Chapter 2 - THE BLOOD ON THE TILE
The scream tore through the dining room, sharp and jagged, shattering the elegant illusion of the evening. Glass exploded. A chandelier above Table Four sparked and died, raining crystal shards onto the panicked socialites below.
Victor Romano didn’t flinch. His eyes, dark and entirely devoid of fear, locked onto Nora’s.
"Lead the way," he commanded, his voice a low, lethal rumble that cut through the hysteria.
Nora didn’t waste a second. She dropped the tray of champagne. The crystal shattered against the marble, perfectly mimicking the chaos around them, and she grabbed the lapel of Victor’s custom Tom Ford suit, pulling him hard toward the swinging wooden doors of the kitchen.
Behind them, the unmistakable staccato of a suppressed submachine gun chattered. Bullets chewed through the mahogany bar. Madeline Pierce’s voice floated over the din—calm, cold, and entirely unbothered. "Lock the front. No one gets out until I see his body."
Nora hit the kitchen doors with her shoulder, Victor right behind her. The transition from the dim, blood-soaked dining room to the glaring, fluorescent-lit kitchen was blinding. Chefs in white coats were frozen, paring knives and saute pans suspended in mid-air as the muffled sounds of slaughter echoed from the front.
"Out!" Victor roared, his presence instantly dominating the stainless-steel room. "Move!"
The kitchen staff scattered like roaches in the light, diving for the pantry and the walk-in freezer. But Nora’s eyes were locked on a busboy standing near the dish pit. He wasn't running. He was reaching beneath his apron.
"Gun!" Nora shouted.
Victor moved with a terrifying speed. He didn’t draw a weapon; he simply became one. Before the busboy could level the Glock, Victor closed the distance, grabbing a cast-iron skillet from the nearest stove. He swung it in a brutal, horizontal arc. The heavy iron collided with the assassin’s skull with a sickening crunch. The man crumpled, sliding down the tiled wall, leaving a streak of crimson in his wake.
Victor dropped the pan, his breathing perfectly even, and stripped the Glock from the unconscious man’s grip. He checked the magazine, snapped it back into place, and racked the slide.
"You said the back exit," Victor muttered, looking at Nora.
"The alley door is rigged," Nora replied, her heart hammering against her ribs. "Madeline’s text said the back exit was ready. That means they’re waiting for you out there. We go through the loading dock. The meat delivery elevator."
Victor stared at her for a fraction of a second. The calculation in his eyes was terrifying. He was dissecting her, trying to figure out how a minimum-wage waitress knew the tactical layout of his assassination. "If this is a trap, Nora, I will kill you myself."
"If this is a trap, Victor, you won't have to," she shot back.
She turned and sprinted toward the rear prep area. The loading dock doors were heavy steel. Nora slammed her hand onto the freight elevator button. The gears groaned, agonizingly slow.
Footsteps echoed from the swinging doors of the dining room. Heavy boots. Professional strides.
"They’re in the kitchen!" a voice yelled.
Victor stepped in front of Nora, raising the stolen Glock. "Get the door open."
Nora wedged her fingers into the gap of the freight elevator, pulling with all her strength. The heavy metal gate screeched, sliding upward just as three men in tactical gear burst through the swinging doors.
Victor fired twice. The lead man dropped, clutching his throat. The other two dove for cover behind the stainless-steel prep tables, returning fire. Bullets pinged off the hanging copper pots like a deranged orchestra.
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"In!" Victor barked, grabbing Nora by the waist and physically throwing her into the dark, grease-stained freight elevator. He dove in after her, hitting the basement button. The gate slammed shut just as a hail of bullets sparked against the steel grate.
They plunged into the darkness, the smell of raw meat and cordite hanging in the air.
