Chapter 8 - The Viper in the Kitchen
The room went deadly cold.
Gabriel turned on his heel. His eyes, still red from his breakdown, hardened into twin chips of black obsidian.
Chloe took two instinctive steps backward, her back hitting the shattered frame of the balcony door. "That's a lie! I didn't draw anything! I’ve worked there for two years! I barely even know Marco!"
Sal stepped into the room, his shotgun resting in the crook of his arm, his expression tight. "The shooter downstairs says Marco had a hand-drawn diagram of the private dining room, the blind spots of the cameras, and the exact shift schedule. He says Marco told him the girl with the deaf brother was their inside relay because she hated the family."
"I don't hate anyone!" Chloe yelled, panic clawing at her throat. "Marco owes fifty grand to loan sharks in Queens! Everyone in the kitchen knows that! He takes kickbacks from the linen suppliers!"
"Shut up," Gabriel said. His voice wasn't loud, but the sheer weight of authority in it cut through the room like a cleaver.
He walked over to Chloe, stopping six inches from her face. His dark eyes searched hers, peeling back layers of panic, looking for the telltale twitch of a liar.
"You knew ASL," Gabriel whispered. "You stepped into that room tonight right when the shooter was in position. You dumped that risotto right before the first round cracked."
"Because your mother told me!" Chloe cried, gesturing wildly toward Beatrice. "Ask her! She saw the gun! She saw him reach!"
Beatrice was already moving. She grabbed Gabriel’s arm, spinning him around with shocking force for a woman her age. Her hands whipped through the air with furious velocity:
Are you blind, Gabriel? Are you completely stupid?
Chloe translated through tears of frustration: "She asks if you're blind and stupid!"
Beatrice signed again, her fingers stabbing toward the dead mercenary on the floor:
The girl saved your life! She threw herself between you and that dog! Marco has been stealing from Carmine’s accounts for five years. Carmine told me before he died that Marco was skimming from the restaurant safe, but he kept him because Marco was weak and easily scared!
Gabriel stared at his mother’s hands, then looked back at Chloe. "Carmine knew Marco was skimming?"
"I don't know Carmine!" Chloe screamed. "I only know that three days ago, Marco asked me if I would take Table Seven tonight because he knew I needed the cash for rent! He set me up! He knew if something went wrong, you’d blame the exhausted waitress who had no family to back her up!"
Silence settled over the room, thick and suffocating.
Sal shifted his weight. "Boss... Marco did push for the VIP booking tonight. He told me yesterday that Table Seven requested the back corner specifically."
Gabriel’s jaw worked. The predator was back, but this time, the target was clear.
"Where is Marco now?" Gabriel asked Sal, his voice dropping into an icy, terrifying calm.
"He closed the restaurant right after the shooting. Told the beat cops he was going home to his apartment in Hoboken."
"He's not in Hoboken," Gabriel said coldly. "He's running for the border. He knows if the hit failed, he has about six hours before we trace the wire transfer."
Gabriel turned to Beatrice. He reached out and, with deliberate, slow concentration, signed:
Y - O - U. S - A - F - E.
Beatrice’s eyes softened. She nodded, touching his cheek.
Then Gabriel looked at Chloe. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a thick roll of hundred-dollar bills wrapped in a rubber band—easily five thousand dollars—and shoved it into the pocket of her silk pajama top.
"What is this?" Chloe asked, bewildered.
"Your back rent," Gabriel said, grabbing his fresh jacket from the closet. "And your hazard pay. Sal, stay here with four men. Nobody enters this wing without my personal authorization."
"Where are you going?" Chloe blurted out.
May you like
Gabriel paused at the door, pulling a fresh magazine from his drawer and slapping it into the base of his automatic pistol.
"To Il Canto," Gabriel said. "Marco forgot rule number one of this city: you don't bring blood to my mother’s table."
