Chapter 7 - The Reaper's Reservation

Leo stared at the smoldering husk of Adrien Noir's luxury sedan on the convention center news feed, broadcast live from a shaky phone camera. Firefighters battled flames while police cordoned off the parking lot. The ticker read: "Chef Rival to Grim Reaper Marchetti Dead in Fiery Blast.""Tragic," Leo said flatly, turning off the TV. "Poorly timed fireworks, maybe?"Sophie scrolled Twitter furiously. "Dad. 3.2 million posts already. They're saying you willed his car to explode from the stage."Elena poured coffee, unfazed. "Or faulty wiring. Happens with flashy cars."Marco burst through the kitchen door, soaked from rain. "Boss! Viper's calling an emergency summit. Every crime family in the city. They think you're declaring total war."Leo checked his oven timer. "War? Tell them happy hour's 5-7, half-price appetizers."Three hours later — The Summit of ShadowsIn a smoke-filled backroom of Russo's Gentlemen's Club, ten crime lords sat around a mahogany table, faces carved from stone. Vincenzo Russo stood at the head, projector screen behind him flickering with Leo's cooking show clips."Exhibit A," Vincenzo barked, pausing on Leo's calm lasagna layering. "He wins. Adrien dies. Coincidence?"Don Morelli, cigar clenched, growled, "My cousin ate there Tuesday. Found floating yesterday. Anchovies in his lungs."Don Caruso nodded gravely. "Mine too. All pointing to Marchetti's Table."A younger boss, tattooed and twitchy, slammed the table. "We pool resources! Strike first! Before the Reaper serves us our last meals!"Murmurs of agreement. Vincenzo raised a hand. "No. Brute force failed. Viper hitmen—skillet. FBI—dinner invites. We approach. Offer alliance. Total submission."The room fell silent. No one argued with the man who'd survived three Reaper "warnings."Marchetti's Table, 8 PMThe restaurant glowed warm against the storm. Leo plated veal saltimbocca for a quiet couple when the entire street went dark. Power cut.Marco flicked on emergency lanterns. "Boss—"The door opened without a chime. Ten men entered, overcoats dripping, faces shadowed. Behind them, more waited outside.Vincenzo stepped forward, hat in hand. "Don Marchetti. The families request... parley."Leo glanced at the clock. "Kitchen closes in 90 minutes. Sit. I'll send appetizers."The crime lords sat rigidly, like schoolboys before a principal. No menus. No small talk. Just stares.Elena emerged with a massive antipasto platter: prosciutto, mozzarella, olives, fresh focaccia. She set it down with a smile. "Compliments of the chef."Vincenzo stared at the olives. "Your... signature garnish."Leo called from the kitchen, "First batch was bad. These are Sicilian."The bosses gingerly took bites. Silence, then reluctant nods. Even killers could appreciate good food.Don Caruso cleared his throat. "Don Marchetti. We know your power. 28 dead since the rumors began. We offer truce. Territory. Cash flow."Leo emerged, wiping hands on apron. "Truce? From what? The Yelp review war?"Vincenzo pressed a velvet box across the table. Inside: a single gold coin, stamped with a scythe."Our blood oath," he explained. "Symbol of loyalty to the Reaper."Leo picked it up, frowning. "Nice craftsmanship. But we don't take gold for meals. Card or cash."The bosses exchanged terrified glances. He rejects the blood oath.Don Morelli stood, bowing low. "We serve. Whatever you command."Leo sighed. "Fine. Command: stop blocking the delivery trucks. And pay your tabs. You gentlemen run up quite the bill."They nodded as if receiving nuclear codes. Vincenzo slid an envelope—$2 million—under a napkin."For... services," he whispered.Leo pocketed it absently. "Trash pickup's doubled lately. Thanks."FBI Surveillance Van, Across the StreetAgent Hale watched through thermal imaging. "Ten bosses. Zero violence. They bowed leaving."His partner whistled. "He dined with the devil and sent him home with leftovers."Radio crackled: "Director's orders. Primary target confirmed. Prepare containment protocols."Marchetti Home, 11 PMSophie paced the living room. "Dad. Ten crime lords. Gold coins. They think you're their god-king now."Leo loosened his tie. "Nonsense. They tipped well. Good customers."Elena locked every door, checking twice. "Leo. This escalates. From rumors to worship."For the first time, Leo paused. He stared at the gold coin on the counter, turning it over."Superstitious fools," he muttered. Then, quieter: "But why does everyone around me end up dead?"Sophie froze. Elena's coffee cup paused mid-air.Outside, tires crunched on gravel—not police, not news vans. Something heavier.Marco's voice crackled through the baby monitor they'd rigged as a perimeter alarm: "Boss. Armored convoy. Russo's entire crew. They're... kneeling in the rain."Leo looked out the window. Headlights formed a perfect circle around the house. Thirty men, suits soaked, knelt in perfect silence on the wet driveway.Not attacking. Praying.The city's most violent men, worshipping a chef.And for the first time in months, Leonard Marchetti felt a chill that no kitchen heat could explain.