Chapter 7 - The Ghost from the Past
The illusion of absolute safety shattered on a rainy Thursday evening in April.
Emma had insisted on helping in the main kitchen of Carmelo’s for a couple of hours, wanting to feel useful after weeks of enforced idleness. She was standing by the prep counter slicing lemons when the service door from the alley swung open.
A delivery driver walked in, carrying a crate of wine bottles. But behind him, slipping through the heavy service entrance with calculated stealth, was a figure that made Emma’s blood run instantly cold.
It wasn't Marcus. It was someone worse.
Victor Vance—a mid-level loan shark associated with a rival Brooklyn crew—stepped out from the shadows of the hallway, a cold, predatory grin spreading across his scarred face. He had been looking for leverage against the Moretti syndicate for months, and tracking the movements of Dante’s newly acquired guest had finally paid off.
“Well, well, well,” Victor sneered, stepping closer with his hands shoved deep into his trench coat pockets. “The little waitress who caused all that fuss in Astoria. Word on the street is that Dante Moretti has a soft spot for stray cats.”
Emma backed away until her spine hit the stainless steel counter, her hand instinctively flying to her healing arm. “Get out of here.”
“Oh, I’m not leaving without a souvenir,” Victor laughed, taking another step forward and pulling a small switchblade from his coat. “Let’s see how much Mr. Moretti cares about his stray when I send her back piece by piece.”
Before Victor could lunge, the kitchen door banged open with a deafening crash.
Dante stood in the doorway.
The air in the room dropped ten degrees instantly. Dante wasn't shouting. He didn't draw a weapon immediately. He just stared at Victor with the absolute, terrifying calmness of an executioner staring down an insect.
Victor froze, the blade trembling slightly in his hand as he looked at the man standing between him and the exit.
“Dante—wait, listen—” Victor stammered, his bravado evaporating in a single second.
“You stepped onto my property,” Dante said, his voice terrifyingly smooth as he walked slowly across the tiled floor. “You brought a weapon into a kitchen where my people work. And you threatened a guest under my roof.”
“She’s nobody! Just a waitress!” Victor screamed in panic, raising the knife.
Dante didn't break stride. When Victor lunged, Dante moved with brutal, terrifying efficiency—sidestepping the blade, seizing Victor’s wrist with iron fingers, and twisting it sharply until bone snapped with a sickening crunch.
Victor shrieked, dropping the knife as Dante drove a devastating knee straight into his chest, sending him crashing backward through a stack of plastic crates.
Within three seconds, Victor was pinned to the floor under Dante’s boot, gasping for air and bleeding from a split lip.
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Dante leaned down, grabbing Victor by the collar of his coat and lifting him until their faces were inches apart.
“Tell your bosses,” Dante whispered, his voice like grinding stones, “that if anyone from your crew ever looks in the direction of this restaurant again, I won't just break your bones. I’ll dismantle every brick you own until there is nothing left of your name in this city.”
