Chapter 3 - The Ringing Receiver at 3:07 AM
The antique rotary telephone behind the bar began to ring with an abrasive, metallic clang.
It was three-o-seven in the morning.
That landline was an unlisted private circuit known only to food suppliers, city inspectors, and three precinct captains.
Salvatore reached for the receiver, but Marco caught his wrist with an iron grip.
"I will take it," Marco said.
Marco lifted the receiver to his ear, remaining completely silent for five full seconds.
The only sound from the other end was the low, steady hum of industrial air conditioning and a faint wet cough.
"I know the girl is in the back room, DeLuca," a man’s voice said, crisp, clipped, and devoid of regional accent.
Marco’s grip tightened on the bakelite plastic.
"You have reached a commercial kitchen, friend."
"We do not open for breakfast until eleven."
"Don't play the retired mobster routine with me, Marco," the voice replied, chillingly polite.
"We both know your father’s old crest is sitting on Sophie’s lap right now."
"Her mother made a very foolish mistake this evening."
"She took something that belongs to my employer and thought an old Italian relic could grant her immunity."
Marco leaned against the bar counter, his gaze sweeping the darkened dining room.
"A child is not currency, David."
A pause hung heavy on the line, sharp enough to cut.
"So she told you my name," David said, his voice dropping an octave into pure ice.
"Emily was always too sentimental for this line of work."
"Where is she?" Marco asked bluntly.
"Emily is currently experiencing the administrative consequences of grand larceny."
"She took a military-grade cryptographic drive containing ten years of corporate settlement archives."
"She thought she could hide behind the DeLuca legend."
"You don't want this fire inside your dining room, Marco."
"You buried your brother eight years ago to get out of the federal crosshairs."
"Do you really want to exhume your family’s graveyard for a seven-year-old beggar girl?"
Marco took a slow, measured breath, feeling the old, familiar fire igniting behind his ribs.
"In my world, David, when a man enters another man's home without an invitation, he leaves in a pine crate."
"You are not dealing with a scared delivery girl now."
"Send the mother back in one piece, or come down here and try your luck at the door."
"Look through your front security monitor, Marco," David said softly before the line clicked dead.
A high-pitched chime sounded from the security console.
Marco dropped the receiver onto the cradle and walked swiftly to the display screen.
Outside the reinforced plate-glass entrance, under the drizzling rain of Madison Avenue, a figure stood motionless under the sodium vapor lamp.
He wore a tailored charcoal wool coat, black leather driving gloves, and no umbrella despite the driving rain.
His face was clean-shaven, sharp-featured, and completely calm, his gray eyes staring directly into the lens of the hidden exterior camera.
Behind Marco, Sophie gasped.
She had slipped off the booth and was standing behind the bar, her knuckles white as she squeezed Marco’s overcoat.
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"That’s him," she whispered, her teeth chattering with terror.
"That’s the man from the glass office."
