Bonnie & Clyde - Part 1

The restaurant itself was elegant. White linen tablecloths. Tall candles in empty wine bottles. Crystal glasses. If he weren’t on a mission, he might’ve actually enjoyed a meal here. John calmly followed the waitress to the table and sat down.

His eyes seemed to have stayed forward, but his peripheral vision swept the room through the edges of his vision.

He could tell exactly who the agents were and who the civilians were.

Those who kept darting glances at him, their nerves showing in their stiff posture and shifting eyes? Agents. No doubt about it. They were either new recruits or agents briefed on how dangerous he was, but not equipped to actually handle him.

Not that he could blame them. After all, he was the son of an international mafia boss. And this wasn’t his first time in Italy. Far from it.

He figured most CIA personnel stationed here had at least heard of his name, John Nero, even before he went rogue.

As he observed, he noticed something else. There was an unusual swarm of staff heading toward the entrance and fanning out along the walls, blocking every exit.

Subtle, he thought with a grin. Perfect. I have their full attention.

Then, his server approached.

“(Hello),” she said, flashing a fake wide smile. “(How may I serve you? Would you like to start with some drinks?)”

She was speaking fluent Italian. John replied just as fluently.

“(Just water. No ice),” he said smoothly. With a calm tone, he motioned her forward. “(And you might want to lean in so people around us don’t hear what I’m about to say.)”

She hesitated and glanced over at the chef watching through a pass-through window from the kitchen. The chef met John’s eyes.

John shifted slightly, trying to appear completely relaxed. He stood, removed his jacket, and draped it over the back of his chair before sitting again. He then fixed his pants near his ankles, slightly lifting them to be visible while checking. Lastly, he rolled up his sleeves.

The regular diners didn’t even look up. But to those watching, this was a subtle but deliberate message that he meant no harm. Showing he had no holsters under his jacket or guns up his ankles. Nothing up his sleeves.

The chef seemed to understand. He nodded.

The waitress leaned in.

“Do you know who I am?” John asked her quietly in English.

“No,” she lied, accidentally switching to perfect English.

“In that case,” John said, “you’ll have no issue bringing me the head chef.”

“Yes, of course,” she said, voice cracking. “Right away.”

John could hear the fear rising in her throat.

Am I really that intimidating? he wondered. The reaction seemed excessive. He hadn’t even raised his voice.

But maybe that was the point. Maybe it wasn’t him they feared; it was the potential danger.

As the waitress turned to leave, John reached out and grabbed her arm to stop her. Instantly, the entire staff snapped to attention. Hands twitched toward concealed weapons, prepared for a firefight. The waitress instinctively grabbed his wrist, eyes locked on his, daring him to try something.

A suffocating silence swept through the restaurant. The tension was thick enough to slice with a steak knife, and many of the civilians even caught on.

John offered a small smile.

“I was just wondering if I could really get that glass of water,” he said. “I’m actually thirsty.”

The waitress sighed and then nodded stiffly.

He released her arm.

Like air being pulled from a balloon, the room relaxed. Staff lowered their hands. The guests, oblivious to the real danger, shook their heads and went back to their meals.

Moments later, the head chef appeared at John’s table.

“Nero,” the chef said with a tight expression. “How can I help you?”

He was a short man, with neatly parted hair and round gold glasses that made him look more like a professor than a CIA undercover agent.

“Are you planning on dining with us tonight?” the chef continued. “Because I believe there’s a problem with your account. You’re not authorized to have a tab here. So if you’re thinking you can schmooze one out of me, you’re highly mistaken.”

John raised his hands slightly in defense. “No schmoozing. I just want to talk. Are you accusing me of something?” he asked.

“Accusing?” the chef scoffed. “No, Nero. You’re the one currently labeled rogue and extremely dangerous.”

“Extremely?” John repeated, frowning. He figured he’d get the rogue status—but extremely dangerous? He hadn’t done anything overtly threatening. If anything, he’d just saved the damn world.

But that’s the CIA for you. No medals for going off-script.

And besides, he didn’t have the codes anymore. Laz did.

So why exactly was he considered a high-priority threat?

“Look, I get it,” John said. “But… any chance I could just eat my food first?”

The chef folded his arms. “Let me guess. You’re assuming I’ve already contacted them to come pick you up.”

“Exactly,” John said, nodding. “So why not let me have one last meal?”

The chef tilted his head. “We have this place surrounded, Nero. If I were you, I wouldn’t make any sudden moves. For a rogue agent, you're surprisingly dumb.”

John smirked. “And here I thought cool agents were supposed to be unpredictable.”

“To be honest,” the chef said, “I’d never even heard of you until recently.”

“Well, technically I’m still on my first mission.”

“...You’re not very good at this, are you?”

“I apologize. I’ll do better. Promise.”

Right then, the waitress returned with his glass of water.

“Here you go,” she said, placing it gently on the table.

“Thanks,” John replied. He picked up the glass and examined it with a level of scrutiny that made her pause. He swirled the water, gave it a cautious sniff, then held it up to the light.

He never drank anything without checking it first. Aroma, texture, clarity. He'd been trained to expect poison back when he lived with his dad.

He had minor resistance to a few common toxins, nothing fancy, but that kind of tolerance wore off if you didn’t keep it up. He hadn't practiced in years. Still, better safe than unconscious.

“There’s nothing in there,” the chef said dryly. “They want you alive and conscious. You have a lot of talking to do.”

John took a long, deliberate gulp of the water.

“Perfect,” he said, setting the glass down. “Now, if you could just get me the fettuccine Alfredo, I’ll make sure not to cause a scene.”

“Fine. But this isn’t on the house. You’ll owe me.”

“I’m pretty sure you owe me.”

“Oh?” the chef said, raising an eyebrow. “And how do you figure that?”

John gestured to himself with both hands.

“I just delivered you a wanted man. Rogue CIA. Highly valuable. I’m sure that earns some favors.”

A grin tugged at the chef’s lips. “Would you like some wine with that?”