Chapter 3 - The Silver Knife
Before Domenic’s hand could clear the leather holster beneath his armpit, Gabriel moved with the speed of striking iron.
He grabbed the heavy silver steak knife from his mother’s butter plate and drove it downward into the center of Domenic’s right hand, pinning it straight through the palm into the solid mahogany table.
A sound tore out of Domenic’s throat—a wet, guttural scream of pure agony that shook the glass sconces on the walls.
The lieutenants pulled their weapons in a chaotic blur of steel, but Gabriel’s free hand was already holding a snub-nosed revolver, the hammer cocked back, leveled straight at Nico’s forehead.
“Anyone moves,” Gabriel said, without even breathing hard, “and you bleed out on the carpet before Marco can bring the dessert menu.”
Nobody moved. The room was filled with the panting, ragged wheezes of Domenic, blood pulsing from beneath his pinned hand and pooling into the spilled wine.
Beatrice didn’t blink. She didn't gasp. She sat upright, watching her nephew bleed onto the table with the cold, ancient stoicism of a matriarch who had survived three generations of cartel wars.
She turned her eyes to Chloe and signed calmly:
I told him this would happen if he kept buying cheap suits.
A hysterical laugh nearly bubbled up in Chloe’s throat, but she bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper. Her knees felt like wet paper. She had walked into this room to take an order for veal; now she was an accessory to an organized crime execution.
“Nico,” Gabriel commanded, not taking his eyes off his cousin. “Take his gun. Take his phone. Clear out the rest of the floor. Tell the front desk Il Canto is closed for a private family emergency.”
Nico moved like a terrified ghost, stripping Domenic’s weapon and herding the other four lieutenants out into the corridor.
The heavy doors clicked shut, leaving only Gabriel, his mother, the screaming man pinned to the wood, and Chloe.
Gabriel leaned down until his nose was an inch from Domenic’s sweat-slicked cheek. “Michael was twenty-two,” Gabriel whispered. “He liked photography. He didn't want the docks. He didn't want the money. And you gave him to the Santoros so you could take his territory.”
“You... you can’t prove it...” Domenic sobbed, his teeth grinding together as blood coated his fingernails. “The old woman... she’s crazy, Gabriel! She’s senile! She’s deaf! She sees shadows!”
Gabriel reached out and twisted the silver knife half an inch.
Domenic’s scream cut out into a choked whimper, his knees giving out until he was hanging by his pinned palm.
“My mother raised five boys in the middle of Hell’s Kitchen while my father was doing ten years in Sing Sing,” Gabriel said softly. “She doesn't see shadows, Domenic. She sees everything. And for three years, I was too stupid to look at her hands.”
Gabriel pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, wrapped it around the handle of the knife, and ripped it free from the wood. Domenic collapsed onto the floor in a weeping heap of silk and blood.
“Get up,” Gabriel said, kicking him toward the service exit. “Nico is waiting in the alley with a car. You’re going to the docks. We’re going to have a very long conversation about what else you told the Santoros.”
Two guards appeared from the shadows, hauling Domenic backward out the service door, leaving a thick smear of dark blood along the baseboards.
The room went dead still again.
Chloe backed toward the kitchen swinging doors, her breath coming in ragged, shallow pulls. “I didn't see anything. I’m just a waitress. I won't go to the police. I have to work the breakfast shift at the diner on 8th tomorrow—”
“You’re not going to the diner, Chloe,” Gabriel said.
He slipped his revolver back inside his coat and turned to face her. The blood had dried on his knuckles.
“Excuse me?” Chloe’s voice spiked. “Look, Mr. Costello, I kept your mother from getting poisoned and I saved your life. You don’t get to murder me in the pantry to keep your secrets.”
Gabriel stared at her, genuinely surprised. Then, his eyes dropped to Beatrice.
May you like
His mother was signing again, her small, sharp movements cutting through the tense air:
Don’t let her go, Gabriel. The Santoros have men watching the restaurant. If she walks out that front door alone, she won't see morning.
