The night air outside Giovanni’s was cool, but inside the black Cadillac, the tension was a physical weight.

  "Risk analysis," I whispered, checking the Kevlar vest hidden under my bespoke suit. It was thin—Level II protection. It would stop a 9mm round, but a rifle shot would turn my ribs into ceramic shrapnel. My fingers were cold, a sharp contrast to the adrenaline beginning to simmer in my veins.

  "Twelve hostiles," Niko’s voice crackled in my earpiece, steady and detached. He was a shadow on a rooftop three hundred yards away. "Four street thugs at the door—hired muscle, low quality. But the eight professionals inside? They’re carrying SMGs under their jackets. They move like contractors, Boss. This isn't a sit-down; it’s a death sentence."

  "I know," I said, adjusting my silk tie in the rearview mirror. "It’s not a meeting. It’s a foreclosure. And I’m here to collect."

  Beside me, Daniel was hyperventilating so loudly it was distracting. He was squeezed into a cheap, polyester suit from a surplus store because he had been forced to give his custom Armani to Benny. The fabric hissed every time he moved.

  "If I die in this $40 polyester blend," Daniel wheezed, clutching his briefcase like a life preserver, "tell my father I died fighting a grizzly bear. Or a lion. Something noble. Don't let the obituary say I was liquidated in a bargain-bin jacket."

  "Focus, Daniel," I said. "Just hold the briefcase. It’s part of the branding."

  I looked at Benny in the front seat. He was a marvel of biological engineering squeezed into Daniel’s Armani. The seams were screaming, the fabric stretched to its absolute structural limit across his massive deltoids. He looked like a titan trying to fit into a doll’s clothes.

  "Ready, Benny?"

  Benny didn't look back. He just watched the restaurant doors, his breathing slow and rhythmic. "Hungry, Boss."

  We entered Giovanni’s.

  The contrast was jarring. The restaurant was a cathedral of high-end culture. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm, golden glow over white linen tablecloths. The air was a rich, heavy tapestry of scents: white truffle oil, roasted garlic, and the woody aroma of aged Barolo. Soft opera—Nessun Dorma—floated from hidden speakers, the tenor’s voice reaching for an impossible note.

  It smelled like old money. It felt like a trap.

  The dining room was empty, save for one large table in the center. Tommy "The Gut" sat there, looking like a man who had already been ghosted by his own life. His skin was the color of spoiled milk, his eyes sunken and twitching.

  Surrounding him were the eight professionals. They didn't sneer or posture. They stood with military stillness, their eyes scanning our hands, our waistlines, our eyes. Mercenaries. Real overhead.

  "You actually came," Tommy rasped, his voice sounding like gravel in a blender. "I thought you were a man of numbers, Solomon. I didn't think you were suicidal."

  "I am a man of numbers, Tommy," I said, sitting opposite him. Benny stood behind me, a wall of Armani-clad muscle. Daniel cowered in Benny’s shadow, trembling. "And the numbers say your company is bankrupt. Your reputation is a toxic asset. No one is coming to save you."

  I placed a black USB drive on the white tablecloth.

  "I’m here to close your account. Transfer the remaining territory codes. Leave the city tonight. And I might choose not to audit your remaining life span."

  Tommy laughed. It was a wet, rattling sound that ended in a cough. "You think this is a business meeting? You think you’re in a boardroom?"

  Tommy leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with a desperate, dying light. "This isn't a negotiation, you four-eyed freak. This is a total liquidation."

  Tommy didn't give a signal. He just blinked.

  I expected a verbal rebuttal. I got a physical one.

  The mercenary to my right moved with the economy of a professional. He didn't punch; he swung the heavy butt of his SMG in a short, brutal arc.

  CRACK.

  The world tilted. A flash of white light blinded me as the polymer stock collided with my temple.

  I was tossed out of the chair, my body hitting the marble floor with a dull thud. My glasses spun away into the darkness. A high-pitched ringing—eeeeeeeeee—erased the opera music. I tasted salt. Then copper. Warm, thick blood began to pour from a gash on my forehead, matting my eyelashes and blurring my vision into a red haze.

  Focus, I screamed at myself. Calculate the damage. Force of impact: approx 450 Newtons. Blood loss: 12ml/minute and rising. Structural damage: Potential grade-one concussion. Cost of glasses repair: Irrelevant. Survival ROI: Dropping.

  "BOSS!" Daniel’s voice pierced through the ringing.

  The mercenary stepped over me, raising a heavy tactical boot to crush my skull.

  Then, a variable I hadn't accounted for shifted. Daniel—the coward, the intern who cried over silk ties—didn't run. He roared—a high-pitched, terrified sound—and lunged. He didn't use a technique. He just threw his 1.95-meter frame into the mercenary’s knees like a frantic rugby player.

  "DON'T TOUCH THE COMPANY ASSETS!" Daniel shrieked, tackling the gunman into a dessert cart.

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  The sight of my blood was the override command Benny needed. He engaged Tier S.

  He didn't roar. He didn't even change his expression. He simply reached for the heavy silver serving tray on the table, the one holding a fifteen-pound roasted turkey.

  SWISH-THUD.

  He swung the tray edge-first. The silver sliced through the air and connected with the neck of the nearest mercenary. The man didn't even scream; his cervical vertebrae simply ceased to exist. He dropped like a sack of wet sand.

  "KILL THEM!" Tommy screamed, scrambling backward.

  The seven remaining mercenaries didn't panic. They were elite. They split into two groups, moving with practiced coordination to create a lethal crossfire. Seven SMGs were raised in unison.

  Benny didn't wait for them to find their rhythm. He gripped the edge of the 100kg mahogany dining table. His Armani suit jacket finally gave up, the back seams exploding as his muscles expanded to their maximum torque.

  "Urrh!"

  With a heave that defied the laws of physics, Benny flipped the massive table into the air.

  RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!

  A hail of 9mm rounds shredded the expensive wood, but the mahogany held. The table became a mobile fortress. Benny pushed it forward, a human tank advancing behind a wooden shield.

  I crawled toward a pillar, wiping blood from my good eye. "That table... was a 19th-century antique," I coughed, my head spinning. "Depreciation value: 100% in 2.4 seconds. Write it off."

  The restaurant became a slaughterhouse.

  CRASH!

  The front window disintegrated as Niko’s first sniper round entered the chat. A mercenary's head snapped back, his tactical earpiece flying into a bowl of pasta.

  Inside, Benny was a whirlwind of industrial violence. Two mercenaries tried to rush his flank. Benny grabbed the white linen tablecloth, heavy with crystal and silver. He whipped it like a combat net, tangling the gunmen, then grabbed the bundle and slammed it into the wine cabinet.

  Hundreds of bottles of vintage Barolo exploded. The floor was instantly flooded with a dark, expensive river of red wine and jagged glass.

  I managed to pull myself up, leaning against a cold marble pillar. My vision was a kaleidoscope of red and gold. A mercenary broke through the chaos, spotting me. He raised his weapon.

  I pulled my pistol. My hand was trembling—a side effect of the concussion.

  BANG. I hit a $500 bottle of extra virgin olive oil. BANG. I hit a painting of a saint.

  "Inaccurate... hardware," I spat, blood dripping from my chin.

  The mercenary sneered, closing the distance for a guaranteed kill.

  I didn't try to aim. I waited. When he was three feet away, I lunged forward, ignoring the pain in my head. I jammed the barrel of my pistol into the soft tissue of his abdomen.

  BANG.

  He folded like a bad hand of poker.

  "No! No! This isn't happening!" Tommy screamed. His elite guards were broken toys, scattered across the ruin of Giovanni’s.

  He turned and bolted toward the kitchen's double doors.

  "Daniel, stay down!" I ordered, my voice raspy. "Benny, clear the perimeter!"

  I followed Tommy.

  The kitchen was a hellscape of stainless steel, white tile, and blinding steam. Tommy was hiding behind a central prep island, his hands shaking so hard he could barely hold his massive .44 Magnum.

  BLAM! BLAM!

  The heavy rounds punched holes in the industrial refrigerators, releasing clouds of freon. One bullet grazed my shoulder, hot lead tearing through the fabric of my vest.

  "You ruined everything!" Tommy shrieked, popping up to fire again. Click. Click. Empty.

  He roared in frustration, grabbed a heavy butcher’s cleaver from a magnetic rack, and charged.

  I tried to pivot, but the floor was slick with grease and spilled soup. I slipped, and Tommy crashed into me. We hit the floor hard. His hands—greasy and smelling of raw meat—clamped around my throat.

  "I'll kill you!" he hissed, his face inches from mine. "I'll kill you myself!"

  My vision began to fade. Dark spots danced in the air. My fingers clawed at the floor, searching for an edge, a leverage, anything.

  My hand hit something cold. Heavy. Cast-iron.

  I gripped the handle of a 12-inch skillet and swung it with the last of my conscious strength.

  BONG!

  The sound was like a church bell in a thunderstorm. The heavy pan connected squarely with Tommy’s temple. His eyes rolled back, and he slumped over, the weight of his body pressing me into the cold tile.

  I pushed him off and stood up, gasping for air. My lungs burned. My suit was a total loss—covered in wine, blood, and kitchen grease.

  Tommy crawled backward, his back hitting a professional-grade stove. He looked up at me, and for the first time, he saw it. He didn't see an accountant. He saw the inevitable conclusion of a bad investment.

  "Wait..." Tommy wheezed, blood bubbling on his lips. "I have... off-shore accounts. $20 million in the Caymans. I'll give you the keys. 70/30 split. Just... let me go."

  I found my glasses on the kitchen floor. One lens was gone, the other was a spiderweb of cracks. I put them on anyway. The world was fractured, but clear enough.

  I checked my pistol. One round left. The final dividend.

  I looked at the blood staining my French cuffs. I took a moment to adjust the cufflink, my movements slow and deliberate, ignoring the man begging for his life.

  "Your credit has been revoked, Tommy," I said. My voice was devoid of heat. It was the sound of a closing bell.

  I raised the gun, aiming steadily at the bridge of his nose.

  "And your account..."

  I looked him dead in his terrified eyes.

  "...is closed."

  BANG.

  The shot echoed off the tiles, sharp and final. Tommy "The Gut" slumped forward into a pool of his own failed legacy.

  "Transaction complete," I whispered, the smoke from the barrel curling around my broken glasses.

  I walked back into the dining room.

  It was a graveyard of luxury. Benny was standing near the ruins of the mahogany table, his Armani suit now just a collection of rags hanging off his frame. He was holding a roasted turkey leg he had scavenged from the floor. He took a bite, chewed slowly, and nodded at me.

  Daniel rushed over, his polyester suit covered in dust. "Boss! You're alive! Your face... it’s... well, it’s not S-tier right now." He looked at my ruined clothes. "And the suit. Solomon, that’s a total write-off. Insurance won't cover a gunfight."

  "We'll buy the company that makes the suits," I said, my voice heavy with exhaustion.

  Niko’s voice in my ear: "Area clear. Police ETA: 3 minutes. Time to exit the market."

  "Gara, bring the car," I said into the radio.

  I paused at the shattered front doors, looking back at the carnage of Giovanni’s. The Nessun Dorma had finally ended. Silence was the only thing left.

  "And Daniel?"

  "Yes, Boss?"

  "Find us a burger joint," I said, adjusting my broken glasses. "I’m done with fine dining for the fiscal year."

  End of Chapter 16.

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