Every single one of you. Then she turns back to Madison. And you're cruel. Whatever happens next, you earned it. Madison rolls her eyes.
And you're delusional, sweetheart. Brianna walks toward the front door, one hand on her belly, the other clutching her wet phone. She's almost at the door when her phone buzzes in her hand. She stops, looks down at the screen. Incoming text from Anthony.
Four words outside. Don't move. Briana stops walking. Stands completely still, one hand on the door handle, and she waits. Madison watching from across the room rolls her eyes and calls out, "Oh, now you're going to pretend he's real.
Nice try." But Briana doesn't respond. Doesn't move. Just stands there, water still dripping from her dress, phone in her hand, facing the door, waiting. 30 seconds pass.
The restaurant is dead silent now. Everyone watching this pregnant woman standing by the door like she's waiting for something or someone. And then the door swings open. The first thing everyone notices is the silence outside. Manhattan on Friday night is never quiet.
Car horns, sirens, people, the constant city hum. But right now, the street is completely silent, like someone hit pause. Then they walk in. 10 men in expensive Italian suits. Black on black, customtailored, perfect fit, the kind that costs more than most people's cars.
They move in formation. Precise military. Two position themselves by the door. Nobody's leaving without permission. Two more head to the kitchen entrance just watching.
The remaining six spread through the dining room. Don't sit. Don't speak. Just stand. Every conversation dies.
Every fork stops. Every camera lowers because these aren't regular people. Everyone can feel it. Something about how they move, how they look at people, how they own the space. These are dangerous men.
And leading them is Anthony Taylor. 38 but carries himself older. 6'2, broad shoulders, sharp jaw, dark eyes that miss nothing. Small scar above his left eyebrow. Didn't inherit power.
Earned it. Charcoal gray suit. $15,000. No tie. Top button undone. $40,000 watch. Wedding ring on his left hand.
The same ring Briana wears. Madison, still holding the empty pitcher near booth 12 watches with confusion. Doesn't understand why everyone looks terrified. Richard has gone pale, hands shaking, because Richard knows. Lived in New York long enough to recognize what he's seeing.
The suits, the formation, the movement. These aren't customers. Madison whispers to Richard urgently, "Who are they? Should I?" Vincent Vinnie Duca steps forward.
Stocky scar across his cheek. Eyes lock onto Madison. He doesn't raise his voice. He points one finger at Briana, standing by the door, drenched, trembling, says four words. She's the boss's wife.
Dead silence. The kind that happens when everyone realizes they witnessed something terrible and there's no taking it back. Madison's face drains white. All color, all confidence, all smuggness gone. The empty picture slips from her shaking hands, crashes to the floor, shatters into pieces.
The sound echoes like a gunshot. Madison understands now. The woman she humiliated, threw water on, mocked, tried to have arrested. She's not nobody. She's married to the most dangerous man in New York.
Madison's legs nearly give out. She grabs booth 12 to steady herself, hands shaking. Oh my god, she whispers. Oh my god. Ashley backs away, trying to disappear.
Karen Whitmore looks faint. Preston Cole deletes his videos frantically. Linda Hayes does the same, erasing evidence, pretending she wasn't complicit. Too late. Anthony Taylor hasn't said a word.
Just stands there looking at Briana, his wife, soaking wet, hair dripping, dress ruined, tears on her face, hands protecting her belly. His expression shifts to something dangerous. Jaw clenches, hands curl into fists, breathing deliberate, in through nose, out through mouth, physically stopping himself from violence. The 10 men tense, waiting, ready. But he doesn't give the order.
He crosses the room instead. The crowd parts instantly. People press against walls, creating a path. Four long strides. He reaches Briana.
When he touches her, everything changes. The rage stays, simmering in his eyes, but his hands are gentle. Careful. He cups her face. Amore, are you hurt?
Did anyone touch you? Voice low, controlled, but an edge that makes everyone nervous. Briana shakes her head. I'm okay. You're here.
I'm okay now. Anony's thumb wipes her tears. Eyes scan her face. The wet hair, soaked dress, the fear and humiliation still visible. Who did this?
Not a question, a promise. Briana doesn't answer. Anony's eyes move across the restaurant, reading the room, identifying targets. Past terrified diners, past Richard looking sick, past Ashley trying to hide, landing on Madison Clark, by booth 12, surrounded by broken glass, white as paper, shaking. Anthony just looks at her, studies her, lets her feel what's coming.
Then he takes Brianna's hand, gently like she's glass, and leads her to booth 12 to her seat. He removes his suit jacket, drapes it over her shoulders. Warm, smells like his cologne. Safe. Then he turns to face the room.
Vinnie steps beside him, pulls out a tablet, taps it, turns it to show the restaurant. Security footage from Bellisimo's cameras. Madison approaching booth 12, lifting the picture, deliberately pouring water on Briana's head. Crystal clear. No ambiguity, no accident.
We have cameras on every entrance in this neighborhood, Vinnie says, voice carrying. Saw everything tonight. Every word, every action. He turns to Madison. You name.
Madison's voice cracks. Madison Clark. I'm the head waitress. There was a misunderstanding. Madison Clark.
Vinnie repeats, tapping his tablet. 28, lives at 332 West 19th Street, apartment 3B, 4 years here, makes 32,000 plus tips. Parents in Connecticut, one sister, no criminal record. Madison goes paler. How do you We know everything.
That's how we stay in business. Anthony hasn't spoken. Just stands there, hand on Brianna's shoulder, watching Madison, letting her feel the weight before he speaks. Finally, voice quiet, calm, terrifying. I'm going to ask one time.
Who threw water on my wife? The way he says my wife makes it clear. This isn't just assault. This is personal. Madison tries backpedaling.
Sir, your wife? I didn't. She didn't say if I'd known. Anthony raises one hand. She stops.