It was midday, and Ethan sat in the most exclusive of New York’s exclusive restaurants—a sanctuary for the elite, where billionaires and A-listers dined. In the grand dining hall beyond his private enclave, the city’s rich and famous basked in the filtered glow of the midday sun, its light cascading through the sheer glass fa?ade of The Sorrento, New York’s finest Italian restaurant.

  The décor was an elegant fusion of classical and modern—Roman-inspired marble floors and intricately hand-carved pedestals met sleek glass tabletops and polished stainless-steel chairs, a deliberate nod to the towering steel and glass skyscrapers that loomed outside. It was a place where old-world luxury met the unrelenting ambition of the city itself.

  Ethan sat in a plush booth, flanked by two of his closest allies. On his right, Danny—his childhood best friend and head of security—grinned in anticipation. He didn’t love The Sorrento for its status, unlike many of the other diners; he loved it because the food was that damn good. And Italian cuisine was his weakness. To Ethan’s left was Debbie, his fiancée and CFO of Space Haven, her calculating eyes softened by the familiar indulgence of a well-earned meal.

  Franco Sorento, the restaurant’s owner, emerged from the kitchen carrying a plate of bruschetta, his ever-present smile widening at the sight of his favourite patron. The scent reached them before the dish did—freshly toasted bread, its edges just crisp enough to crunch, topped with thick slices of sun-ripened beef tomatoes and creamy mozzarella, all drizzled with golden olive oil and dusted with Celtic sea salt and cracked black pepper. The aroma alone sent Ethan’s taste buds into anticipation.

  The plate landed on the table, an edible masterpiece as beautiful as it was delicious. Without hesitation, the three of them dug in, the first bite sending a symphony of flavours through Ethan’s senses. The oil—rich and fruity. The bread was warm with the perfect crunch. The tomato, bursting with summer sweetness.

  Franco nodded to a waiting server, who stepped forward with a bottle of fine white wine. With ease, she uncorked it, pouring a pale golden stream into their glasses. The liquid swirled inside, catching the sunlight in a dance of refracted brilliance, as if creating its own constellation—a universe of shimmering stars in each glass.

  Ethan took another bite, savouring the explosion of flavours. It was perfect.

  “Good, Ethan?” Franco asked, his voice warm with pride.

  Ethan merely gave him a thumbs-up, unwilling to interrupt the moment with words. Some things were better experienced in silence—the kind of silence only true culinary bliss could command.

  Franco, happy at Ethan’s reaction, headed back to the kitchen. He strode past Ethan’s robotic bodyguard, Rab, a towering machine in a perfectly tailored suit. At six feet four, with broad shoulders and a stern, latex-masked face, Rab was the very image of controlled menace. An elite military-grade Aegis X unit, designed for both battlefield dominance and personal protection, it was a relic of a more violent past repurposed for high society. Usually, Franco ignored robots—just machines, after all—but today, he found himself grinning at the hulking sentinel. Business was thriving, Ethan Stipe was a regular, and the restaurant was packed with elite clientele.

  He had even opened a branch in Space Haven, the ultra-exclusive orbital retreat reserved for Earth’s wealthiest, and the reviews couldn’t have been better if he’d written them himself. Well, in truth, he had written a few of them when he first launched.

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  The moment he stepped into the kitchen, he was hit with a wave of heat and sound—the rhythmic chopping of knives, the clang of pots, and the rich aroma of fresh herbs and fine Italian cooking. His wife, Helen, stood at the far end of the kitchen, frantically waving him over.

  Franco knew the accounts were solid—better than solid—but the excitement on her face told him she had even better news.

  He followed her into their office and shut the door behind him. Helen could barely contain herself.

  “We have enough to buy Viktor out. We can give him over a 600% return on his investment!” she half-squealed, throwing her arms around him.

  Franco embraced her, relief washing over him. He had long dreamed of cutting Viktor Romanov—the crime boss brother-in-law he had never wanted—out of the business. Officially, Viktor’s name wasn’t on the books. Thankfully. But the truth was, the restaurant wouldn’t have existed without Viktor’s seed money. It had come with strings—thick, unbreakable ones—tied to money laundering.

  Now, with the restaurant debt-free and thriving, Franco could finally be the honest businessman he had always wanted to be. No more clichés. No more Italian restaurant as a front for the mob.

  Then, Helen hesitated, pulling back slightly. A shadow of doubt flickered across her face.

  “Do you think he’ll let us buy him out?” she asked, her voice quieter now.

  Franco’s smile was confident. “I’ll get him to cash out the same way I got him to invest. I’ll ask my sister to apply a little pressure. She’ll persuade him.”

  Helen exhaled in relief, and they kissed.

  Across the restaurant…

  Ethan was savouring the second course at his usual booth, sharing a meal with his old friends, Danny and Debbie.

  “Got a little surprise for you, Danny.” Ethan’s slight Scottish accent crept into his voice as he waved over the young waitress who had been serving them.

  “Hi, love. Could you grab my special order from behind the bar?”

  Danny and Debbie exchanged bemused looks as the waitress disappeared. A moment later, she returned with a four-pack of Mac’s Heavy—a rare Scottish beer, impossible to find outside specialist stores in the U.S.

  Danny’s eyes widened with glee. “You beauty!” he exclaimed as she placed the chilled cans on the table with two frosted pint glasses.

  Debbie rolled her eyes with a laugh.

  “I won’t drink mine now if you don’t mind, Ethan,” Danny said, admiring the cans. “I’ll take a couple with me for later—I’m off on a hike this afternoon. Want to enjoy the fresh air while I’m still on Earth. I’ll save my drinking for Mars.”

  Ethan was about to respond when he noticed a small figure approaching their table—a girl, no more than six or seven, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, a rucksack shaped like a teddy bear strapped to her back. She clutched a pen and a cardboard coaster, likely snatched from her table, her fingers tightening around them with nervous anticipation. She had come for an autograph.

  She moved hesitantly, her steps small, unsure.

  From across the restaurant, her mother—mid-thirties, well-dressed—watched with nervous encouragement, trying to bolster her daughter's confidence.

  Ethan, Danny, and Debbie smiled warmly at her.

  And then, before the girl could reach the table, Rab stepped in front of her.

  The robot’s massive frame blocked her path entirely, casting a long shadow over the girl. Its artificial gaze locked onto her, scanning her face, X-raying her teddy-bear rucksack.

  “HALT.” The command boomed through the restaurant, cold and metallic.

  The girl let out a sharp scream and bolted back to her mother.

  “Out of the way, you oaf!” Debbie snapped, shoving past the robot to chase after them, hands already raised in apology.

  A heavy silence had fallen over the restaurant.

  Ethan looked around—several diners had their phones out, recording the scene. In a room full of fans and detractors, he knew exactly how this was going to play out.

  The footage would hit the feeds in minutes.

  It would trend.

  It would go viral.

  And it would look bad.