Chapter 6 - The Closing Net
The silver bell above the door chimed.
Dominic Moretti stepped into Boulangerie 1888. He was forty-five years old, built like a heavyweight boxer, with slicked-back dark hair and a jagged, white scar cutting vertically through his left eyebrow. His leather shoes clicked sharply against the floorboards as he shook the rain from his expensive wool coat.
Arthur Pendelton instantly came out from behind the counter, his posture shifting from arrogant bully to groveling subordinate in a fraction of a second.
"Dominic," Pendelton greeted him warmly, offering a firm hand. "You're early. The weather getting worse out there?"
"The storm is the least of my concerns, Arthur," Moretti said, his voice a deep, gravelly baritone that echoed off the high ceiling. His dark eyes didn't look at Pendelton; they swept past him, locking directly onto Toby.
Toby froze near the sink, a damp towel clutched in his stiff hands. The air left his lungs in a cold rush. The man from the basement was standing five feet away from him.
"Is this the kid?" Moretti asked smoothly, taking off his leather gloves one finger at a time.
"Yeah," Pendelton nodded, his expression turning cold and predatory. "That's Toby. The one who was down in the dry-goods room three weeks ago when you dropped off the shipment."
Moretti walked slowly toward the counter. He leaned his heavy forearms against the quartz glass, staring down at Toby like a hawk inspecting a field mouse.
"You look nervous, kid," Moretti murmured, a cruel, mocking grin stretching across his scarred face. "What's the matter? Don't you like working the afternoon shift?"
"I... I'm fine, sir," Toby squeaked out, his voice cracking. He backed away until his shoulder blades slammed against the stainless-steel commercial refrigerator behind him. "I was just... finishing my work."
"You see, Toby," Moretti said, pulling a polished silver toothpick from his pocket, "my organization values privacy above all things. When we do business in a quiet establishment like this, we like to know that the walls don't have ears. And more importantly... that the employees don't have big mouths."
"I didn't see anything!" Toby blurted out, tears of absolute panic welling in his eyes. He raised his hands defensively. "I swear to God, I didn't see anything! I didn't tell anyone! I don't even know what was in that envelope!"
Pendelton snorted, walking up beside Moretti. "He's lying, Dominic. He's been twitchy for three weeks. He looks at every police car that drives by like it's his personal taxi. He's a liability."
Moretti reached into his heavy wool coat, his hand sliding toward the leather holster beneath his left armpit.
"Arthur's right, kid," Moretti whispered, his eyes void of all human emotion. "In our line of work, we don't take chances on 'twitchy' kids. We're going to take a little walk out to the alley behind the kitchen. Just to clear the air."
Toby’s heart stopped. He looked at the front door—it was twenty feet away, but Moretti blocked the path. He looked at Pendelton, who was smirking with malicious satisfaction.
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He was trapped. He was going to die in a wet alley behind a bakery, and nobody in the world would ever know what happened to him.
Suddenly, a loud POP echoed through the street outside.
