Chapter 9 - The Global Summons

By noon, every major news network ran the same footage: SWAT teams fleeing a suburban kitchen, faces blurred, while kneeling gangsters formed human shields. The headline? "Grim Reaper Repels FBI Invasion with Pastries."Leo ignored it all, restocking his pantry with methodical calm. Marco swept glass shards while Sophie monitored global Twitter trends—#ReaperResurrection now topping charts in 47 countries."Dad," she said, awestruck, "the BBC calls you 'the anti-Christie—where victims multiply around the innocent.'"Elena snorted from the espresso machine. "Flattering. Pass the sugar."A private courier arrived at 1 PM—black suit, no logo, titanium briefcase handcuffed to wrist. He bowed before handing Leo a wax-sealed envelope."From the Consortium," the courier whispered. "Trieste. Midnight, three days."Leo broke the seal without looking up from his inventory list. Inside: a first-class ticket, black AmEx, and a single line in embossed gold:"The Reaper is summoned. All kneel.""Trieste?" Elena read over his shoulder. "That's the international crime summit. Every cartel, triad, and syndicate boss attends."Leo folded the ticket away. "Business trip. Who's watching the kids?"Sophie gaped. "You're going?""Free flight," Leo replied. "And Italy has excellent olive oil suppliers."48 Hours Later - Elba International Airport, ItalyA private convoy waited—no questions, no IDs checked. Armored Mercedes formed a motorcade through hairpin mountain roads. Leo sat in silence, reading a dog-eared copy of The Joy of Cooking by flashlight.At the summit venue—an ancient fortress carved into Adriatic cliffs—floodlights illuminated 200 men in impeccable suits. Silence fell as Leo stepped from the car.Vincenzo Russo waited at the entrance, beaming with pride. "Don Marchetti! The families of Europe, Asia, South America—they all came for you."Leo adjusted his apron—yes, he wore it over his travel suit. "Dinner reservations?"Vincenzo led him through torch-lit corridors to a grand hall. 200 crime lords rose as one, bowing deeply. The air thrummed with reverence.At the head table sat Don Alphonse Moretti, 87 years old, Europe's elder statesman of organized crime. His voice rasped like gravel: "Leonard Marchetti. The Reaper walks among us."Leo nodded politely. "Nice venue. Good acoustics."Moretti slid a velvet pouch across the table. Inside: 50 gold coins, each engraved with a scythe and skull. "The Prophecy Tokens. One for every family here. Yours by right."Leo weighed them thoughtfully. "Heavy. Good for doorstops."Murmurs rippled. He refuses godhood? Or tests our worth?Moretti leaned forward. "23 American bosses. 14 cartel generals. 9 Triad dragons. All dead after dining near you. The Prophecy spreads: 'Those who taste the Reaper's salt taste death.'"Leo frowned. "Salt? My gnocchi uses fleur de sel. Hard to source locally."The room gasped. He reveals his weapon!A young Triad enforcer stood boldly. "Reaper! Command us! Russia encroaches on our ports—"Leo held up a hand. "Sorry. No comment on competitors. Restaurant policy."Moretti smiled thinly. "Then witness our gift."Dancers entered—flamenco skirts swirling crimson. Masked violinists played a dirge. At center stage, a massive table: prime rib, caviar, truffles. A feast for kings.Except every dish contained one ingredient: Leo's signature garnish—a single black olive, pitted and glistening."Eat," Moretti commanded his lieutenants. "Share the Reaper's blessing."They obeyed, faces pale. Leo watched, puzzled, as grown men chewed with the solemnity of last rites.Back in America - FBI Crisis CenterHale slammed satellite photos. "He's there. Trieste. The one place no agency can touch."Director Vance entered, holding a fax. "Interpol just got this—from Moretti's own hand: 'The Reaper accepts our service. War ends.'""He's running the global underworld," Hale breathed. "From an apron."Trieste Fortress, 3 AMLeo slipped away from the feast, finding the fortress kitchen. Empty, pristine, stocked with Italian staples. He tied on a spare apron and began cooking.Pasta rolled. Sauce simmered. Gnocchi poached gently.Footsteps approached. Moretti entered, leaning on a cane. "You cook. Even here.""Can't sleep," Leo said simply. "Oven's calibrated wrong."Moretti watched in silence, then tasted a perfect gnocchi. His eyes widened—not fear, but memory."My mother's," he whispered. "Sardinia, 1932."Leo nodded. "Potato weight. Key ratio."The old man sat heavily. "Reaper... are you truly death?"Leo stirred. "Just a chef. But lately..."He trailed off. Outside, thunder rolled. Lightning revealed ships on the horizon—Coast Guard? Navy? No flags identifiable.Moretti gripped his cane. "They come for you."Leo glanced out. "Storm's close. Should secure the windows."But as alarms blared and crime lords scrambled, Leo continued cooking. Gnocchi plated. Sauce spooned. A single black olive placed precisely atop each serving.The Prophecy Tokens gleamed on the counter beside him.For the first time, Leo didn't remove them.CNN Breaking News, 4 AM EST"Unconfirmed reports: Grim Reaper sighted at global crime summit. European airspace closed. US President addresses nation at dawn."Sophie watched from her bedroom, Elena's arm around her. "Dad's cooking gnocchi while the world ends."Elena smiled tightly. "That's your father."Across three continents, grown men whispered prayers to a chef they would die for.And somewhere, in a fortress kitchen, Leonard Marchetti plated death—or dinner—for 200 of the most dangerous men alive.