Laundering
“This isn’t a threat. To be more precise, it’s a suggestion,” Richard replied without expression, locking eyes with Penguin’s piercing gaze. “If we go down, you won’t be far behind.” Penguin lowered his head, twirling a forkful of unsalted buttered lasagna. Through clenched teeth, he muttered, “Get lost, vermin.” The atmosphere froze. A few of the bodyguards behind Richard stepped forward, silently resting their hands on concealed holsters. The violin music serving as background ambiance abruptly ceased. Over a dozen waitstaff from the Canary Restaurant smiled politely at the other diners, murmuring, “Please excuse us for a moment,” before marching uniformly toward the restaurant corner. From their pockets, they drew silenced pistols, pressing them to the spines of the mob bosses and t
- Writer
