Chapter 6 - The Siege of Rosie's Diner
The heavy back metal door groaned as a crowbar was jammed into the frame.
CRACK.
The deadbolt splintered, and the door swung wide open, slamming against the interior wall. Two armed operatives stepped into the bright fluorescent kitchen, their flashlights cutting sharp beams through the steam and shadows.
"Clear," the first one whispered, stepping past the stainless-steel prep tables.
He didn't make it another three steps.
From the shadows of the dry storage threshold, Vittorio moved with terrifying, lightning speed. He fired once, neutralizing the threat before the man could raise his weapon. The second operative spun around, raising his pistol, but Emma—acting purely on adrenaline—grabbed a heavy glass jar of pickled eggs from the counter and hurled it with all her might.
The glass shattered against the intruder's helmet, blinding him for a split second.
That single second was all Vittorio needed. A second shot echoed through the diner, sharp and deafening in the confined space, and the second man dropped his weapon, collapsing onto the clean tile floor.
Silence rushed back into the room, broken only by the rhythmic dripping of a leaky faucet and the heavy, ragged breathing of Vittorio Maroney.
Emma stood frozen against the counter, her hands stained with flour and adrenaline pumping furiously through her veins.
"Are you hit?" Emma gasped, rushing forward to check Vittorio's side. The movement had torn his stitches open; fresh dark blood was spilling rapidly through his makeshift bandages.
"I'm... fine," Vittorio gritted out, though his knees buckled slightly. He leaned heavily against the stainless-steel counter. "We have maybe ten minutes before their backup realizes they missed their check-in. We have to move."
"Move where?" Emma asked, panic rising in her chest. "Your car is wrecked, your phone is destroyed, and the streets are crawling with syndicate enforcers."
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Vittorio looked down at her with fierce determination. "To federal protective custody. But to get there, I need a vehicle that isn't flagged by the Moretti family."
Emma looked over at the keys hanging neatly on the pegboard by the office door—her own rusty, reliable 2012 Honda Civic.
