"Why this restaurant?" I asked Margaret. "Why meet here?"
"I work here." Margaret shrugged. "Three nights a week, I do the books for the Morettis. It's how I supplement my income. And it's the only place I feel—" She hesitated. "Where my presence won't raise questions. If anyone asks, I'm just here doing my job."
"The Morettis know you work for the Russos?"
"They know I work for several families. That's how I've stayed alive—I'm useful to everyone, loyal to no one." Her mouth twisted. "Or at least, that's what they think."
A waiter appeared at the door. "Can I get anyone anything?"
"We're fine," Isobel said quickly. "We'll order in a few minutes."
He nodded and disappeared.
The hair on the back of my neck stood up.
"We should go." My pulse raced. "We have what we need. We should—"
The door burst open.
Not the waiter.
Three men. Guns drawn. Faces covered with black masks.
Everything happened at once.
Quentin shoved me under the table as the first shots rang out. His gun was already in his hand, returning fire.
I drew my weapon—rolled sideways—came up shooting.
One attacker went down, clutching his chest.
Margaret screamed. Isobel dove behind her chair.
The table exploded above us—splinters and shattered dishes raining down.
"Window!" Quentin roared.
But there was no time.
The second attacker was already on us, weapon swinging toward Margaret.
I fired. He stumbled back.
Quentin fired. The man dropped.
The third attacker sprayed the room with bullets—wild, desperate. The window shattered. The walls peppered with holes.
Then Stone crashed through the door, weapon raised, face carved from granite.
Two shots. The third attacker fell.
Silence.
Except for Margaret's sobbing and the ringing in my ears.
"We need to move," Stone said. "Police are two minutes out. Maybe less."
Isobel was already gathering documents, shoving them into her briefcase with shaking hands. "I've got them. I've got everything."
