Chapter 10 - Storm of the Reaper

Thunder cracked the Adriatic sky as the fortress trembled. Interpol helicopters circled overhead, searchlights slashing through rain like scythe blades. Inside the grand hall, 200 crime lords clutched their Prophecy Tokens, eyes locked on the kitchen door.Don Moretti gripped Leo's arm. "Reaper—they come with missiles. Command your storm!"Leo adjusted the flame under his gnocchi pot, unperturbed. "Just a squall. Windows need sealing."Alarms shrieked. The first chopper fired warning shots—tracers streaking red across black cliffs. Fortress guards returned fire with anti-aircraft guns, turning the night into chaos.Sophie's panicked FaceTime call broke through on Leo's phone, propped against a flour sack: "Dad! CNN says NATO's mobilizing! They think you're starting World War III!"Leo stirred steadily. "Tell Elena to board up the restaurant. And cancel the truffle shipment."Moretti watched, awestruck, as Leo plated perfect gnocchi—pillowy dumplings nestled in browned butter, sage leaves crisping, a single black olive crowning each serving. The smell cut through cordite smoke wafting from outside."You cook," Moretti whispered, "while gods war above."Leo slid plates across the counter. "Eat before it cools."The crime lords approached single-file, kneeling to receive their portions like priests at an altar. Vincenzo Russo wept openly as he tasted his—"Mama mia… this is heaven's own mercy."Outside—Total BreakdownHale watched satellite feeds from a NATO command ship, fists clenched. "He's still cooking? While we've got Russian submarines surfacing off Montenegro?"His tech officer blanched. "Sir—every camera targeting the fortress is glitching. Static… then his face. Every feed."On live broadcasts worldwide, viewers saw the same impossible image: Leo's calm profile, apron pristine, overlaid on exploding choppers and crumbling battlements. No explanation. Just presence.Twitter collapsed under 18 billion #ReaperStorm posts. The Pope issued an emergency blessing. Wall Street froze trading.Fortress Kitchen—Eye of the HurricaneLeo's phone died mid-Sophie's scream. Power flickered. A nearby missile strike shook pots from shelves.Moretti clutched his gnocchi. "Reaper… your enemies circle. Speak death upon them!"Leo frowned at a bubbling pot. "Sauce needs more sage." He stepped to the window, peering through rain-lashed glass at the dogfight above.For the first time, something shifted. His knuckles whitened on the windowsill. Not fear—focus."Enough," he murmured.The lead Interpol chopper banked hard toward the fortress. Pilot's voice crackled over open radio: "Target acquired! Reaper confirmed—"Lightning struck. Not natural—a perfect bolt spearing from clear sky, frying electronics mid-air. The chopper plummeted, rotors screaming, splashing harmlessly into the sea half a mile out.Silence fell. Every gun on both sides stopped firing.Leo turned back to his stove. "Wind shear," he said mildly. "Predictable."Moretti fell to his knees. "You… called the thunder."Leo plated another gnocchi serving. "Static buildup. Basic meteorology."But the crime lords saw truth. They surged forward—not in panic, but worship. Hands tore at their suits, piling gold watches, diamond rings, bloodstained contracts at Leo's feet. "Command us! Rule forever!"Dawn—AftermathThe storm cleared as suddenly as it came. Wreckage littered the coastline. NATO retreated under "technical difficulties." Interpol declared the summit "non-existent."Leo emerged onto the fortress steps, apron over travel suit, carrying a single Tupperware of leftover gnocchi. Vincenzo opened the convoy door reverently."Don Marchetti," he breathed, "the world bends. What next?"Leo climbed in, handing him the container. "Sophie likes these cold. Airport now—flight's at 10."Marchetti Home—6 AM ESTElena hugged Leo at the door, kids clinging to his legs. Sophie sobbed. "Dad, they're calling it the Miracle of Trieste. You stopped a war with dinner!"Leo kissed her forehead. "Exaggerated. Passports—vacation next week?"News helicopters buzzed overhead. The President's motorcade rolled past three blocks away. Global headlines screamed: "Reaper Prophecy Fulfilled."That night, as Leo slept soundly, Elena found something in his travel bag—tucked beneath clean aprons.Not money. Not weapons.A worn black ledger. Pages filled with names, dates… and beside each, meticulous notes: "Undercooked veal." "Poorly sourced olive oil." "Sent compliments—never paid bill."At the bottom of the last page, in Leo's neat handwriting:"Adrien Noir. Criticized my ragù. Car malfunction reported 48 hours later."Elena closed it softly. Her husband slept like a child.Outside, a black jet circled the city once, then vanished eastward.The true Grim Reaper had returned home.