Chapter 3 - The Trap Closes
Ruby slammed the swinging kitchen doors open, stumbling into the humid, chaotic heat of the back-of-house. The contrast between the sophisticated jazz-infused dining room and the industrial clatter of the kitchen was deafening. Stainless steel pots banged against prep tables, burners roared with blue flame, and the sharp scent of garlic and boiling tomato sauce filled the air.
"Ruby! Table four needs the bread basket replaced—what happened to your face? You look like you've seen a ghost," Rossy barked, not even looking up from his cutting board as he chopped fresh basil with terrifying speed.
"Rossy, listen to me," Ruby gasped, catching her breath against the edge of the prep station. Her hands were still trembling so hard she could barely unclench her fingers from the handle of the steak knife. "There's a bomb. Under booth four. Connected to a cell phone. We need to get everyone out right now."
Rossy stopped chopping. The heavy cleaver hovered half an inch above the wooden board. He slowly raised his head, his dark eyes narrowing as he scanned her pale features.
"A bomb? Ruby, are you out of your mind? Have you been drinking?"
"I saw it! I went under the table to get my knife. It's C4, Rossy. Wrapped in brown paper. A timer wired to a disposable phone." She grabbed his heavy cotton sleeve, her fingernails digging into the fabric. "The new busboy—Tommy. He planted it before he ran out the back door."
Before Rossy could respond, the kitchen service door swung open with a sharp metallic bang.
It wasn't Tommy. It was one of Valente Carmine's heavy-set bodyguards. The man's face was a mask of cold, professional menace. He scanned the bustling kitchen in half a second, his right hand instantly slipping inside the tailored fold of his heavy wool coat, resting firmly on the grip of a concealed firearm.
His dark eyes locked onto Ruby.
"You," the bodyguard rasped, stepping into the kitchen and blocking the exit to the alley. "The boss wants a word. Now."
Rossy instinctively stepped in front of Ruby, his broad chef's chest puffing out in protective fury. "Hey! You can't just walk back here barking orders, pal. This is my kitchen—"
The bodyguard didn't even blink. He pulled a heavy silver handgun from inside his coat and leveled it with terrifying casualness at the center of Rossy's white apron.
"Move aside, cook, or you won't live to see the morning rush," the bodyguard said softly, the threat dripping with absolute authority.
Ruby felt her heart leap into her throat. She stepped around Rossy, raising her hands defensively. "Don't shoot him. I'll come. I'll tell him everything."
The bodyguard grabbed Ruby by the upper arm with a grip like a vice, hauling her backward through the swinging double doors and out of the kitchen.
They didn't return to booth four. Instead, the bodyguard dragged her past the main dining room and down a short, dimly lit corridor that led to the restaurant's private administrative office—a windowless room lined with filing cabinets and a heavy oak desk.
Valente Carmine was already standing by the desk, pouring himself a finger of dark amber whiskey into a clean crystal glass. Councilman Arthur Davis was slumped in a leather chair in the corner, sobbing quietly into his handkerchief, his whole body shaking like a leaf in a gale.
The bodyguard pushed Ruby inside, kicking the heavy oak door shut behind them with a resounding thud that echoed in the small room.
Valente didn't turn around immediately. He slowly raised the glass to his lips, took a calculated sip, and finally set the glass down on the polished wood. Then he turned his dark, piercing eyes toward Ruby.
"The girl was shaking, Viktor," Valente said quietly, addressing his gunman without looking at him. "When she came up from under that table, her eyes weren't focused on the silver. They were focused on the pedestal. Tell me, miss... what exactly did you see under my table?"
Ruby swallowed hard, her throat feeling like sandpaper. She knew that one wrong word, one stutter, or one hesitation would result in a bullet through her skull before she even hit the floor. But looking at Valente's cold, calculating gaze, she realized lying was no longer an option.
"C4," Ruby said clearly, her voice surprisingly steady despite the terror gripping her chest. "Wrapped in brown paper and gray duct tape, strapped to the wooden pedestal with red and yellow wires. Connected to a black disposable phone. The green screen light was blinking."
Silence descended upon the small office—a heavy, suffocating silence that felt heavier than the bomb itself.
Councilman Davis let out a high-pitched, pathetic whimper and buried his face deeper into his soggy handkerchief.
May you like
Valente Carmine didn't flinch. He didn't curse, and he didn't panic. But his eyes narrowed into two dangerous slits, and the air in the room dropped ten degrees.
"A dead man's switch," Valente murmured softly to himself. "Or a remote detonator triggered by a phone call." He turned his cold gaze directly onto the cowering councilman in the corner. "Isn't that right, Arthur?"
