No one was struck.
The warning had been deliberate.
The crowned man lunged toward Genevieve.
She caught the edge of the table and pulled hard.
The heavy tablecloth dragged plates, glasses, and the wine bucket into his path.
He stumbled over the collapsing linen.
The boss rose despite the wound in his side and drove him against the booth with his free arm.
The third gunman drew near the front entrance.
Richard screamed and dropped behind a decorative planter.
The boss aimed across the dining room.
The third man hesitated.
That hesitation was enough.
Restaurant security appeared from the corridor, followed by two members of the boss’s own protection detail who had traced him from the street.
One moved toward the front entrance while the other covered the kitchen.
The Calabresi gunmen suddenly found themselves trapped in the room they had intended to control.
The crowned man looked at the pistol inches from his chest.
His anger overtook his caution.
“You think getting that back changes anything?” he hissed.
“We already proved we could take it from you.”
The boss’s expression remained still.
Genevieve heard the mistake inside the sentence.
So did he.
The crowned man had admitted knowledge that only the thieves should have possessed.
Several diners had their phones in their hands now, held low beneath tables.
The screens were unreadable from a distance, but the tiny camera lenses were pointed toward the booth.
The boss leaned closer to the crowned man.
“You should be more careful with the word ‘we.’”
The crowned man’s eyes flicked toward the witnesses.
Panic arrived slowly, then all at once.
Sirens sounded outside.
Someone in the restaurant had triggered a silent alarm when the gunmen entered.
Blue and red light began to pulse against the front windows.
The third Calabresi man dropped his weapon and raised his hands.
The man near the kitchen followed after seeing both exits blocked.
The crowned man did not surrender gracefully.
He shoved the table into the boss’s wounded side and twisted free.
The boss staggered.
Genevieve caught his arm before he fell.
The crowned man ran for the service corridor, but the waiter with the silver tray stepped sideways at exactly the right moment.
The tray struck the gunman’s wrist.
His weapon clattered across the carpet.
Restaurant security forced him to the floor as police entered through the front doors.
The immediate danger ended in less than a minute.
The silence afterward lasted longer.
Richard emerged from behind the planter once every firearm was pointed away from him.
He straightened his jacket, smoothed his hair, and looked around as though he had played some useful role in the outcome.
“Genevieve,” he said, approaching the booth.
“We should leave before this becomes a whole thing.”
She turned toward him.
For the first time that evening, he had remembered her name.
“You tried to hand me to armed men,” she said.
Richard glanced at the surrounding diners.
“I was confused.”
“You said, ‘Take her.
I don’t even know her.’”
“That was a survival response.”
