Chapter 7 - Shadows at the Bistro
The morning sun barely pierced the smog hanging over downtown Chicago as Willow’s battered compact sedan pulled into the alley behind Marcelo’s bistro. She had promised the elderly owner, old Marcelo himself, that she would stop by to pick up her remaining tax documents and check on the pastry recipes she had left behind. Josiah had insisted on sending a three-car tactical escort, but Willow had firmly drawn the line.
"I am going to buy a box of cinnamon rolls and check my mail, Josiah. I am not negotiating a hostage exchange," she had argued earlier that morning over breakfast, crossing her arms until he finally relented with a heavy sigh.
Now, stepping into the dim, familiar interior of the bistro, Willow felt a strange wave of nostalgia. The amber chandeliers still cast a warm glow over the dark hardwood floor where she had once stood among shards of broken crystal, holding a packet of saltine crackers. The air still smelled of rich espresso, crushed garlic, and aged parmesan.
"Willow?" a frail voice called out from behind the service counter.
Marcelo emerged from the kitchen, wiping his flour-dusted hands on a stained apron. His face lit up with deep, grandfatherly lines of relief. "My goodness, child! The media has been whispering all kinds of wild rumors about high-society shootouts and mysterious millionaires. Are you alright? Are they treating you well at that estate?"
"I'm doing better than alright, Marcelo," Willow smiled, stepping behind the counter to wrap her arms around the old man in a tight embrace. "The work is... unique, but the household is quiet."
"Quiet? With that little hurricane?" Marcelo chuckled, shaking his head. "I still can't believe how you tamed her in sixty seconds. You've got ice in your veins, girl. But listen to me—keep your eyes open. Men in expensive gray suits came by here yesterday asking questions about you. They wanted to know your schedule, where you lived before, who your friends were."
Willow’s blood ran cold. The warmth of the bistro vanished, replaced by the sharp, metallic taste of fear. "Gray suits? Did they leave a name?"
"No names," Marcelo said, his expression turning grave. "Just cold eyes and heavy briefcases. One of them dropped a silver cufflink with a viper emblem on it before they walked out."
Before Willow could process the warning, the front glass windows of the bistro shattered in a deafening cascade of falling crystal. Gunshots cracked through the quiet morning air, tearing through the wooden booths and sending splinters flying everywhere.
"Get down!" Willow screamed, shoving Marcelo behind the heavy stainless steel prep counter just as a barrage of automatic gunfire chewed through the drywall inches above their heads.
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Heavy combat boots crunched over the newly shattered glass at the entrance. Two men in black tactical gear and gray tactical vests stepped through the doorway, their faces concealed behind balaclavas, automatic rifles raised and scanning the room.
"We know you're in here, little bird," a harsh, distorted voice mocked through a tactical comms unit. "Rostov says hello."
