The Iron Waitress

The warehouse interior was cavernous, echoing with the sound of dripping water and distant machinery.

Marco stood near a folding table illuminated by a single overhead work light, reviewing a series of financial transfer logs on a laptop.

Two of his personal guards stood near the entrance.

When the heavy metal side door creaked open, Marco didn't even look up, assuming it was his tactical team reporting back.

“Did you clean up the cafe?” Marco asked smoothly, pouring himself a glass of whiskey from a flask. “I don't want any loose ends linking back to the corporate board.”

“The cleanup was messy, Marco,” Nicolo’s voice rang out through the cavernous space.

Marco froze.

He slowly turned around, his eyes widening in sheer disbelief as his older brother stepped out from the shadows, flanked by the woman he had watched serve coffee just an hour earlier.

“Nicolo... how—” Marco stammered, color draining from his face as he reached instinctively for his shoulder holster.

Before his fingers grazed leather, Sophia’s pistol was leveled squarely at his chest.

“Don't,” she said softly.