heart," I said smoothly. "Decided he was tired of the life. He left town this morning."
Dmitri’s smile vanished instantly. His body went rigid, and his two enforcers immediately dropped their hands inside their coats, fingers curling around the grips of their hidden weapons.
"Left town?" Dmitri’s eyes narrowed into slits. "We have a fifty-thousand-dollar deposit on those crates, Vincenzo. You don't just up and leave in the middle of a transaction. Where is the merchandise?"
"The merchandise is right where it belongs," a voice echoed from the kitchen doorway at the back of the dining room.
Two of my capos stepped out, dragging a battered, zip-tied Marco between them. They shoved him forward, sending him stumbling across the checkered floor until he hit the edge of a wooden table, sprawling clumsily onto his knees.
Dmitri looked down at Marco, then back up at me, his expression shifting from surprise to cold, calculating contempt.
"Ah," Dmitri said softly. "The traitor. It seems your own house was not as clean as you pretended, Vincenzo."
"No house is entirely clean, Dmitri," I replied, standing up slowly from the booth. Bruno rose with me, his massive frame unfurling like a coiled spring, stepping out into the aisle. "The difference is, when dirt gets inside my house, I sweep it out."
"And what does this have to do with us?" one of Dmitri's enforcers snarled, taking a threatening step forward. "We came for guns and cash. We didn't come to watch your internal housekeeping."
"You came into my city," I said, my voice rising just enough to cut through the quiet room, "dealing in weapons that were used to kill a seven-year-old girl. Marco used your pipeline. Marco used your contacts. Which means, in the eyes of anyone with a soul left in their chest, you are just as responsible for her blood as he is."
Dmitri let out a harsh, barking laugh. "A little girl? You're starting wars over a brat? Is that what this is about? Sentimentality? I thought you were a businessman, Vincenzo. Not a sentimental fool."
"In our world, business is everything," I said, taking a step forward. "But honor is the only thing that keeps us from being animals." I looked down at Bruno, who let out a low, ominous rumble. "Though, to be fair, my dog has more honor than any of you ever had."
"Kill them," Dmitri snapped to his enforcers.
The room exploded into motion.
Dmitri's men whipped their guns out, but Tony and my capos were already faster, having anticipated the move. Gunfire flashed in the confined space, the deafening roar of 9mm rounds shattering wine glasses, splintering wooden chairs, and sending red-and-white tablecloths flying into the air.
Dmitri lunged for Marco, grabbing him by the collar to use him as a human shield, but before he could raise his weapon, a streak of black fur crossed the room.
Bruno didn't target the gunmen. He targeted Dmitri.
With a ferocious leap, the hundred-and-twenty-pound mastiff slammed directly into Dmitri’s chest, sending the Russian arms dealer crashing backward through a wooden partition into the empty kitchen behind the dining room. A heavy clatter of pots, pans, and stainless steel tables followed, punctuated by a sharp cry of pain.
I didn't look back at the kitchen. Tony and I cleared the remaining two enforcers in three smooth, practiced shots. Silence descended on the restaurant once more, broken only by the smell of cordite and the hiss of escaping steam from an espresso machine near the bar.
Tony walked over to the kitchen door, peering inside. He whistled low through his teeth.
"Well," Tony said, looking back at me. "Dmitri won't be needing those passports anymore."
May you like
I walked slowly toward the kitchen, stepping over broken plates and spilled marinara. Bruno was sitting patiently beside the fallen Russian boss, his tail giving a single, calm thump against the tile floor as I approached. He looked up at me, his amber eyes clear, steady, and entirely at peace.
"Good boy," I said, reaching down to pat his massive shoulder. "Job's done."
