There was no panic in his voice. No theatrical threat. Only a calm instruction spoken by a man accustomed to being obeyed.
Maria sighed as though someone had interrupted her favorite song.
“Anthony,” she murmured, “please do not ruin dinner.”
One of the armed men stepped forward. He was younger than the others, perhaps thirty, with rain on the shoulders of his coat and a narrow scar along his chin.
“We’re not here for trouble,” he said.
Marco, the manager, stood near the kitchen doors with his mouth slightly open. His usual sharp commands had vanished.
Anthony finally turned.
“Then entering my mother’s favorite restaurant armed was an unusual way to make that clear.”
The young man’s gaze flicked briefly toward Maria.
“We need to speak privately.”
“This is private enough.”
A man seated near the bar slowly reached inside his jacket.
Anthony lifted two fingers without looking at him.
The man stopped.
Only then did I realize several diners were not ordinary customers. They had been watching Anthony from the moment he entered. The entire room seemed to contain hidden lines of loyalty I had never noticed before.
My pulse hammered.
Maria touched my wrist.
“Breathe, dear,” she whispered.
I stared at her. She was comforting me.
The young man with the scar drew a folded envelope from inside his coat.
“My employer wants this delivered directly to you.”
“Your employer has a telephone.”
“He said you would understand why he didn’t use it.”
Anthony’s expression did not change, but something in his eyes sharpened.
He crossed the room and accepted the envelope.
The armed men remained still.
Anthony broke the seal, read the single page inside, and looked toward the front windows.
