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I exhaled long and slow, straightened my slightly curled hair in the mirror, squared my shoulders, and walked out with all my courage and excitement.

But the moment I turned the corner past the narrow brick corridor, my steps froze.

The restaurant's warm, cozy atmosphere had vanished.

The air felt cold, like all the oxygen had been sucked out. So quiet I could only hear logs crackling in the fireplace.

Two massive white guys in greasy black leather jackets blocked our booth, one on each side. One had a buzz cut with a pale pinkish scar across his eye. The other had messy bleached hair, chewing gum, flipping a metal lighter, blowing a thick cloud of smoke down at Marcelo in the booth.

"Look who we have here... Boss Moretti's got time for date night." Scar-face's voice rasped, gravelly like a chain smoker's, leaning forward almost onto our table. "Locked horns with my old man over that Long Island dock, holding up the shipment, and you've got time to hide in this basement rat hole eating pasta?"

Marcelo, seated deep in the booth, didn't even look up.

He continued methodically twirling wide noodles on his silver fork. Didn't even blink.

The bleached-blond guy glanced at the two wine glasses on the table, then followed the corridor's movement, his naked stare stabbing straight at me.

He looked me up and down, mouth twisting into a disgusting grin, letting out a shrill, vulgar whistle.

"Well, well, looks like he's not playing dress-up alone." Blondie pointed his lighter at me, laughing nastily. "Hey, big girl, what're you getting from this old man? Mr. DeLuca's about to bury him at the docks—probably doesn't have many bullets left in the chamber either. Why don't you come with us, let you taste a real big cock—"

A sharp shattering sound exploded.

The wine glass in Marcelo's hand shattered.

Dark red wine spread rapidly across the tablecloth, mixed with sharp glass shards, dripping onto the floor.

Marcelo slowly stood up.

In that instant, without warning, he moved like black lightning tearing through clouds!

Before either man could reach into their jackets, Marcelo's right hand shot out violently, clamping precisely around Blondie's throat, five fingers crushing down as he slammed him backward!

Blondie was pinned against the rough stone wall, skull cracking hard against it with a dull thud. The broken wine glass still in Marcelo's hand didn't hesitate—the sharp edge pressed directly against Blondie's throbbing carotid artery. Bright red blood beads instantly welled up!

Scar-face's expression changed violently, hand diving toward the inside of his jacket. "You fucking—"

"Take your hand out, Lorenzo."

Marcelo turned his face slightly. Those gray-green eyes held no normal anger, only a bone-chilling calm.

His voice dropped extremely low, like two bloody pieces of iron scraping together, mixed with cold, strange-sounding Sicilian dialect. "Before your hand comes out, this glass goes through his windpipe. Go tell your father that every import-export rule at the Long Island docks has Moretti's name on it. Stick your claws into my private business again, and I'll make sure he can't even afford coffins for his whole family. You can test my methods if you want."

The Italian woman behind the bar didn't even blink, just quietly put away a clean wine glass, as if this suffocating confrontation was routine in this basement.

The man called Lorenzo's fingers froze inside his jacket, sweat beading thick across his forehead. He saw the pure, icy viciousness in Marcelo's eyes. His throat worked hard. Finally, humiliated and terrified, he slowly pulled his hand out.

"Get out." Marcelo said coldly.

He released his grip. Blondie slid down the wall like wet garbage, clutching his bleeding neck, coughing violently, shaking like a leaf.

The two thugs, so aggressive moments ago, didn't even dare leave a face-saving remark. They scrambled over each other, crashed through the heavy wooden door, and fled pathetically into the rainy night.

The door swung shut with a heavy thud, the metal bolt rattling.

Broken glass and sticky dark red liquid covered the floor.

Marcelo tossed aside his makeshift weapon, pulled a neatly folded dark handkerchief from his coat pocket, and wiped the blood off his knuckles without expression.