It had been over a month since Viktor showed up at the restaurant at 2 am.

  Franco tried to forget. He threw himself into the restaurant, the training sessions with Seb, the wine lists, and produce orders. But the thought always came back—louder each time.

  Franco had figured out shortly afterwards that the target on Mars was Ethan Stipe. He confronted Viktor about it—if you could even call it a confrontation. It was more of a polite inquiry. Viktor hadn’t denied it.

  It made sense. Ethan would be easier to get to in his luxury Space Haven dome than tracking him down on Earth, which he seemed to visit less and less. And when he did, only his security team seemed to know. The man had become a phantom on Earth—a billionaire phantom.

  The dome would be a chicken coop, with the chicken trapped inside and Viktor’s men, the foxes, let loose within.

  Franco stood in the alley beside his restaurant. The storms had, thankfully, subsided—though the forecast warned it was only temporary. The climate was spiralling, everyone knew it. But today, for once, was a gift. A fresh, sunny Tuesday afternoon. And with the clear skies came customers, drawn to the warmth and comfort of good food.

  Behind the outer wall where Franco leaned, kitchen sounds drifted out—clanging pots, bursts of laughter, the rhythmic chop of knives. Seb was inside, halfway through his training to become a professional chef. To Franco’s quiet surprise, both Seb and Del were genuinely good at it.

  Del had a knack for charming customers. He made them feel comfortable, seen. It was the same skill he used in his other line of work—coaxing smiles and trust from his marks before sliding a blade across their throats. Here, thankfully, he limited himself to seating diners and offering polite banter.

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  Seb was a different story. He had the kind of raw talent and drive you saw in the best amateur cooks—the ones who cooked for love, not money. His enthusiasm hadn’t yet been dulled by repetition or drained by the grind of turning passion into profession. There was still fire in him.

  Franco glanced down at his phone. His thumb hovered near the screen, his hand heavy, his thoughts heavier still.

  His mind was a battlefield of loyalty and doubt.

  On one hand, he had Viktor. He owed him more than most men could understand. If Viktor wanted Ethan Stipe dead, Franco was expected to help make it happen. Maybe Ethan had killed Mikal. Maybe not. Franco couldn’t say. He’d met Ethan a few times, and something about the man didn’t sit right with the story. He didn’t seem like a killer. And Mikal? Franco had never liked the bastard. Family or not.

  A personality only a mother could love.

  Still, Ethan Stipe was a man. A good man, Franco believed. And if he stayed silent—if he let this play out—he’d be complicit in murder, maybe not with his hands, but certainly with his silence. And if they got caught, he would go to prison.

  Then there was Danny. Head of security on the dome. A decent guy. Someone Franco saw often at business meetings with other dome proprietors. He could make a call—give Danny a heads-up. Let him know something might be coming. Let him stop it before it starts.

  But if Viktor ever found out...

  There wouldn’t be a trial. No second chances. Franco would be dead before his body hit the floor.

  Two choices. All bad.

  Say nothing and live with the guilt—and maybe the consequences.

  Speak up and stop a good man’s murder—but sign his own death warrant in the process.

  Or gamble. Say nothing and hope that Seb and Del never made it past the dome’s notoriously tight security.

  His fingers twitched. The phone felt like a live wire in his palm.

  His thoughts spun, a roulette wheel in his mind, the ball clattering around the edge—waiting, waiting—