The Iron Waitress

Sophia stepped out into the dining room, her weapon still raised, sweeping the corners before lowering the safety.

She walked over to the body of the lead mercenary, knelt down, and pulled a ruggedized satellite radio from his vest.

She pressed a button, listening to the scrambled static on the other end.

“They’re communicating with an outside command post,” she said, looking back at Nicolo, who slowly emerged from the pantry. “And based on the ping frequency, that post is located less than three blocks away.”

Nicolo shook his head, a cold realization settling into his bones.

“Marco,” he muttered.

“Excuse me?” Sophia asked.

“My brother,” Nicolo said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, icy register. “He was twenty minutes late. He sent a text telling me not to leave. He’s the only one who knew I would be sitting at that exact table today.”

Sophia stood up slowly, dusting white plaster off her dark apron.

“Your brother isn't stuck in traffic, Mr. Bandi,” she said quietly. “He’s running the op.”

Nicolo felt the floor drop out from under him.

All the years of loyalty, the shared blood, the inner circle—evaporated in a single, freezing moment.