Chapter 3 - Shadows In The Kitchen
In the steamy, stainless-steel chaos of the Blackstone kitchen, pandemonium reigned supreme.
Pots clattered to the floor, chefs and dishwashers dove behind prep stations, and Frank the floor manager was cowering beneath a metal rack of sheet pans, whimpering in sheer terror.
Mia didn't hide. Adrenaline coursed through her veins like liquid fire, sharpening every sense. She flattened herself against the industrial walk-in cooler, peering through the small glass window into the main dining room.
The western corridor was completely engulfed in smoke and muzzle flashes. Men in tactical black gear, faces obscured by balaclavas, poured through the shattered doorway, firing systematically into the VIP section.
He got the note, Mia thought, her breath catching in her throat as she watched the silhouettes move. Please God, tell me he got the note.
Suddenly, the heavy kitchen doors burst open.
A pair of armed mercenaries spilled into the kitchen, scanning the room for escaping witnesses. One of them, a scarred brute with a suppressor-fitted carbine, caught sight of Frank shaking beneath the rack.
"Clear the staff," the mercenary grunted, raising his weapon.
Without thinking, Mia lunged backward, her hand blindly sweeping across a metal shelf. Her fingers wrapped around the heavy, solid-brass handle of an industrial-sized hot water valve. With a desperate heave, she wrenched it open.
Hsssss!
A blinding, scalding cloud of high-pressure steam erupted directly into the face of the leading mercenary. The man shrieked, dropping his rifle as he clawed blindly at his blistering skin, collapsing hard against the tiled floor.
His partner spun around, shouting curses, tracking the source of the steam. "Bitch!" he roared, raising his rifle toward the walk-in cooler.
Mia’s heart stopped. She squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for the impact.
Bang!
A deafening gunshot echoed inside the tiled kitchen—not from the mercenary's rifle, but from behind him.
The second gunman’s eyes widened in shock as a crimson bloom blossomed across his tactical vest. He staggered forward, lifeless, and crashed to the floor.
Mia slowly opened her eyes.
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Standing in the doorway, wreathed in gunsmoke and cold fury, was Dante Morelli. His dark suit was dusted with plaster and glass, his hair slightly tousled, but his grip on his pistol was rock-steady. He stepped over the fallen body, his dark, dead-end eyes locking onto Mia with an intensity that made her entire body lock up.
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