Chapter 3 - The Federal Welcome

Special Agent Marcus Hale adjusted his tie, staring at the briefing folder marked "CLASSIFIED: GRIM REAPER." Inside: photos of 23 dead crime lords, all connected to Marchetti's Table by a single thread—a reservation, a meal, then silence."Target's clean on paper," Hale briefed his team in the FBI van. "But 23 hits? No coincidences."They watched Leo through binoculars: apron on, calmly rolling pasta dough while his kids chased each other around the dining room. Elena smirked from the doorway, sipping espresso."Look at him," Hale muttered. "Domestic bliss. Or perfect cover."At 2 PM sharp, the agents marched in. Leo looked up from his dough, flour dusting his hands."Gentlemen," he said politely. "Table for four? Menu's on the counter."Hale flashed his badge. "Mr. Marchetti, we need to talk. Now."Leo wiped his hands on his apron. "Sauce needs stirring. Five minutes?"The agents exchanged glances. Five minutes? Is that a deadline?They sat stiffly as Leo vanished into the kitchen. Elena approached with a tray. "Espresso? On the house."Hale waved it off. "Ma'am, your husband—""—makes the best tiramisu in the city," she finished, smiling. "Try it later."Five minutes later, Leo returned with a steaming pot. "Ragù's ready. Care to taste?"Hale cleared his throat. "Mr. Marchetti, 23 organized crime figures are dead. All dined here first. Care to explain?"Leo stirred his pot, confused. "Explain? The veal was overcooked last Tuesday. I comped their desserts."The junior agent whispered, "Veal... like breaking legs?"Elena stifled a laugh from the counter.Hale pressed: "The olive pit in Don Caruso's throat. Your garnish?""Olive pit?" Leo frowned. "I don't serve olives. Someone's lying on Yelp."Marco burst through the door, sweating. "Boss! Viper's men outside—armed!"Leo sighed. "Tell them parking's in the back. And no guns near the kitchen."Marco saluted and bolted.Hale stood, tense. "Mr. Marchetti, you're under—""Surveillance?" Leo guessed, ladling sauce. "The van's been here three days. Use the customer lot next time."The agents froze. He knows.Elena handed Hale a business card. "Free meal for agents. Mention 'Grim Reaper discount.'"As they retreated, defeated, Leo called after them: "Ragù's better tomorrow. Braised 18 hours."Outside, Hale radioed HQ: "Target confirmed. Polite. Offered us dinner. Situation escalating."Across the street, Vincenzo Russo watched through binoculars, smirking. "Feds scared already. Reaper's untouchable."That night, Leo tucked Sophie in. "Dad, the FBI thinks you're a mob boss."Leo kissed her forehead. "Nonsense. Now sleep. Big day tomorrow—truffle shipment."Sophie grinned. "You're so doomed."Outside, news vans gathered. Reporters whispered: "Grim Reaper turns away FBI. War coming?"Leo turned off the kitchen lights, utterly oblivious.