I left Goldshanks’ casino with my head held high, whistling a tune. I got a new job, went up another level, and I was gearing up to start grinding my way to the stratosphere! I felt like I was invincible, the king of the world! Nothing could stop me! Except…

I felt my stomach rumble.

It was just past noon, and while I didn’t normally eat lunch until an hour or two later, I figured I could treat myself to an early meal.

Most of the stores around me came off as trashy tourist traps. Dive bars, tiny boutiques, and other overpriced garbage. Like hell I was going into any of them.

I decided to head back home, and see if I could find a nice restaurant around there instead. The walk didn’t take too long. The Atlantic City suburbs were much nicer than the downtown by miles, and that included the restaurants. One in particular caught my eye, a Japanese place.

I entered the restaurant and was seated almost immediately. I received a menu and ordered the first thing I recognized; a California roll. I was honestly surprised they had something so familiar, but I wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Eventually, the meal arrived at my table and I began to dig in.

I let out a contented sigh. The food was delicious, exactly how I remembered it from back home; perfectly filling and easy on the stomach, but not bloating. I still felt plenty of energy despite eating two plates of rolls, and not a drop of sleepiness!

I looked down at my stomach and grumbled. I’d just beaten an impossible interview and got myself the kind of job most people could only dream of! I was at war with the fucking mob! I deserved some dessert.

After paying my bill, I headed out and looked around for something that would satisfy me. Most of the shops didn’t have much, but an Italian place caught my eye. I felt like I could really go for some tiramisu.

“Hello, and welcome to Vicchi’s Trattoria!” exclaimed the hostess as I walked inside. “Let me take you to your seat.”

I followed her to an empty table with two chairs, took my seat, and made my order. “Just a tiramisu please, and hold the wine. I’ve got a long day ahead of me.”

“Of course!” she nodded back before placing a small plate in front of me. “And here’s your complimentary plate of garlic bread.”

I looked at the slices. One of those fancy Italian loaves was cut in half lengthwise and then sliced into pieces by its width. Each piece was then coated in a thick layer of butter and garlic puree and baked until the surface was golden brown. I scraped the top with a fork and smiled at the sound. I lifted up one of the slices to my mouth, but before I could take a bite, I heard some people take a seat at the table behind me that I didn’t see coming in from the front.

“Damn these shakes, man,” said a man from that group. His voice was gruff and had a thick New Jersey accent, but still elicited some sympathy from me. He sounded like he had it bad.

“Well, this here garlic bread is supposed to help with that,” said another voice. This one belonged to a woman, similarly accented but sounding nasally.

“I hope so,” added a third with a long exhale. He sounded somewhat dopey. “I’ve barely been able to get any action since our last hook-up spot unionized.”

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“We all haven’t, bozo!” shouted the first. “And if it weren’t for that stupid no coworker hookup policy, I’d be banging Nancy’s brains out in the alleyway right now!”

“Oh please, as if I’d settle for you,” the woman laughed. But her voice quickly turned dour. “Ok, maybe I would.”

My eyes bugged out. I slowly turned my head to see the trio behind me dressed in gray pinstripe suits with matching white fedoras and purple ties. They were in the middle of shoving the small plate of garlic bread down their throats like it was life saving medicine.

“Sherioushly,” said the first mobster in between bites. “When I get my handsh on the shun of a bitcsh who got them tellersh to unionishe, I’m gonna make him wish he wash dead!”

I jerked my head back to my own plate and took a small nibble of my own bread. It was surprisingly good, but that didn’t distract me from what was happening just over my shoulder. They knew someone was behind it, and the tellers and union rep had my name.

“Yeah, Marty McSchmiddt is done for!”

I felt my shoulders sag and I let out a long, drawn out sigh. It was like a great weight was lifted off me. I even let out a sniffle at the sheer balls on the bank tellers for not using my real name.

“Hey buddy, you alright?” asked Nancy. “Yeah, you at the table by yourself.”

I froze. “Uh… yeah! I’m doing fine! This garlic bread is just that good! It’s making me tear up! Heh.”

They shrugged and turned back to their own not-so-private conversation.

“Seriously, this delivery is taking way too long,” grumbled the first man. “We should’ve been outta here already, but someone demanded we stay and eat some garlic bread!”

“Sorry, sir.” The other man began to twiddle his thumbs. “It was the boss who said we should try it, so I thought we should do what she says.”

“Our boss is also the reason I can’t get it on with Nancy here! Hell if I ever cross queen bee, but a suggestion is just a suggestion. It’s the only time we can quietly tell her to eat shit and get away with it. It’s the only time it’s safe.” He felt a small shiver.

They all did.

The three quickly scarfed down their garlic bread and got up. The lead man was holding a metal briefcase in a vise-like grip, and something about it caught my eye. I knew what I had to do.

“[Revenge: Minor Inconvenience]”

The apparent leader somehow tripped on the completely smooth floor and the suitcase went flying into the ground, top-first. As if by magic, the latches snapped open and several wads of hundred dollar bills came tumbling out.

They all stayed bound together, however, and the mobster was able to quickly gather and put them back inside. He slammed the briefcase shut and hugged it tightly.

I’d made the mistake of watching the whole thing, and all three of them glared daggers at me.

“You fuckin’ saw nuthin’!” shouted the lead mobster.

“I-I saw nothing!” I squeaked back. I’d seen everything.

The trio quickly left the restaurant and got into a nearby parked car before driving off.

Back inside, I was deep in thought. It all made sense. That briefcase had way too much cash for it to be protection money from this place alone. The restaurant had to be the mob’s money laundering front!

This must’ve been where all of the cash from shakedowns went, and they likely cooked the books to make it look like they sold more food than they did, with the supposed profits actually being the stolen cash. That way, the government would be none the wiser. But what would happen if somebody gave the Internal Revenue Service a little tip?

I faced forwards again as the trio left, thankful that they decided to leave me alone. Thankful for thinking that I wasn’t a threat.

“Open System,” I said as I took another bite of garlic bread.