Chapter Nine: Velvet and Lead
Time slowed in the moments before hell opened its mouth.
Luca's soldiers moved first—slick-haired killers with tailored suits and dead eyes. Vincent had counted them before they even walked in. Seven. Eight, maybe nine with a lookout outside.
Frankie was in the alley with two more of their guys, old soldiers who owed Vincent favors from the old days. That was the advantage of coming home from the dead—some debts don't die.
Vincent's hand brushed the inside of his coat. Not for the Glock. For the sawed-off shotgun taped under the table.
Giovanni's eyes flicked to it too late.
Vincent moved.
The shotgun roared, a volcanic blast that blew one of Luca's men backward into a glass cabinet, showering the room in sparkling shards and screaming. Then the restaurant erupted into chaos.
Gunfire cracked like fireworks. Candles tipped, igniting the tablecloths in slow, creeping curls of flame. Waiters screamed and ducked. Red wine spilled everywhere, and for a moment, it looked like someone had gutted the entire room.
Vincent moved like muscle memory, brutal and efficient. One shot to the knee, another to the chest. A turn, another blast. A punch to the throat of a man too slow on the draw, knife out of the sleeve, steel into ribs.
Frankie burst through the kitchen door behind him, firing wild, catching two more in the gut before he hit the floor hard, bleeding from the shoulder.
Then it was just Vincent, Luca, and Giovanni.
Luca was behind an overturned table, firing wildly, teeth bared like a street dog cornered too many times.
Giovanni stood, untouched, untouched like always. Even now, as the fire crept up the velvet curtains, he stood there like an emperor in a collapsing empire.
Vincent didn't hesitate.
One shot. Clean. Right between Luca's eyes. The serpent finally stopped smiling.
Now there was just family left.