Chapter 57

  HEAT ON FULL POWER

  NEW YORK/2059

  Franco Sorrento stood at the heart of his domain: a kitchen alive with metallic clangs and hissing steam—the symphony of a late-night cleanup rush winding down. Pots clattered in the sinks, vents sighed with leftover heat, knives tapped lazily as prep was finished for the next day. The air was still thick with scent: seared duck fat, truffle oil, singed thyme.

  His chefs moved with the automatic precision of people whose shifts were nearly over. Orders had stopped coming in, but the ritual remained—clean, prep, shut down. Stainless steel surfaces gleamed. The day was done.

  Franco set his phone down on the salad station and exhaled slowly. Across the counter, his wife—and co-owner—Helen was dicing radishes for tomorrow’s mise en place, her cuts sharp and fast. Their eyes met.

  “That was Viktor,” Franco said, aiming for casual. The tension in his voice betrayed him. “He wants a meeting. Tonight. Just me. After close.”

  Helen paused mid-dice, frowning. “How late?”

  “Two a.m.,” Franco replied. “Said he’d be here on the dot.”

  Helen’s jaw tensed. “Here? At the restaurant?”

  Franco gave a half-hearted shrug. “That’s what he said.”

  She glanced toward the rear service entrance, her voice dropping. “I hope no one sees him. What does he want?”

  Franco shrugged. “Maybe Eve told him we’re thinking of buying him out.”

  “You didn’t mention that to her again, did you? She’s grieving.”

  “Life goes on,” he said, quieter this time.

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  At 2:00 a.m. sharp, Viktor Romanov’s limousine glided silently through the storm-battered streets of Midtown Manhattan. The street lights flickered weakly through sheets of freezing rain. The skyline had become a jagged outline of ghost towers—many recently abandoned, their windows shattered or boarded up. The city’s bones remained, as its soul was slowly washed away with the rain.

  Flood barriers lined the sidewalks like the ribs of some long-dead creature. Neon ads blinked above shuttered storefronts, casting fractured reflections on puddles below.

  Only a few autonomous taxis roamed this late, their engine hums distant and lonely. Drones—battered and half-alive—flitted through the gloom like drunken insects. One spiralled down in a gust of wind and collided with a crumbling high-rise. No alarms sounded. Just another night.

  Inside the limo, Viktor adjusted his cufflinks—more out of habit than necessity. He stared out the tinted window, not really seeing the chaos. His mind was on Sorrento’s—the violent storm his personality would unleash if his expectations weren’t met.

  Up front, Mikey drove in silence, Simon beside him. From the boot came muffled groans. The man they’d brought along had made the mistake of mixing greed with short-term memory—he’d forgotten who he owed. Viktor hadn’t.

  Behind the limo, a sleek black people carrier followed like a shadow, gliding with a quiet hum over the wet asphalt. Street light reflections streaked across its metallic roof like tracer fire over a battlefield.

  At the wheel sat Seb, arms folded across his chest—autopilot mode engaged. Beside him sat Del, “The Jackal,” staring blankly ahead.

  In the back, Tony, built like a freighter, with slicked-back black hair and warm olive skin. He was new to the role: Viktor’s personal bodyguard, recently promoted from head doorman at one of the Titan ring nightclubs. His grin hadn’t faded all night. This was his first job. First real one, anyway.

  Next to him sat Davos—the old hand. Quiet. Unreadable.

  No one spoke. The mood in the cab was thick. Not tense, exactly. Just... expectant.

  Seb didn’t know the details of tonight’s meeting, only that it had something to do with Mikal’s murder. Whether the others knew more, they gave nothing away. That was the trade—henchmen didn’t ask questions. You kept your mouth shut, or someone else might do it for you.

  Still, despite the hour and the atmosphere, Seb was quietly looking forward to arriving at Sorrento’s. It wasn’t the food—he wasn’t hungry. He just hoped, if things didn’t go sideways, he’d get a tour of the kitchens. See the tools. The fire. The craft. Maybe even charm Franco into handing over a few bottles of their famous salad dressing.

  He had been in this game so long—hired muscle, an enforcer, a distributor of violence—that his emotions had become calloused to fear, to tension. His mind often wandered to his hobbies—his happy place. Cooking was his thing.