NICO
The next night, I told myself I wasn't waiting for him.
I lied.
Every time those double doors opened, I caught myself looking up, chest pulling tight, half-expecting him to walk in. And every time it wasn't him-just another couple in evening wear, just another group of drunk executives-I'd force myself back into motion, pretending I didn't care.
But my body wasn't listening. It knew.
And when he finally came through the doors, Cassian DeSantis, all sharp lines and shadows, the air in the room tilted. Just like the night before. The hum of conversation stuttered. The clink of glasses dulled. Everyone noticed him, but he didn't notice them.
His men followed close-three tonight, maybe four-but they blurred into the background. Cassian was the storm, and storms don't share the spotlight.
He didn't head straight for the corner table this time. No. His eyes scanned the room once, steady, deliberate, until they locked on me.
It was like heat rushing straight into my chest.
"I want him," he said when the host stepped up. His voice carried, low but sharp enough to cut through the clamor. He didn't point toward the bar, or toward my section, or even bother saying my name. Just him. And his finger lifted, pointing directly at me.
The host swallowed hard and nodded. Nobody questioned Cassian DeSantis.
My legs started moving before my brain did. Men like him didn't ask. They commanded, and the world rearranged itself.
By the time I reached the table, his men were already eyeing me, sharp, suspicious. I felt the weight of their stares, but Cassian... he leaned back in his chair like a man in no rush, like he was waiting for the inevitable.
"You remembered me?" I asked, forcing my voice not to crack.
His lips curved, just slightly. Not warmth. More like a blade with a gleam. "Some men are forgettable. You're not."
My pulse stumbled. I pretended to jot down their orders, but my hand shook more than I liked. Something was off tonight. The air was... tense. His men whispered quick words to each other, eyes darting toward the entrance, shoulders rigid.
The room felt like the seconds before a storm breaks.
I delivered their drinks. Set the whiskey in front of Cassian, poured it neat. He picked it up slow, deliberate, eyes on me the whole time. When he lifted it to his lips, it was like he was testing me, testing the room, testing everything.
"You notice things, don't you?" His voice was calm, but edged.
I opened my mouth to answer-
And the first shot cracked through the restaurant.
The sound was like the earth splitting open. Sharp, merciless.
Screams exploded across the room. Glass shattered as windows burst under the hail of bullets. Dishes clattered, red wine spilled, looking too much like blood against the white cloth. The band in the corner dropped everything, diving for the floor.
For a second, I froze. Just long enough for the terror to crawl icy fingers up my spine.
Then instinct kicked in.
"Down!" I shouted, grabbing Cassian's arm before I even thought. My body moved without permission, dragging him behind the heavy oak divider, forcing him low.
And he let me. Didn't fight, didn't snarl. His hand brushed mine briefly-steady, controlled. Almost... approving.
His men didn't need orders. Guns were already in their hands, drawn from under tailored jackets. Bullets ripped through the air, splintering wood, tearing fabric, whistling past my ears.
Gunmen flooded in through the entrance. Five, maybe six, maybe more. Black masks. Their movements sharp, too practiced. Not chaos. Not random. This was planned.
"Cover him!" one of Cassian's men barked, firing back.
I ducked lower, heart pounding so hard it hurt. My hand scrambled, grabbed the first thing within reach-a thick bottle of wine from a fallen tray. When one of the attackers broke through too close, I didn't think. I just swung.
The bottle smashed against his skull, glass and blood flying. He crumpled. His gun clattered across the floor.
The sound of my breathing was ragged, loud in my ears, but I wasn't frozen anymore.
Cassian's gaze found me through the chaos. Those storm-dark eyes flickered with something new, something sharp. Like he was seeing me-not just the waiter, not just background.
His men fought like wolves, ruthless and precise. One went down with a shot to the chest, but he dragged an attacker with him. The air stank of smoke, gunpowder, blood. People were screaming, crying, clawing for exits.
I pressed closer to Cassian, shielding him, body shaking but refusing to move away. Bullets hissed past. Splinters rained down.
At one point, Cassian caught my wrist, his voice cutting through the roar. "You'll get yourself killed."
"Better me than you," I shot back, surprising myself.
He looked at me then, really looked, as if those words didn't fit the image he'd built of me. But before anything else could settle, more attackers burst through the kitchen doors.
The fight surged again.
One of Cassian's men launched a chair across the room, knocking a shooter off balance. Another grabbed a masked man and twisted until bone cracked and the weapon dropped.
I couldn't breathe through the smoke, the screaming, the crack of shots. My fingers closed around the gun that had fallen near me. Heavy. Cold. My hand trembled, but I lifted it anyway.
Cassian's gaze cut toward me. Calm, steady, even in this. "Do you even know how to use that?"
My throat was dry. "Point and shoot, right?"
A flash of something crossed his face-maybe amusement, maybe approval. The faintest curl at the corner of his lips before he turned back to fire.
Minutes felt like forever. My knuckles ached from how hard I gripped the gun. I crouched beside Cassian, body screaming with adrenaline, every nerve frayed.
And then-silence.
The last attacker hit the floor, throat torn by a bullet, body falling with a sickening thud. The few still breathing were disarmed, dragged, forced onto their knees by Cassian's surviving men.
The restaurant... God. It didn't look like a restaurant anymore. Glass crunched underfoot. Tables were overturned, fabric ripped, wine bleeding across tiles. Bodies-too many bodies. Guests crying, staff huddled in corners.
I pushed myself up slowly, chest heaving. The gun was still in my hand, my fingers locked white around it.
Cassian rose too, brushing glass off his jacket like nothing had touched him. Calm. Untouchable. Terrifying.
His eyes found mine. He stepped close, close enough that I could see the flecks of gold hidden in the storm of his irises.
"You didn't run," he said. Quiet. Certain.
"I couldn't," I managed. My voice cracked, but I forced it steady.
His gaze dipped to the gun still clenched in my hand, then back up to my face. "You shielded me."
"I... I just did what I had to." My throat felt like sandpaper.
He tilted his head, studying me like I'd become a puzzle he couldn't resist. His voice dropped lower, meant for me alone.
"Men who don't flinch when blood spills are rare," he murmured. "Men who'd bleed for someone else? Rarer still."
Heat shot through me-shame, pride, something darker tangled all at once.
One of his men stepped forward. "Boss. Three alive."
Cassian's lips curved, faint, sharp. "Good. We'll make them talk."
I stared at him, at the wreckage, at the red-streaked floor. My hands still shook, but when he reached and slipped the gun from my grip, sliding it back into his own holster, I didn't fight him.
He looked at me like I'd crossed some invisible line. Like I wasn't just a waiter anymore.
And he wasn't wrong.
Because standing there, in the middle of blood and broken glass, I knew something had shifted in me too.
Nothing about my life would ever be the same again.
