Location: Pasta La Vista, Melbourne – Time: 7:57 p.m.
Ryan dove across the table like a dad at a Black Friday sale.
"HOLLY, PUT DOWN THE BREADSTICK!"
Too late.
PFFT!
The breadstick emitted a polite ding!—then ejected a puff of glitter and garlic smoke into the air like a confetti cannon. Enzo, the waiter, screamed and dove into a bread basket.
Holly blinked. "I thought it was parmesan!"
Ryan popped up, coated in ricotta and regret. "That was a prototype. It's supposed to stun hostile chefs."
Emily wiped flecks of pesto off her cheek. "Now it's stunning my eyebrows off."
Suddenly—
CLANK.
The lights flickered. Red strobes lit up the pasta station. The accordion music stopped mid-wail.
Wall panels rotated. Tables lowered into the floor. Wine racks spun to reveal weapons racks: meatball grenades, gnocchi knuckles, and a spaghetti garrote.
A voice boomed overhead:
"WELCOME TO THE FAMILY TABLE."
Time: 8:02 p.m. – Kitchen Combat Zone
The Bruce family stood back to back on the tiled floor of the now-exposed mafia war kitchen.
Dozens of goons in chef coats charged in—some wielding pizza paddles, others brandishing olive oil flamethrowers.
Ryan activated his ONYX CORE wristband. Hawaiian shirt: gone. Replaced with sleek black tactical gear embroidered with a tiny pasta logo.
He kicked a rolling pin off the counter and caught it mid-spin.
Emily pulled a carving fork from her purse and clicked a hidden button—its prongs extended with a spark.
"Faith," she said. "Goggle up."
Faith grinned and yanked down her glittery pink sunglasses. "Spy mode: macaroni madness!"
Holly pulled two butter knives from her backpack and struck a martial arts pose she learned from cartoons.
One goon lunged.
Holly shouted, "BUTTER BLADES, ACTIVATE!"
She slipped. Both knives flew. One knocked out a goon. The other lodged into the emergency button that released the automatic marinara waterfall.
SPLURT.
Half the kitchen was instantly drenched in tomato sauce.
Ryan elbowed a goon, disarmed another with a baguette, then turned to Emily. "Remind me to never mock food fights again."
Emily parried a ravioli disk thrown like a ninja star. "Too late, Mr. Chew Like A Spy."
Time: 8:14 p.m. – Bella's Final Course
Through the chaos, Bella Castini appeared atop the dessert cart—arms crossed, sunglasses on indoors.
"You came to my father's restaurant thinking you could play pretend," she said, clicking her heels against the crème brûlée.
Ryan pointed his rolling pin. "We came for intel. And garlic knots."
She smirked. "Then let me give you both."
She threw down a napkin.
Printed on it: Coordinates. Shipyard. Midnight.
Underneath: "THE SAUCE ISN'T JUST A METAPHOR."
Emily grabbed the napkin. "That's either brilliant code… or the worst menu item I've ever seen."
Bella tapped her earpiece. "Enjoy your carbs, Agents. We'll see if your family's appetite survives the next course."
She vanished in a flash of flour—literally—as an emergency smoke bomb went off in the cannoli oven.
Time: 8:23 p.m. – Aftermath
The Bruce family staggered out the back exit, coated in sauce, soot, and shame.
Faith licked her fingers. "Best dinner ever."
Ryan wiped his face with a napkin shaped like Australia. "We're going to need twelve showers and a tetanus booster."
Emily held up the napkin again. "Midnight at the shipyard. Something big's coming."
Holly nodded. "Good. I'm bringing the exploding breadsticks."
Ryan groaned. "No. No more breadsticks."
[TO BE CONTINUED]