Chapter 7 - The Choice
The cellar beneath Marchetti's Diner was cool, dry, and smelled of oak barrels, canned tomatoes, and concrete dust.
Trent Kowalski was sitting on a wooden folding chair in the center of the room, his legs tied to the chair frame with heavy rope. His zip-tied hands were resting in his lap. The single overhead light bulb cast long, swaying shadows across the stone walls.
Marco stood by the stone stairs, his heavy arms crossed over his chest, watching quietly.
The heavy wooden door at the top of the stairs creaked open, and two pairs of footsteps descended into the cool room—the heavy, measured click of Leo’s shoes, and the lighter, firm tread of Nora’s heels.
Trent lifted his bruised face. When he saw Nora standing beside Leo, his eyes went wide with panic.
"Nora... Miss Bennett... please," Trent rasped, his voice high and desperate. "I’m sorry! I swear to God I didn't know who you were! I didn't know you were with Mr. Marchetti!"
Nora walked slowly until she was standing three feet in front of him. She looked down at him—the same man who, just yesterday, had gripped her wrist with casual arrogance, rolling up his sleeve to intimidate her in front of a full room of witnesses.
Now, he was shivering, weeping, begging a waitress for his life.
"You didn't know who I was," Nora repeated softly. "Does that mean if I was just a waitress with no powerful boss, it would have been fine to hurt me?"
Trent swallowed hard, tears cutting clean streaks through the dirt on his cheeks. "No! No, of course not! I was drunk! I made a mistake!"
Nora turned to look at Leo.
Leo stood by the wine racks, his hands resting casually in his slacks pockets.
"The choice is yours, Nora," Leo said quietly. "Don Carmine has officially disowned him. He has no family protection. No law enforcement will come looking for him down here. If you want Marco to put him in a boat and drop him six miles off the coast, it will be done before midnight, and nobody will ever speak his name again."
Trent let out a strangled, terrified sob, throwing his weight against his restraints. "Please! Please, God, no! Don't kill me!"
Nora looked back down at Trent. She felt the ghost of an old memory flare up—a dark kitchen in Albany, the smell of cheap whiskey, a sharp blow to her face, and the feeling of absolute, helpless terror.
She had spent three years believing that power meant having a weapon, or having a man like Leo to strike down your enemies. But as she looked at Trent weeping on the floor, she realized something profound.
Cruelty wasn't power. Cruelty was cheap. Any coward with a gun or a heavy fist could be cruel.
Real power was deciding when to stop the violence.
"No," Nora said clearly.
Leo raised an eyebrow. "No?"
"Killing him makes us like him," Nora said, her voice steady and absolute. "He’s a small, pathetic bully who got consumed by his own ego."
She stepped closer to Trent, leaning down until her eyes were level with his.
"You're going to get on a bus tonight, Trent," Nora said, her voice dropping into a razor-sharp whisper. "You're going to pack one bag, leave New York, and never set foot in the state again. If I ever hear your name, or if you ever come within a hundred miles of Brooklyn, I won't ask Mr. Marchetti to kill you. I’ll make sure Don Carmine finds out where you're hiding."
Trent nodded frantically, his forehead nearly touching his knees. "Yes! Yes! I’ll leave! I’ll go to Ohio! I’ll never come back! I swear it on my mother's grave!"
Nora stood up straight and looked at Marco. "Cut his ropes. Escort him to the Port Authority bus station. Buy him a one-way ticket to Cleveland, and make sure he gets on the bus."
Marco looked at Leo for confirmation.
May you like
Leo looked at Nora for a long, quiet moment, an expression of profound, fatherly pride filling his grey eyes.
"You heard her, Marco," Leo commanded softly. "Do exactly as she says."
