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My heart immediately sinks. He didn’t forget anything. My mind flashes to the worst possible scenario- that he’s already set up a meeting with my uncle, and has skipped straight to a hostage negotiation that will probably end in a shootout and a brand new war.
Thomas guides me down the sidewalk, strolling like we’re a couple enjoying the fine day, until we arrive at a modest bistro that isn’t actually open. Thomas texts someone on his phone, and a moment later the door is unlocked from inside, and we’re let in by a suited man who nods to Thomas deferentially. I see the otherwise empty restaurant, and the table set up in the middle of the floor that is the only one set with plates, and try to send my mind far, far away.
From the kitchen, another suit leads a trembling older man by the shoulder. I don’t recognize him, and for a horrible second, I feel relief that he isn’t my uncle. The bistro’s owner, probably, who’s crossed Thomas in one way or another. The suit sets the man down firmly in one of three chairs around the table. Thomas seats himself comfortably across from him, then gestures for me to take the third seat. I’ve been placed between them, a spectator to the scene that Thomas has crafted just for me.
I keep my breathing shallow, keep my eyes on my plate, and wait for the horror to be over.
“Good morning, Russo,” Thomas says, and there’s warmth in his voice that I don’t buy for a moment. “I appreciate you taking the time to meet me. You’ve been busy lately, after all.”
The older man tries to smile, but he’s shaking too hard to succeed at it. “I-It’s always a pleasure, Mr. Warwick. Always a pleasure.”
“Oh, I wish that were true. Because if it were such a pleasure, you wouldn’t be skimming me, would you?”
Goosebumps rise on my arms. My face is perfectly blank, but in my lap, my fingers twist into painful knots.
Mr. Russo makes a few aborted attempts to speak before he manages to choke out, “N-No, Mr. Warwick, of course not- I-I mean I would never dream of it! It’s just- business hasn’t been so good lately. I hired some new hands in the kitchen, but they’re trash- I’ll fire them today, and get the place back up to snuff- Next month we’ll be back to the regular payment, I swear-”
“Will I get regular payments because your business will be better, or because you’ve realized it’s not worth it to two-time me?” Thomas asks, his voice perfectly pleasant.
“I-I-I don’t- I wouldn’t-”
I want to hide under the table. I’ve seen men bluster and sweet talk, but the ones who are too afraid to be able to speak at all are the worst. They’re the ones who cry before they scream when the negotiation ends and the torture begins.
“Let’s try this another way,” Thomas says, bored now. He reaches beneath the table and pulls an oiled black handgun out of god knows where. Mr. Russo and I both press back into our seats at the sight of it. Thomas places it beside the fork and knife next to his plate, lining it up neatly as if it’s a natural part of the place setting.
“Now, Russo. I know you’re shorting me. You know you’re shorting me. What I want to know is whether you’re keeping the money for yourself or sending it to someone else.”
Russo’s watery brown eyes are fixed on the gun. His body is shaking so hard I can hear his chair rattling. His mouth opens and closes, helpless, as he gives up on his pathetic lies and realizes that, no matter what he says, he’s not surviving this.
“I-I-I haven’t been keeping it,” he finally croaks out.
“Where is the money going, Russo? A cop? A side-hustle? A family member?”
Mr. Russo stammers something I can’t make out. It sounds like he’s hissing. He’s definitely crying. When he finally manages to speak, he says, “It’s a cousin- it’s my cousin.”
“A cousin, or your cousin?”
“M-My cousin. My cousin.”
“What’s this cousin’s name?”
Mr. Russo makes a strange clicking noise in the back of his throat, like there’s no spit left in him to help him speak. My own mouth is bone dry too, my whole body still as a statue, waiting for the gun at the table to go off.
“... Larry,” Mr. Russo finally gasps out. It’s such an obvious lie, I almost groan.
Thomas hums thoughtfully, then says frostily, “You don’t have a cousin, Russo.”
A cry of terror and rage explodes out of Mr. Russo, and he flings himself across the table toward Thomas. His hands scrabble for the gun. Points it, point blank, at Thomas’s forehead. Pulls the trigger.
Dead silence fills the restaurant.
Thomas blinks slowly, perfectly unimpressed.
“Wh-What-” Russo stammers, looking down at the very real, unloaded gun in his hands.
Then Thomas stands up, raises a second gun equipped with a silencer, and shoots Russo through the shoulder. The old man topples off the table, screaming and clutching at his collarbone. The suited men, who hadn’t flinched before, step forward to haul him up.
“Take him back to the estate,” Thomas says calmly, replacing the second gun in a hidden holster under his suit jacket. The first gun, the bait, lies harmlessly on the floor. He bends to retrieve it, then looks down at me, still sitting stock-still in my place at the table. He comes around toward me, and slowly holds the gun out, grip first.
