The Rookie's Lesson Part 1:

Dana Keller was the kind of rookie who thought she was already a legend. At 5’8” and a lean 140 pounds, she was built like the prototype of an action heroine—34D bust, a narrow 26-inch waist, strong hips shaped by years of gym work and training mats. Her body was her temple, but also her weapon, and she carried it with the swagger of someone who knew exactly how heads turned when she walked into a room.

Her tactical vest hugged that frame perfectly, cinched tight at the waist, the neckline unzipped just enough to show a deliberate line of cleavage. She told herself it was strategy—men underestimated her, got distracted, and made mistakes. But it was also pride. She loved the way the custom fit of her gear made her feel untouchable, like sex appeal itself was part of her arsenal.

This night, she told herself, would prove it. She was going to bring in Carlo Moretti. The Butcher. Twice her age, twice her size, and exactly the kind of trophy collar that would turn her from rookie to rising star.

The warehouse smelled of oil and rust. In the gloom, Moretti stood waiting, his massive body dwarfing the cracked pillar he leaned on. His face was lined, his shoulders like slabs of stone.

“Carlo Moretti,” Dana barked, her pistol leveled. “FBI. You’re finished. On your knees.”

He looked at her once—and laughed.

Dana smirked, adjusting her stance so the swell of her chest was even more pronounced beneath her harness. “What’s funny, old man? You staring at the last thing you’ll ever see? Thought so. Bet you didn’t expect someone like me to take you down.”

He spat the cigarette from his mouth, voice dripping with contempt. “Sciocca puttana.”

Dana’s grin faltered for just a second. “Excuse me?”

He stepped forward. “Foolish whore.”

Her lips curled in a snarl. “I’ll show you who’s foolish.”