The Iron Waitress

The momentum of the tackle threw Nicolo off his chair, sending them both crashing hard against the checkered floor behind the mahogany bar.

Glass shards rained down like jagged hail.

Automatic gunfire chewed through the wooden counter above their heads, sending splinters and white plaster dust exploding into the air.

Nicolo hit the floor hard, his breath driving out of his lungs with a sharp gasp.

Before he could curse, a hand caught the back of his collar and dragged him lower, pinning him behind the reinforced base of the espresso machine.

It was Sophia.

Her face was smudged with soot and dust, but her breathing was measured, cold, and entirely devoid of panic.

The clumsy, apologetic waitress was gone.

“Stay down,” she commanded, her voice carrying an absolute authority that brooked no argument.

Before Nicolo could demand an explanation, she drew a suppressed 9mm pistol from the holster concealed inside her apron, her movements fluid and utterly silent.

Outside, the heavy boots of the tactical squad crunched over the shattered glass of the entrance.

“Clear the perimeter,” a gruff voice barked through the smoke. “Find Bandi. Leave no witnesses.”

Sophia didn't hesitate.

She didn't look at Nicolo.

She simply rolled out from behind the counter, raised her weapon, and fired two precise shots through the drifting haze.