Chapter 7 - Swift Justice
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“Take them to the back alley,” Vincent ordered without looking at his men.
The two enforcers at the door moved with terrifying speed. Before Derek could even scream, one of the men drove a brutal, calculated punch into Derek’s stomach, instantly folding him in half. The other enforcer grabbed Nikki and the third friend by their collars, dragging them effortlessly toward the rear exit of the kitchen.
Derek gagged, gasping for air as he was dragged backward by his hair, his expensive leather jacket scuffing against the floor.
“Wait! Please! I didn't know she was yours!” Derek sobbed, a pathetic puddle of a man.
Tony the cook opened the heavy metal back door, his face a mask of grim satisfaction, allowing the enforcers to drag the three men out into the freezing Brooklyn alleyway. The heavy steel door slammed shut behind them, cutting off Derek’s desperate pleas.
Inside the diner, the heavy silence returned.
“Tony,” Vincent called out.
“Yes, Mr. Castellano,” Tony replied immediately.
“Clean up the blood. Mr. Del Monaco, your meal is on the house today. Go home and lock your doors.”
The regulars didn't need to be told twice. They quietly gathered their coats, leaving cash on the tables, and filed out the front door, deeply respectful of the syndicate boss who had just reclaimed his sanctuary.
Vincent knelt back down beside Amelia. She was trying to push herself up, her head spinning violently.
“Don't move,” Vincent instructed gently.
“I need to clean up my station,” Amelia mumbled, her brain still entirely scrambled from the concussion. “The coffee pot… it’s going to burn.”
“Angela has the coffee,” Vincent said, a ghost of a sad smile touching his lips.
He didn't wait for paramedics. He didn't call an ambulance. Vincent slipped one strong arm beneath Amelia’s knees and the other behind her back, lifting her effortlessly from the floor. Her head lolled against his broad chest, the expensive wool of his suit smelling of cedar and expensive cologne.
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“Where are we going?” she whispered, her vision fading to black again.
“You’re going home, Amelia,” Vincent replied, carrying her out the front door toward the waiting black sedan. “No one will ever touch you again.”
