The neon sign of Carmichael's Diner buzzed a manic, flickering orange against the suffocating November gloom.

The dingy laundromat downstairs hummed its familiar, low-frequency tune, masking the tense preparation unfolding upstairs. Mave had called in sick to Carmichael's Diner—a rare occurrence that had likely earned her an earful from her manager, but she had bigger concerns.

Dante was pacing the length of the tiny living room, phone in hand. It was a burner device he had managed to salvage from the lining of his ruined jacket, its screen glowing with encrypted data feeds.

"My secondary cell is still compromised," Dante muttered, his thumb flying across the keypad with practiced speed. "Viktor has eyes on the docks, the shipping yards, and every financial institution downtown. To get inside the main vault at Pier 44, we need an authorized clearance badge."

Mave, sitting at the small kitchen table cleaning an old wrench, looked up. "And where do we get one of those?"

"From Carmichael's Diner," Dante said casually.

Mave blinked. "My diner? Are you out of your mind? Carmichael's is just a greasy spoon!"

"Carmichael supplies late-night catering to the security teams patrolling Pier 44," Dante explained, stepping closer. "One of Viktor's key lieutenants, a man named Henderson, eats there every Tuesday night at midnight. He keeps his access fob in his coat pocket."

Mave groaned, dropping her head into her hands. "You're telling me my regular customers are part of an international smuggling ring?"

"I'm telling you that my enemies use legitimate fronts to move contraband," Dante corrected gently. "And tonight, we're going back to work."

The plan was audacious, bordering on suicidal. They would wait until the midnight rush at the diner, when the noise and chaos provided cover. Mave would slip into the back booth where Henderson always sat, lift the access fob from his jacket, and hand it off to Dante, who would be waiting in the alley disguised in a delivery uniform.

As dusk fell outside, painting the sky in bruises of purple and gray, Mave stood in front of her mirror. She zipped up her standard-issue black diner uniform, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

Brutus—Caesar—padded over, pressing his massive head against her knee. She reached down, scratching him behind the ears. "Keep him out of trouble, big guy," she whispered.

Dante emerged from the tiny bedroom, dressed in a stolen delivery jacket with the collar turned up high, concealing most of his bruised face. He looked dangerous, sharp, and entirely in control.