NEW YORK/2059

  Men in tailored black stepped out of the vehicles with silent precision, surrounding Viktor Romanov in a seamless ring of muscle and menace. Without a word, they became his shield—against the biting wind, the watching dark, and whatever ghosts waited in the cracks of the city with a gun and a grudge.

  Inside, Franco stood in the fluorescent hush of his kitchen. The clang and hiss of closing time had long since faded. He wiped his hands on a dish towel that suddenly felt too thin. The air smelled of thyme, oil, and something colder—something foreign.

  Then came the sound: footsteps. Deliberate. Many.

  They were here.

  Franco turned toward the back entrance as the door creaked open. They moved like a virus in polished shoes. He felt it in his bones—the chill of men who killed as easily as they breathed.

  “Viktor,” Franco said, masking his unease. “What’s up?”

  Viktor inhaled slowly. For the briefest moment, something fragile flickered across his face. Then it was gone.

  “We think we know who killed my son,” he said. “I need your help getting to him.”

  Franco blinked. “Me?”

  “Yes.” Viktor stepped closer. He wasn’t threatening. Not yet. Just explaining. “The killer is on Mars, in the Space Haven Dome. I need to get two of my men in. I want you to train them here—in your kitchen. In two months, when the next flight leaves, you take them with you.”

  Franco stared. “You want me to sneak your guys into the Mars restaurant? Viktor, I can't just swap people out like that. Every member of the crew is critical. There's a staff quota based on oxygen consumption. It's like removing parts from a car engine—everything grinds to a halt.”

  Viktor raised a hand. “You’ll figure it out. Seb will work in the kitchen. Del will handle front of house—he's a charmer. He'll lose the neck tattoo, obtain the documents, and possibly undergo some minor surgery. You train them, take them, and in return... I let you buy me out. Clean. No strings.”

  From the side, Seb—who had been quietly surveying the famous kitchen—snapped to attention. He looked at Del, who mirrored his surprise.

  Seb didn’t want the contract. He’d talk to Viktor later. Strange that Viktor had only just mentioned it—allocated, not asked.

  Franco’s breath caught. The Mars restaurant was his future—his freedom. This New York place, where they stood, had recently been profitable, but it had started bleeding money since the storms became frequent. The city that never slept had grown sluggish, downtrodden, and tired.

  The word “No” nearly escaped Franco’s lips, but he swallowed it. He couldn’t afford defiance. Not yet.

  “I’m telling you, I t’s not simple,” he said. “I’m only allowed so many staff. Everyone has to pull their weight. There are inspections, oxygen limits—my crew would notice their skill levels.”

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  “You have two months.” Viktor’s tone sharpened, but remained smooth. “Del will charm the guests. Seb’s got good hands—quick, clean. He can cook.”

  Seb raised an eyebrow. He didn’t like being volunteered.

  “Stop frowning, Seb. You and Del will be paid,” Viktor said. “Very well paid.”

  Del grinned, eyes lighting up with the promise of money and Mars. Seb said nothing. He didn’t trust Viktor—and for good reason.

  Franco shook his head. “You can’t train a chef in two months, Viktor. It takes years.”

  Del doesn’t need years to carry a plate and smile. And Seb…” Viktor’s eyes glinted. “He’s a brilliant cook—won’t need much training. Let’s get him to make something.”

  A pause settled like fog. Then:

  “Tony, bring in the pork,” Viktor called.

  Franco blinked. “We’ve got meat in the fridge.”

  A silence fell. Viktor smiled. “Not as fresh as this.”

  Tony returned, dragging a young man, mid-twenties, gagged, wrists bound, eyes wide with terror.

  Franco’s stomach turned. This wasn’t a negotiation. It was a warning.

  Viktor began pacing the kitchen like a Shakespearean villain on stage, hands behind his back.

  “This gentleman worked for me. Steady hours. Decent pay. Then he bought a 3D drug printer. Tried to go freelance.”

  He stopped, spun around, and shouted, “I will not have employees steal from me!”

  Del and Seb froze as two pistols clicked into place beside their heads. Mikey and Simon, their eyes blank, held the guns. Davos frisked them. He met Seb’s eyes, then looked away, ashamed. “Sorry. Business,” he whispered.

  Viktor stared them down. “I caught you both on camera. Skimming. But... I’ll overlook it. If you carry out this hit for me. On Mars.”

  Silence. Then two reluctant nods. What choice did they have?

  “Good,” Viktor said. “Now let’s continue with the cooking lesson.”

  Tony dragged the gagged man forward. Davos untied his wrists and pinned one arm to the steel bench. The man screamed through the gag—high-pitched, pleading.

  Viktor walked calmly to the rack, selected a cleaver, and turned. He raised it high, letting it catch the flicker of the fluorescent light—

  —and brought it down with a wet crack.

  The hand separated cleanly. Blood sprayed across his coat. He frowned, annoyed.

  Tony dragged the screaming man out the back. A single gunshot echoed behind them.

  Viktor casually wiped his coat. Franco leaned on the counter, shaking, staring at the hand still twitching where they usually chopped salad.

  Even the henchmen looked shaken.

  Tony reappeared. “Clean hit. Bagged him. No leaks.”

  “Good.” Viktor turned to Seb. “Now, cook.”

  Seb, unfazed, stepped forward. He picked up the cleaver, wiped it, then casually chopped off the severed hand’s fingernails.

  “Won’t be needing those,” he said, sliding them aside.

  He looked up, pretending to tremble. “Sorry. Bit nervous.”

  Viktor smiled, enjoying the show.

  Seb turned to Franco. “Never cooked in front of a legend like Franco Sorrento before. It’s an honour, sir.”

  Franco didn’t respond. He was still staring at the hand.

  Viktor’s smile vanished. His mind games were failing—Seb no longer feared him.

  Seb cracked a smile. “Since Viktor’s calling it pork, how about a nice carbonara?” He glanced at Franco. “Would you mind getting me the tagliatelle?”