Chapter 1 - The Weight of the Check
And then she was on him.
Vic Malone didn't even have time to scream. Cassandra’s left hand shot out like a striking viper, her fingers wrapping around the cylinder and barrel of his firearm, twisting it upward and outward with a terrifying display of leverage. The bones in Vic’s wrist popped—a sharp, dry sound that was immediately swallowed by his ragged gasp of agony. Before the gun could even clatter to the linoleum floor, Cass’s right palm drove upward into his chin, a brutal chin-jab that rattled his brain against his skull and sent him staggering backward into Rini’s pristine glass-front wine display.
The rack shattered. Hundreds of dollars of vintage Chianti and Pinot Noir rained down around him, soaking his expensive silk suit in deep, blood-red stains. He slid to the floor, his eyes rolling back into his head, completely unresponsive.
Silence descended upon the restaurant, heavy and suffocating, broken only by the erratic, high-pitched dripping of wine from broken bottles and the low, agonizing groans of the two men Cass had left conscious but crippled.
Cassandra stood in the center of the wreckage. She didn't pant. Her heart rate, trained by years of black-ops conditioning to remain low under extreme duress, barely registered the adrenaline spike. She casually smoothed down the front of her white button-down shirt, tucked a stray strand of brown hair back into her ponytail, and looked down at her black apron. It was ruined, soaked through with the blood of the stocky attacker she had used as a shield.
"Damn it," she muttered under her breath, her voice flat. "I just washed this."
In the corner booth, Marcus Castellano slowly lowered his fork. The piece of risotto he had been about to eat slid off the prongs and fell back onto his plate with a soft splat. His two bodyguards, men who collectively weighed over five hundred pounds and carried automatic weapons beneath their tailored jackets, were frozen, their guns half-drawn, their mouths hanging open in sheer, unadulterated disbelief.
Marcus looked at the five broken men scattered across the floor of the restaurant. Then he looked at the woman who had done it—a woman who, up until three minutes ago, he had known only as the quiet, efficient waitress who always remembered that he preferred extra olives in his dirty martinis.
"Well," Marcus said, his deep, gravelly voice cutting through the silence of the room. He picked up his linen napkin, wiped his mouth with slow, deliberate care, and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "I suppose that deserves a slightly larger tip than usual."
Cassandra didn't smile. She walked back toward the bar, stepping over the groaning form of the shotgun-wielding attacker without looking down. She grabbed a fresh white bar towel, wrapped it around her hand, and began to wipe down the counter where a stray bullet had nicked the polished mahogany.
"The total for the meal, the bottle of Bolo, and the property damage is going to be significantly higher than a tip, Mr. Castellano," Cass said, her gray-blue eyes meeting his across the ruined room. "And I suggest you and your men leave before the Chicago PD arrives. I don't feel like filling out incident reports tonight."
Marcus let out a low, rumbling laugh that vibrated in his thick chest. He stood up, adjusting his dark tie, and walked toward the bar, his bodyguards flanking him like nervous shadows. They kept their eyes on Cass as if she might suddenly turn into a tiger and tear them apart.
"The police won't be coming, Cassandra," Marcus said, leaning against the uninjured section of the bar. "The precinct captain is on my payroll. When the gunfire started, the dispatchers automatically diverted the local cruisers to a fictional domestic disturbance three miles south. We have exactly twenty minutes before the clean-up crew I just texted arrives to remove this garbage from your floor."
He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a sleek, matte-black card with a single gold phone number embossed on the front, and slid it across the wet counter toward her.
"You’re wasted pouring cheap house wine in Pilsen, sweetheart," Marcus whispered, his eyes narrowing as he studied the absolute lack of fear in her expression. "A woman with your specific set of skills... you don't belong in an apron. You belong in a fortress."
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Cass looked at the card, then up at the man who ran half the illicit enterprises on the South Side of Chicago. "I left the fortress life behind, Mr. Castellano. I like the apron. It’s predictable."
"Nothing is predictable anymore," Marcus said, his face hardening as he glanced back at Vic Malone’s unconscious form. "The Vicari family just crossed a line they can't un-cross. This is a war, Cassandra. And in a war, nobody gets to stay neutral. Not even the waitress."
