Chapter 7 - The Shadow at the Counter
Clara walked out into the main diner, her apron strings tied tight, her face a mask of customer-service politeness that hid a racing pulse.
Standing by the cash register were two men in dark leather jackets. One of them was young, with a nervous tic in his jaw. The other was older, broad-shouldered, with a long scar splitting his left earlobe. Enzo would have recognized him instantly: Frankie “The Blade” Valli, Luca Ferraro’s chief enforcer.
“Can I help you gentlemen?” Clara asked, standing behind the counter.
Frankie looked at her, his dark eyes scanning her face, then tracking down to the damp floor behind the counter where a few faint, reddish stains had resisted the mop. “We’re looking for a friend of ours. Tall guy. Expensive suit. Had an accident near here last night.”
“Lots of accidents happen in the rain,” Clara said evenly, picking up a glass and a clean cloth. “Had a fender bender outside booth three around midnight. Car had to be towed.”
Frankie stepped closer, his large hands resting on the polished laminate counter. He leaned in until Clara could smell the sour scent of cheap cigars on his breath. “Don't play games with me, sweetheart. A black SUV was found abandoned three blocks away. A trail of blood led straight into this alley. We found a yellow duck umbrella outside your back door.”
Clara’s heart stopped. The umbrella. Lily had left it against the wall when they dragged Enzo inside.
From beneath the corner booth, a small, frightened sob leaked into the quiet diner.
Frankie’s eyes snapped toward the sound. He began to walk around the counter, his hand reaching inside his leather jacket toward the hidden holster beneath his arm. “What do we have under here?”
“Leave her alone!” Clara screamed, lunging across the counter to grab Frankie’s arm.
Frankie shoved her back brutally. Clara crashed against the coffee machines, the hot glass shattering around her as she hit the floor. Frankie reached the booth, his hand wrapping around the wood to drag Lily out.
He never got the chance.
The heavy swinging door to the kitchen flew open with a deafening crash. Enzo D’Angelo stood in the doorway, his white bandages visible beneath his open shirt, his face an absolute, demonic vision of white-hot rage. He didn't have a gun, but he had the forty-pound steel mixing bowl from the industrial mixer.
He launched the heavy metal object across the room with terrifying velocity. It struck Frankie squarely in the chest, the impact sounding like a car crash. Frankie flew backward into the jukebox, the glass shattering as he collapsed onto the floor, coughing up blood.
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The younger enforcer tried to draw his weapon, but Enzo was already moving. Despite his torn side, he lunged across the counter, his large hands locking around the young man’s throat, slamming him onto the linoleum floor with enough force to crack the tiles.
“You tell Luca,” Enzo roared, his fingers tightening until the man’s eyes turned red, “that the king is still on his throne. And I am coming to collect my taxes.”
