MISFIRE

Chapter One - One Hell of an Entrance

The night was alive with music and laughter.

Beneath the glow of crystal chandeliers, the ballroom shimmered with gold and champagne. Elegant couples swayed to the soft jazz playing from a live band near the stage, while wealthy businessmen gathered around cocktail tables, discussing investments and exchanging pleasantries. Women in expensive gowns moved gracefully through the crowd, diamonds glittering at their throats and wrists. Waiters slipped between guests, carrying trays of champagne and delicate appetizers.

Everything looked perfect. Expensive. Untouchable.

It was the kind of evening where everyone wore a smile, even when they couldn't stand the person standing in front of them.

Cole found the whole thing ridiculous.

Standing beside the bar, he calmly adjusted his collar and straightened his black bow tie. His crisp white shirt and fitted black vest made him look like any other waiter working the event. Black trousers, polished shoes, and a small name tag completed the disguise.

He glanced down at himself.

Well, wasn't he a picture of professionalism?

If only his employer could see him now. The organization had spent years training him to kill people, and here he was, dressed like a man whose greatest responsibility was making sure rich people never ran out of alcohol.

Life was funny like that.

Cole reached for a silver tray loaded with champagne flutes. The golden liquid shimmered beneath the ballroom lights, tiny bubbles rising steadily to the surface.

He balanced the tray on one hand, checked that every glass was secure, and took a final glance around the room.

Politicians. Businessmen. Socialites. A handful of celebrities.

And somewhere among them was a man who had no idea that tonight might be his last.

Cole's lips curved into a faint smile.

Time to get to work.

He pushed away from the bar and walked into the crowd, weaving effortlessly between guests. He offered champagne with a polite smile, occasionally receiving a nod or a dismissive wave in return.

Nobody paid him much attention.

Exactly as it should be.

After all, people rarely noticed the help.

And that was precisely what made the disguise so useful.

The same tedious conversations followed him from one end of the ballroom to the other. Business deals, political gossip, and empty compliments. God, these people could talk.

Cole was getting bored.

His target wasn't particularly punctual, apparently. He'd been waiting long enough to consider abandoning the mission out of sheer spite. Not that he would, of course. The payment was far too good for that.

Still, a little consideration wouldn't hurt. Some people had places to be, and Cole had a very expensive evening planned for himself after this.

A sudden commotion near the entrance caught his attention.

Cole turned his head.

Bingo.

Sebastian Moretti.

His lovely target had finally arrived.

Cole slowly made his way toward Sebastian, weaving between guests with the practiced ease of an experienced waiter. He kept his head slightly lowered, his expression politely indifferent as he offered champagne to anyone who looked his way.

Closer.

Sebastian stood near the center of the ballroom, engaged in a conversation with a greasy-looking businessman whose slicked-back hair and oversized grin made Cole want to commit a second assassination just for fun.

The man was talking animatedly, gesturing with a pudgy hand while Sebastian listened with a glass of whiskey in his own. He looked remarkably patient for someone who supposedly had a reputation for making people disappear.

Cole approached them with his tray.

"Champagne, gentlemen?"

The businessman barely glanced at him before reaching for a glass. Sebastian, however, turned his head slightly, his dark eyes sweeping over Cole with a disinterest that seemed almost deliberate.

Cole smiled pleasantly.

And struck.

His movements were swift, precise, and almost impossible to distinguish from the ordinary bustle of the ballroom. One moment, he was a waiter offering drinks. The next, the carefully planned assassination was underway.

But something went wrong.

Sebastian moved.

Not like a startled man reacting to an unexpected attack, but like someone who had anticipated it. His hand caught Cole's wrist before Cole could finish what he'd started, his grip firm enough to make the message unmistakable.

For a fraction of a second, their eyes met.

Sebastian's expression remained infuriatingly calm.

"Really?" he murmured. "A waiter?"

Cole stared at him.

Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me.

The moment Sebastian caught his wrist, the illusion shattered.

Someone screamed.

The sound was followed by a chorus of panicked cries as guests scrambled away from the scene. Champagne glasses crashed against the marble floor, their delicate stems snapping beneath the stampede of expensive shoes. A woman stumbled into a table, sending a tower of empty glasses tumbling to the ground.

Within seconds, the ballroom descended into chaos.

Three men rushed toward Cole.

Well. So much for a discreet exit.

The first man lunged for him.

Cole dropped the tray, sending champagne flutes crashing across the floor, and drove his elbow into the man's jaw. The guard staggered backward, but Cole was already moving. He twisted out of the second man's grasp and landed a punch squarely against his nose.

The man crumpled.

Two down.

Cole barely had time to enjoy the achievement before the third guard slammed into him from the side.

He stumbled, caught his balance, and swung at the man's face. The guard ducked, grabbing a fistful of Cole's vest as they crashed against a nearby table. Plates shattered. Someone shouted something about calling the police.

Cole drove his knee into the guard's stomach.

The man doubled over with a grunt.

"Stay down, you oversized—"

A sharp electrical crack interrupted him.

The taser struck his side.

Every muscle in Cole's body seized.

"FUCK!"

His fingers curled involuntarily, and his legs buckled beneath him. For one miserable second, his body refused to obey him. He couldn't move, couldn't fight, couldn't do anything except endure the vicious current tearing through his muscles.

One second.

That was all it took.

The two guards he'd failed to put down recovered immediately. One seized his arm while the other forced him face-first against the marble floor.

Cole's cheek struck the cold surface. A sharp pain shot through his face, and he tasted blood where he'd bitten the inside of his mouth.

He tried to wrench his arms free.

"Get—your fucking hands—off me!"

One guard twisted his arm behind his back while the other pressed a knee between his shoulder blades.

Cole struggled harder, but his muscles were still trembling from the taser. His strength was returning in frustrating, uneven bursts, and every time he tried to push himself up, the guards forced him back down.

"Hold him!"

"No shit!" Cole snarled. "I'm having the time of my fucking life down here!"

A heavy shoe appeared in his field of vision.

Cole looked up.

Sebastian Moretti stood over him, his black suit immaculate despite the chaos surrounding them. He held a half-finished glass of whiskey in one hand, looking as though someone had interrupted a perfectly pleasant evening rather than attempted to murder him in front of half the city's elite.

His gaze traveled over Cole's disheveled uniform, the broken champagne glasses, and the unconscious guard sprawled a few feet away.

Then Sebastian crouched.

His expression was almost curious.

"Well," he said softly. "You certainly made an entrance.”