Chapter 3 - The Summons
The morning rush at the diner was a blur of clattering silverware, shouting cooks, and grease-spattered aprons.
Emily moved between the tables with mechanical precision, pouring black coffee, refilling water glasses, and biting the inside of her cheek to keep her exhaustion at bay. She hadn't slept at all after leaving the hospital. She had spent the night calculating numbers that refused to add up, staring at the ceiling while the radiator banged against the wall like a trapped animal.
At 9:15 AM, the door chimed.
Emily didn't look up immediately. She was balancing three plates of scrambled eggs and bacon on her arm, navigating toward a booth of noisy construction workers.
“Table two is yours, Dana,” Emily called out as she passed the register.
“It’s not for me, Em,” Dana whispered, her voice tightening with sudden alarm as she grabbed Emily’s sleeve. “Look at the door.”
Emily paused, turning her head toward the front entrance.
Two men in dark, immaculate suits stood just inside the threshold. They weren't Vincent Moretti’s bodyguards from yesterday—these men were younger, sharper, wearing sunglasses indoors and radiating an air of cold, corporate menace that made the regular patrons instantly push their plates away and stare down at their coffee cups.
One of them stepped forward. He had slicked-back dark hair, a sharp nose, and a diamond pinky ring that flashed under the fluorescent lights.
Dominic Rossi.
He walked slowly down the center aisle, his shiny Italian leather shoes clicking against the cracked linoleum tiles with an insolent rhythm. He stopped right in front of Emily, blocking her path to the kitchen.
“You Emily Carter?” Dominic asked, his voice smooth, arrogant, and dripping with condescension.
Emily didn't flinch. She shifted the plates on her arm, her expression freezing into a mask of hard indifference. “If you’re looking for a table, find a booth. If you’re looking for trouble, walk back out that door before I get the spatula.”
A ripple of nervous tension swept through the diner. Reuben Hayes peered anxiously through the service hatch, a heavy iron skillet gripped tightly in his right hand.
Dominic let out a sharp, mocking chuckle. He looked her up and down, taking in the faded apron, the grease stains on her cuffs, and the tired circles under her eyes.
“Spicy,” Dominic smiled, showing straight, white teeth. “I like that. The old man told me about you yesterday. Said you had a mouth on you. Said you threatened to end him.” Dominic leaned in close, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “Do you have any idea how funny that is to us, sweetheart? Vincent Moretti built this city out of blood and concrete while you were still in diapers. And you think a waitress slinging hash browns can talk to him like that?”
“If he doesn't like my tone, he’s welcome to eat somewhere else,” Emily said coldly, trying to step around him.
Dominic’s hand shot out, grabbing her wrist just above the wristbone. Not hard enough to bruise, but hard enough to stop her movement instantly.
“Hey,” Dominic purred, his eyes narrowing. “I’m talking to you. When a Moretti speaks, you stand still and listen. That’s rule number one in Chicago.”
Emily stared down at his hand gripping her wrist. The memory of yesterday’s chaos flashed in her mind—the flying ceramic cup, the terror of her mother’s hospital bills, the crushing weight of a life where every powerful man believed he had the right to put his hands on her whenever he pleased.
The cold fury that had sustained her yesterday flared back to life, burning hotter and brighter than before.
Without a word, Emily released her grip on the three heavy plates of eggs and bacon.
Clash! Smash!
The plates hit the linoleum floor right between Dominic’s expensive leather shoes, shattering into a hundred pieces while hot grease, scrambled eggs, and greasy bacon splattered all over his trouser legs and Italian shoes.
Dominic shrieked, jumping backward with a curse, releasing her wrist as he stared down in sheer horror at his ruined shoes.
“What the hell is wrong with you?!” Dominic roared, his face turning purple with rage as he brushed frantically at his pants.
“My hands were full,” Emily said smoothly, stepping over the broken plates with absolute calm. “And you were blocking the aisle.”
Dominic lunged forward, his face twisted in fury, his hand balling into a fist as if he were about to strike her right across the jaw.
The entire diner sucked in its breath. Dana screamed. Reuben raised his iron skillet, preparing to charge out from the kitchen.
Before Dominic’s fist could move an inch, the heavy glass door of the diner swung open once more.
A single word cut through the noise of the room like the crack of a whip.
“Dominic.”
The voice was low, flat, and carried an absolute, crushing weight that instantly froze everyone in the room.
Dominic stopped dead in his tracks, his arm still raised. He turned around slowly, the color draining rapidly from his face.
May you like
Standing in the doorway, leaning slightly on a heavy ebony walking cane, was Vincent Moretti.
Behind him, four armed men fanned out across the entrance, sealing off the room. But Vincent wasn't looking at his capo. His dark, piercing eyes were fixed entirely on Emily Carter, standing among the broken plates with her apron stained and her jaw set like stone.
