Chapter 13 - Knives at Midnight

The Oceanus Rex sliced through midnight swells, a floating coliseum lit by floodlights and satellite broadcasts. Every screen on the ship pointed to the Triad Deck—three industrial kitchens gleaming under surgical lights. Global crime lords watched from private decks. CNN pirated the feed. The world held its breath.Leo stepped from the family suite elevator, apron crisp, knife roll tucked under arm. Sophie and Elena watched from a bulletproof VIP box above, surrounded by trembling Secret Service agents."Love you, Dad!" Sophie yelled. Elena blew a kiss, eyes fierce.Volkov waited center-stage, black chef coat billowing like a cape. His kitchen station bristled with illegal modifications—flame jets roaring blue, cleavers embedded in cutting boards like war trophies. Behind him, a digital timer: 00:00.A neutral voice boomed over speakers: "Three kitchens. Ninety minutes. Theme: 'The Final Supper.' No rules. Global underworld votes the winner. Begin."KLAXON.Volkov moved first—ferocious. Lobsters split mid-air. Flames erupted. Knives blurred into silver arcs, filleting fish before they hit the counter. His station became inferno theater, every motion a death threat."Behold!" he roared at the cameras. "The Shadow Reaper carves mortality itself!"Leo worked silently. No fire. No drama. Mushrooms sliced paper-thin. Duck confit rendered slow. His corner stayed cool, methodical—a calm eye amid culinary Armageddon.30 Minutes - First BloodVolkov plated his first course: seared foie gras, black truffle shavings, gold leaf. He hurled the plate at Leo's station—CRASH. Sauce splattered Leo's apron."Too slow, Marchetti!" Volkov taunted. "Your comfort food dies tonight!"Leo wiped sauce with one finger, tasted. "Needs vinegar." Continued dicing.The crime lord audience cheered Volkov's aggression. Odds shifted: Shadow Reaper 3:1 favorite.60 Minutes - The TurnVolkov's second course: molecular gastronomy sorcery—caviar spheres bursting with liquid smoke, deconstructed beef Wellington floating in smoked glass. Instagram exploded.Leo plated simplicity: agnolotti in brown butter. Each pasta pouch perfect, sage leaves crisp, a single black olive perched like judgment.He rang the service bell once. Ding.Cameras zoomed. The VIP box gasped. Sophie whispered, "Dad's olive. The Prophecy garnish."Global mafia chatrooms reversed. "Reaper deploys the mark." Odds flipped: Marchetti even money.Volkov snarled, smashing a pan. "Tricks! I end you!"89 Minutes - Final PlaysSweat poured off Volkov. His finale: 18-hour lamb, rack sliced tableside, bloodrare. He hefted a massive cleaver—same one that bisected Leo's thermos.Leo plated last: roasted quail, tiny bird stuffed with wild rice, figs poached in balsamic. Simple. Elegant. No olive.Volkov laughed. "No Prophecy? You forfeit!"Leo sliced the quail breast—motion fluid, knife whispering. Juice ran clear. He placed one perfect slice center-plate.Then, from his apron pocket, produced the black olive. Placed it beside—not on—the quail.Volkov lunged. "Coward's mark!"Leo sidestepped. Volkov's cleaver buried in Leo's cutting board—THUNK. The blade vibrated.Leo rang the bell. Ding. Time.JudgmentThe underworld scoreboards lit up. Trieste bosses. Cartel generals. Triad elders. Votes poured in.Volkov paced, cleaver still stuck. "Impossible! My technique! My fire!"Leo cleaned his station methodically. Spotless.The neutral voice returned: "Global verdict: 87% Marchetti. The Reaper wins."Pandemonium. Crime lords stood on tables. Champagne corks fired like gunshots. Sophie screamed victory hugs.Volkov ripped his cleaver free, eyes wild. "You cheat death itself!"He charged—straight at the family box. Secret Service raised weapons.Leo didn't turn. He reached into his cooling station, withdrew a single pot of simmering liquid. One smooth motion—duck fat, scalding.Volkov hit the deck five feet short, choking, clawing his throat. Invisible. Medics swarmed.Leo plated an extra quail for Elena. "She prefers dark meat."Ship's Medical Bay - 2 AMVolkov thrashed against restraints as Leo entered, apron still pristine. Guards parted reverently."You... poisoned... air?" Volkov gasped.Leo set a glass of water nearby. "Duck fat vapor. Allergic reaction. Basic kitchen safety."Volkov's eyes bulged. "Monster."Leo leaned close. First time his voice held edge. "You sunk ships. Killed crews. For ratings. I'm the monster?"Volkov convulsed. Leo turned to leave.Behind him, Volkov's heart monitor flatlined. The Shadow Reaper was gone.Marchetti Suite - DawnSophie hugged Leo's waist. "Dad. You killed him with steam.""Work accident," Leo said, packing knives. "Like I told the medics."Elena studied him. "The olive. Off the plate. Why?"Leo paused. "Test. Wanted to see if the Prophecy needed contact.""And?"Leo glanced at his reflection in the suite window. For one heartbeat, his shadow flickered—hooded, scythe-shaped."Doesn't," he said quietly.Outside, the Oceanus Rex turned toward Miami, escorted by three Coast Guard cutters flying skull-and-apron flags. Global headlines screamed: "Reaper Claims Shadow. Underworld Unified."Emil Voss knelt in the hallway. "Don. The families await command."Leo stepped past. "Restaurant opens at 11. Be on time."For the first time, Leonard Marchetti walked with purpose—not to the kitchen, but toward whatever shadow grew behind him.