The junction box on the western perimeter fence had not been serviced since the previous fiscal quarter, and it showed. Tazia wedged the tip of a titanium pry-bar into the housing seam, pops of blue static snapping against the rubber sleeves of her heavy work gloves. The Zantino compound boasted forty miles of optical fiber, thermal sensors sensitive enough to track a moth's heartbeat, and a military-grade biometric gate that required three forms of vascular scanning to open. It also had a backup analog relay located directly behind a hedge of ornamental hydrangeas, wired on a basic six-pin loop. "Amateurs," she muttered. She looped a bent copper paperclip across pins three and five. A soft *click* echoed through the shrubs. The gate’s heavy magnetic latch disengaged with a dull pneumatic hiss. The iron teeth slid back six inches—plenty of clearance for someone whose hips spent half their working life squeezing between lifted truck chassis. Tazia slipped through, her scuffed steel-toed boots meeting the asphalt of the cliffside switchback. The coastal wind whipped through her grease-smudged denim jacket, salty and biting. Her watch read 1:14 AM. The twenty-four-hour gelateria in the neon-choked Marina district down the hill stopped churning fresh nut cream at two sharp, and after enduring an eight-course dinner where three different lieutenants gave veiled threats about concrete foundations, she needed dairy. She walked four hundred yards down the steep incline before headlights carved the black asphalt ahead. A matte-black sport utility vehicle pulled up silently beside her, its turbine hum barely registering over the surf crashing below the rocks. The passenger window rolled down without a sound. Mateo Zantino sat behind the wheel. He had discarded his suit jacket, wearing only a black dress shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, exposing a sprawl of intricate ink winding down to his wrists. A silver signet ring caught the dashboard's amber glow. "Going somewhere, wife?" Tazia didn't break her stride. "Gelato. The Marina quarter." "The south perimeter grid recorded an unauthorized logic gate override," Mateo said, keeping the car at an exact idle pace beside her boots. "Silvio reported a breach. He deployed twelve men with thermal carbines to comb the north woods because he assumes you were abducted by the Corsari syndicate." "Silvio should check his junction boxes," Tazia replied. "The relays are corroded. Tell him to use nickel-plated terminals next time. Salt air eats copper alive. Also, get in or get lost; the good batch sells out." Mateo leaned over and kicked open the passenger door. A feral, delighted smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth. "Get in." She climbed into the passenger bucket seat, unbothered by the fact that her denim was dusting road grit across hand-stitched Italian leather. On the center console rested a matte-black military radio and an antique brass lighter. "Pistachio?" he asked, wheeling the vehicle hard into the hairpin turn. The tires didn't screech; they gripped like claws. "Double scoop. In a waffle cone. If they put the fake almond paste in it, I'm burning the place down." "I can arrange that if the flavor disappoints," Mateo offered smoothly, his tone entirely void of irony. "Gasoline or phosphorus?" "Just the ice cream, Mateo." They reached the lower district within ten minutes. The Marina ward was a tangle of crushed neon, glowing pink and cyan against wet pavement, smelling of fried squid and cheap petroleum. The gelateria sat on a corner lot, glowing beneath a buzzing turquoise sign. Across the narrow avenue stood an abandoned fish-packing depot, dark, shuttered, and utterly silent. Mateo parked on the red curb directly in front of the shop. He stepped out first, circling to open her door, his tall frame cutting through the humid night air like a razor. While Tazia marched straight to the glass counter to inspect the pale-green tubs for real nut flecks, Mateo remained by the threshold, unbuttoning his cuffs. Inside the depot across the street, a floorboard creaked. A faint flash of green optics winked through a dirty second-story windowpane. "Two scoops of Bronte pistachio," Tazia told the trembling teenager behind the counter, tossing three crumpled krona bills onto the stainless steel. "Crisp cone, no napkins." She took the cone and turned back toward the sidewalk. Mateo stood under the glow of the turquoise neon, his phone pressed to his ear. "Now," he said into the receiver. He ended the call, tucked the glass slab into his pocket, and flicked open his brass lighter. A muffled, concussive *thump* vibrated straight through the soles of Tazia's boots. The entire upper floor of the fish-packing depot vanished in a violently organized orange detonation. Glass shattered inward, brick dust plumed into the night, and structural beams buckled with a screech of shearing iron. The air compressed, blowing Tazia’s dark bangs across her forehead, but the shockwave dissipated before reaching the sidewalk—directed inward with terrifying, clinical precision. Secondary pops rattled within the rubble. Ammunition cooking off. Mateo stepped closer, casually angling his broad shoulders to block the falling soot from drifting onto her dessert. "The Morosini clan had eight rifles stationed in that loft," he remarked casually, taking a napkin from his breast pocket and dabbing a fleck of mortar dust from her collar. "They make far too much noise while chambering rounds. Unacceptable dining ambience." Tazia licked a smooth curl of frozen cream. "The blast was too clean. Linear charges on the load-bearing struts?" Mateo’s eyes narrowed with sheer, rapturous approval. "C-4 on the joints. You understand demolition?" "I understand load limits and physics. Same thing, different mess." She took another bite, unimpressed by the flaming ruin twenty yards away. "The custard is good. Not too sweet." Her phone buzzed violently in her back pocket. Tazia fished it out, one hand balancing the cone. The screen lit up with three back-to-back notifications from Pietro, complete with an obnoxious barrage of party-popper emojis. *PZ: Taz!! You will NOT believe this!* *PZ: Some executive saw my logistics project at the community center!* *PZ: Landed a paid internship tonight! Real corporate finance! I start tomorrow under a guy named Silvio Ganza! High-level assistant work! We're rich!!* Tazia froze. Her tongue remained glued to the frozen green scoop. Silvio. The snake in the tailored suit who had looked at her like a cadaver with a ticking clock. "What is it?" Mateo asked, his casual posture instantly vanishing. His voice dropped an octave, scraping like gravel. "Tazia." Before she could speak, a dot of pure, piercing crimson appeared on the dark denim covering her sternum. It didn't waver. It slid upward, tracking over the zipper of her jacket, past her collarbone, until the harsh red circle settled dead-center against the pale green mound of ice cream in her hand. Across the street, perched high on the water tower behind the burning warehouse, a long-range barrel caught the firelight.

Pistachio and Pyrotechnics