When you steal from the hand that feeds you, make sure you aren’t on the menu.
The Final Slice
The smell of cured meats and vinegar usually masked the scent of Sal’s fear, but today, the air in the shop felt thin. Sal wiped the counter for the tenth time, his hands trembling. For months, he’d been shaving a thin layer off the top of the mob’s weekly sports bets—a “convenience fee” for the guy running the books behind a wall of salami.
It started small. A hundred here, a fifty there. But greed is a slow-acting poison. He’d used the skimmed cash to fix the walk-in freezer, then to pay off his own mounting gambling debts. Now, the ledger in his head didn’t match the one in his pocket.
The bell above the door chimed. It wasn’t a hungry tourist or a regular looking for a spicy Italian. It was Vinnie “The Blade” and a silent man in a charcoal suit. They didn’t head for the menu; they walked straight to the back counter.
“Sal,” Vinnie purred, leaning over the glass. “The Boss noticed the neighborhood’s getting thinner. Even the envelopes look a little… malnourished.”
Sal swallowed hard, the salt on his skin stinging. “Business is slow, Vinnie. People are eating salads these days.”
Vinnie’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. He pulled a heavy, rusted meat cleaver from his coat—one Sal recognized from his own prep station. He laid it gently on the stainless steel. “The Boss hates a diet, Sal. He wants a full meal by midnight. Or he’s gonna start looking for fresh protein elsewhere.”
Vinnie patted the cleaver and turned to leave. “We’ll be at the back dock in ten minutes. Don’t be short.”
Sal looked at the empty register and the sharp edge of the blade. He had no money, and the back door was already blocked by a black SUV.
How would you finish this story?
Does Sal find a way to charm his way out, or does he become the “fresh protein” Vinnie hinted at?
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