He Knocked a Waitress Unconscious—Then the Mafia Boss Destroyed Him Within Seconds

Vincent did not reach for a weapon.

He did not raise his hands.

He simply turned his head toward the front window and raised his left hand, tapping three fingers against the glass.

The front door opened.

Nikki’s uncle, Salvatore Castellano, stepped inside carrying a twelve-gauge Remington shotgun with the stock sawed down to the grip. Behind him came two men in leather jackets, their hands deep in their pockets, their eyes dead and fixed on Raymond’s spine.

At the same time, the back door clicked open. Two more men entered from the kitchen, flanking Tony, who was holding an iron meat tenderizer the size of a paving brick.

Raymond’s knife remained out, but the sneer on his broad face began to fray at the edges.

“You think six men scare me?” Raymond spat, though his eyes darted toward the street where his Buick was parked.

“Look out the window, Raymond,” Vincent suggested.

Raymond glanced toward Fifth Avenue.

His Buick was still there, but both front tires were flat, hissing air into the gutter, and two men were leaning against the driver’s side door, smoking cigarettes and looking at the clouds.

“You are not in Kensington,” Vincent said, his voice dropping into that terrifying, subterranean calm. “You are not on the docks. You are in my living room. And you have drawn a blade in front of my counter.”

Vincent stepped closer, his chest almost touching the point of Raymond’s knife.

“Put the toy away, Raymond. Or Sal will blow your hip out through the front glass, and we will tell the precinct captain you were trying to rob the cash drawer.”

Raymond’s throat moved. His knuckles were white around the knife handle.

For three seconds, the entire world hung on the tension of a single nerve. Raymond was a violent man, but violent men who survive into their forties are not stupid; they know the difference between a brawl and an execution.

The knife clicked shut.

Raymond slipped it back into his pocket, his face dark with a rage that had nowhere to go.

“Sit down,” Vincent commanded, pointing to booth one.

“I’m not sitting with you—”

“Sit down,” Vincent repeated, his tone dropping an octave, “or you will leave this room in a rubber sack.”

Raymond sat. The leatherette bench groaned beneath his bulk.

Vincent slid into the booth across from him, resting his hands flat on the table.

“Amelia,” Vincent called without looking back. “Bring two coffees. Black.”

Amelia stood behind the register, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Her legs felt like hollow paper tubes.

“Go on, Amy,” Angela whispered from the pantry door, her eyes wide. “Take him the cup.”

Amelia picked up two thick white mugs. She filled them from the pot. Her hands shook violently for the first three steps, but as she reached the booth—as she looked down at Raymond Fletcher, trapped between Salvatore’s shotgun and Vincent Castellano’s gaze—the trembling stopped.

She set the first mug before Vincent.

She set the second mug before Raymond.

She did not look down. She looked Raymond directly in the eyes—the eyes that had haunted her nightmares through eight states and six months of hiding.

“Your coffee, Raymond,” she said.