Chapter 13 - The Sit-Down
The tension at the table was thick enough to slice with a knife.
"You stole ten million dollars in hardware from my family," Viktor stated, pouring himself a glass of vodka from a crystal decanter. He didn't offer any to Alessandro. "We want it back. Or we take the equivalent in Moretti blood."
"Lorenzo Cole stole from you," Alessandro corrected smoothly, leaning back in his chair. "He used my docks without my permission. I neutralized the threat. The weapons are currently sitting in an FBI evidence locker, courtesy of an anonymous tip I provided. If you want them, go knock on Quantico's door."
Viktor’s eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. "You handed our property to the feds?"
"I cleaned my house. What you left in the trash is not my concern."
I sat quietly, my eyes scanning the room. While Alessandro held Viktor’s attention, I was doing what I did best: observing. I watched the body language of the guards. I watched the exits. And then, I noticed something strange about the waiter standing by the kitchen doors.
He was sweating profusely. His hand kept hovering over his apron pocket. And every few seconds, he made eye contact with the guard standing directly behind Alessandro.
A signal.
Viktor slammed a massive fist onto the table, making the silverware rattle. "You think you can disrespect the Bratva? We will burn your empire to ashes, Moretti!"
"You will try," Alessandro replied, his voice deadly calm.
I looked down at the table. Viktor hadn't touched his vodka. He had poured it, but he hadn't taken a sip. I looked back at the sweating waiter. He was slowly reaching into his apron, stepping forward.
My heart screamed in my chest.
"Alessandro," I said. It was the first time I had spoken since entering the room.
Both men looked at me. Viktor sneered. "The mouse squeaks."
I ignored him, keeping my eyes locked on Alessandro. I slowly slid my leather portfolio across the table, knocking over Viktor’s glass of vodka. It spilled across the white linen tablecloth.
"What the hell are you doing?" Viktor roared, standing up.
As the clear liquid soaked into the linen, a harsh, chemical fizzing sound hissed into the air. The cloth began to disintegrate, burning a black hole straight through the fabric.
Acid. Not vodka.
"Gun!" I screamed, dropping to the floor just as the sweating waiter pulled a suppressed pistol from his apron.
Chaos erupted.
Alessandro didn't even flinch. He kicked the heavy oak table upward, flipping it directly into Viktor’s chest, pinning the massive Russian against the wall. Dante and the Moretti enforcers drew their weapons in a heartbeat.
Gunfire tore through the restaurant, deafening in the enclosed space. Crystal chandeliers shattered, raining glass down on us. I covered my head with my arms, pressing myself flat against the cold floor.
I felt a heavy hand grip the back of my blazer, hauling me roughly to my feet. Alessandro shielded my body with his own, firing his Glock blindly over his shoulder as he dragged me toward the kitchen doors.
"Move! Move! Move!" Dante shouted, laying down covering fire.
We burst through the kitchen, slipping on the greasy tile. Alessandro kicked open the back exit, throwing me into the alleyway. The cold night air hit my lungs like a physical blow. We scrambled into a waiting armored SUV, the tires squealing as the driver slammed on the gas before the doors were even closed.
I collapsed against the leather seat, gasping for air, trembling violently.
Alessandro was breathing heavily, checking his magazine. He looked over at me, his eyes wide and feral.
"Acid," he breathed. "They were going to blind me during the negotiation. And the waiter was the executioner."
He reached across the seat, pulling me into a bone-crushing hug. "You did it again, Elena. You saved my life."
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"Are we at war?" I asked against his chest.
"Yes," Alessandro said grimly, staring out the window at the fleeing city. "The Bratva will not stop until I am dead. The city isn't safe. We need to disappear."
