Chapter 7 - THE AMBUSH IN THE DARKThe darkness inside the diner was absolute.
“Shoot him!” Frankie screamed into the black room, firing two wild rounds toward booth seven.
The loud muzzle flashes illuminated the room for fractions of a second, casting terrifying, jagged shadows across the vinyl booths. The bullets tore through the plastic seats, spraying foam into the air, but Matteo was already gone.
He had slid beneath the table the second the lights went out, rolling smoothly onto the carpeted floor behind the counter.
Before Frankie’s men could adjust their night vision, a deafening CRACK exploded in the center of the dining room.
A flashbang canister—thrown with surgical precision by Matteo—detonated in mid-air.
Blinding white light and a 170-decibel shockwave erupted through the room.
Frankie’s men shrieked, clutching their ears and eyes, staggering blindly against the booths and counter.
From behind the flat-top grill, Matteo stepped out into the dark.
He didn't fire a single gun. He didn't need to.
In close quarters, against disoriented opponents, Matteo was a force of nature.
He grabbed the nearest enforcer by his coat collar, slamming his head into the chrome edge of the pie display case. The man went limp instantly.
Matteo spun, catching a second soldier’s armed wrist, twisting the gun free with a sharp SNAP of bone, and driving a devastating palm strike directly into the man’s solar plexus.
In less than twenty seconds, three of Frankie’s four interior guards were unconscious on the linoleum floor.
Damon, standing near the front entrance, caught his breath as his vision slowly returned. He saw the silhouettes of his crew lying broken on the floor, and through the dim emergency exit light, he saw Matteo standing over them like an inescapable phantom.
Damon didn't hesitate. He dropped his gun, shoved the front door open, and ran screaming out into the rainy parking lot, leaving Frankie behind.
Inside, Frankie scrambled backward against booth three, holding his Beretta with two shaking hands, pointing it wildly into the dark shadows.
“Matteo!” Frankie sobbed, his voice high and hysterical, completely stripped of his previous arrogance. “Matteo, wait! Let’s talk! We can make a deal! I’ll give you thirty percent of the port revenue! Forty percent!”
A heavy, calloused hand reached out from the darkness behind Frankie’s head, grabbing him by the hair and pulling his head back violently against the vinyl headrest.
A cold steel barrel was pressed firm against Frankie’s temple.
Matteo leaned down, his voice echoing softly in Frankie’s ear.
“I told your boy Damon last night what would happen if you came near my wife,” Matteo whispered.
“Please, Matteo!” Frankie wept, wetting his expensive pants in pure terror. “Please! I didn't touch her! I swear to God I didn't touch her!”
“You walked into her workplace with guns, Frankie,” Matteo said coldly. “You threatened her peace. You threatened the ordinary life we built.”
Outside, the sound of heavy diesel engines roared into the parking lot.
Headlights lit up the diner windows once more.
Three blacked-out transport vans—sent by Paulie Vance and the senior captains of the waterfront—pulled up behind Frankie’s SUVs. Twenty armed former soldiers from Matteo’s old syndicate poured out into the rain, instantly disarming Frankie’s remaining perimeter guards without firing a single shot.
The heavy front doors of the diner opened.
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Paulie Vance walked in, wearing his charcoal coat, holding a flashlight. He looked around the room—at the three unconscious enforcers, at the shattered glass, and at Matteo holding Frankie by the hair in booth three.
Paulie sighed, shaking his head. “You haven't lost a step, Boss.”
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