"WAITRESS TAKES A STEEL BATON MEANT FOR THE MAFIA BOSS'S SISTER — THEN HE FINDS A PHOTO IN HER POCKET

The Salt Line was closed on Wednesday mornings, but Gerald Moss was inside anyway, pacing the polished marble floor of the empty dining room like an insecure king surveying a ruined kingdom.

Police tape still fluttered near table fourteen where the chaos had erupted. Detectives had come and gone, bribed and smoothed over by Colazo’s legal fixers before dawn, leaving behind only the eerie stillness of a crime scene. Moss was sweating through his expensive silk-blend vest, wringing his hands as he stared at the security monitor on his desk.

The front door chimed.

Moss jumped, whirling around with a nervous scowl prepared for a health inspector or an angry corporate auditor.

Instead, three men walked in.

They weren't wearing police uniforms. They wore tailored black suits that cost more than Moss’s entire wardrobe, their shoulders broad, their expressions carved from granite. Leading them was a man with a faint scar along his jaw and eyes that looked like winter ice.

Rafe Colazo.

Moss’s knees literally buckled. He caught himself against the edge of the hostess stand, his breath catching in his throat. "M-Mr. Colazo," he stammered, his voice cracking like a terrified teenager's. "I... I swear to God, we cooperated with the police, we didn't know the man had a weapon, it was a rogue element—"

Rafe didn't say a word. He walked past the tables, his leather shoes clicking rhythmically against the floor, until he stood right in front of the hostess stand. He placed both hands flat on the polished wood and looked down at the trembling manager.

"You're Gerald Moss," Rafe said. It wasn't a question.

"Yes, sir. General manager. Ten years with the Salt Line group, I run a tight ship—"

"Yesterday evening," Rafe interrupted, his voice dropping into a register so quiet and cold that the air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees, "one of your floor staff came to you and reported a suspicious man moving along the wall without a uniform tag."

Moss froze, color draining entirely from his face. "I... I don't..."

"She begged you to look," Rafe continued, leaning in slightly. "She told you something was wrong. And you told her to stop using her imagination and get back to work."

"She... she was always complaining! Always looking for excuses to shirk her section!" Moss blurted out, panic overriding his common sense. "The girl was a liability, Mr. Colazo! Always tired, always distracted—"

Bang.

Rafe’s palm slammed against the wood with a force that rattled the glassware across the entire bar. Moss shrieked, stumbling backward until his spine hit the wall.

"She worked three jobs," Rafe said, every word dripping with lethal venom. "She stood on bleeding feet for fourteen hours a day to keep a dying child alive. And when a professional killer walked through your doors to murder my sister, she was the only person in this room with enough courage to see it, enough loyalty to report it, and enough humanity to take a steel baton across her own spine so my family wouldn't bleed."

Moss pressed himself flat against the wall, his chest heaving, tears of pure terror pooling in his eyes. "Please... please, I didn't know—"

"No," Rafe agreed softly, straightening up and adjusting his cuffs. "You didn't know. Because men like you only look down at people you think are beneath you. You don't see human beings. You see inventory."

Rafe signaled with two fingers. Dante stepped forward, holding a heavy leather briefcase, which he dropped unceremoniously onto Moss’s desk with a dull, metallic thud. Dante popped the latches and flipped the lid open.

Inside were neat, banded stacks of hundred-dollar bills. Fifty thousand dollars.

"What... what is this?" Moss whispered, staring at the cash.

"This," Rafe said, turning toward the exit without looking back, "is your buyout. Every share, every title, every interest you hold in the Salt Line is now forfeit. You are going to sign the deed transfer papers my lawyer will hand you in ten minutes, pack your desk, and catch a bus out of Boston. Because if I ever see your face within city limits again..."