Chapter 9 - THE EXECUTION OF JUSTICE
Rico Moretti moved with a speed that defied his broad, tailored frame.
Before Dante could squeeze the trigger, Rico stepped inside the guard's weapon frame, his left hand clamping down on the gun's slide with hydraulic force, redirecting the barrel upward toward the coffered ceiling.
BANG!
A deafening gunshot exploded through the dining room, shattering one of the grand crystal chandeliers directly above the table. Rainfalls of glittered glass down across the white linen tablecloths and marble floor, ringing out like falling rain.
Rico didn't hesitate. He drove his right elbow violently into Dante’s throat, breaking his windpipe with a sickening CRACK.
Dante gasped, dropping the heavy firearm to the marble floor. Rico caught the falling gun in mid-air, spun Dante’s massive body around, and drove him face-down onto the mahogany dining table, pressing the hot barrel of the weapon directly against the back of Dante’s neck.
The four remaining bodyguards near the entrance froze in absolute terror, their hands shaking as they looked at their boss.
"Drop your weapons," Rico commanded, his voice carrying the terrifying authority of a king reclaiming his throne. "Or I execute every single one of your families before sunrise."
CLATTER! CLATTER! CLATTER!
The four sidearms were instantly dropped to the marble floor, sliding across the slick stone toward the fountain. The bodyguards raised their hands above their heads, stepping back into the shadows of the entrance foyer.
Dante lay pinned against the mahogany table, his breath coming in ragged, bloody gasps as Rico held him down with a single, immovable forearm.
"Rico... please..." Dante wheezed, his face pressed against the spilled wine and mahogany wood. "We were brothers..."
"You died six months ago on that mountain road," Rico whispered cold against his ear. "You just didn't know it until tonight."
Rico turned his head, looking over his shoulder at Clara and his son.
Clara stood holding five-year-old Leo close to her chest. She had covered the boy's eyes with her warm hand, keeping him shielded from the violence. Leo was calm, resting his head against her shoulder, his small hands wrapped around her black apron.
Rico looked at the young waitress with a profound, unpayable debt shining in his dark eyes.
"Clara," Rico said, his voice quiet, steady, and filled with absolute respect. "Take Leo into the back office. Lock the door. Do not come out until I knock three times."
May you like
Clara looked at Rico, nodded slowly, and lifted the five-year-old boy into her arms. She carried him across the glass-strewn floor, moving gracefully past the broken dishes toward the secure manager’s office near the kitchen corridor.
As she reached the doorway, Leo looked back over her shoulder one last time. He looked at his father, offered a tiny, almost invisible nod of peace, and allowed the heavy wooden door to close behind them.
