The neon sign outside buzzed like a dying insect, bleeding a sick green glow onto the wet asphalt of South 9th Street. ColdFIre adjusted the collar of her trench coat, letting her hand brush against the comforting weight of the snub-nosed .38 tucked into her waistband. 1954 in South Philly was no place for a woman alone at midnight, unless that woman happened to be her.

At twenty-five, she’d already earned a reputation as the best markswoman from the Delaware River to the Schuylkill. If anyone wanted a bullet through a moving car tire at fifty yards, they called her. If they wanted a local wise guy's kneecap rearranged, she was the girl for the job.

She pushed open the heavy oak door of the tavern. The air inside was a thick soup of stale cigar smoke, cheap whiskey, and cheap perfume. A jukebox in the corner was lowing some melancholy jazz tune, but nobody was listening. The patrons were all neighborhood regulars—dockworkers, low-level bookies, and men who looked like they knew the exact weight of a body in a burlap sack.

Her boots clicked on the linoleum as she walked toward the back booth. Sitting there, shrouded in shadow, was the local mob captain who had summoned her—a man known for using his fists first and asking questions never.

ColdFire slid into the booth across from him without an invitation. "You're a hard man to find."

The captain looked up, a thick cigar clamped between his teeth. He took a slow drag, letting the smoke roll out of his nose like an angry bull. "ColdFire. You're late."

"A lady likes to make an entrance," she said, leaning back and crossing her legs. "Besides, I had to make sure you didn't bring any uninvited guests."

"Just me," he grunted. He waved a beefy hand at the bartender, who immediately scurried over with a glass and a bottle of rye. The captain poured a finger and slid it across the sticky table. "I hear you've been making a name for yourself, kid. Heard about that job in Kensington. Three guys in a moving Buick, and you took out the driver from a rooftop in the dark?"

"Two hundred yards," she corrected smoothly, taking a sip of the rye. It burned, but she didn't blink. "And it was raining. If you brought me all the way to South Philly just to audit my resume, you're wasting my time."

Before he could answer, the front door of the bar slammed open. The jukebox cut out. Three men marched in, wearing oversized overcoats and fedoras pulled low. ColdFire recognized the leader immediately—a rival enforcer from the North Side.

"Varga's man!" the rival shouted, his voice echoing in the sudden silence of the bar. "You're in the wrong neighborhood, you greaseball!"

The captain cursed under his breath, his hand instantly diving toward his jacket. But he was slow. The two goons with the rival were already drawing their pieces.

ColdFire didn't think. Instinct took over.

Her hand blurred. The .38 was out before the captain's fingers even touched his lapel. Bang!

Her first shot caught the goon on the left square in the right shoulder. His gun clattered to the floor as he cried out, clutching his wound.

The second goon lunged forward, trying to bring his revolver to bear on her. She didn't waste a bullet. ColdFire vaulted over the table, using the captain’s shoulder as a launching pad. She landed right in front of the second man, swept his legs out from under him, and brought the butt of her pistol down hard across his jaw as he fell. He went limp.

That left the rival leader. He was panicking now, raising his automatic. ColdFire didn't shoot him. Instead, she stepped inside his guard, grabbed his wrist, and twisted it until the bone popped. He screamed, dropping the gun. She followed up with a sharp, textbook left hook right to his nose. The crunch was deeply satisfying. The man crumpled into a heap on the floor, bleeding and groaning.

ColdFire stood over them, her chest heaving slightly, her coat flared out. She spun the .38 on her finger and slid it back into her waistband, completely unfazed. The entire bar was dead silent. Even the bartender was hiding behind the counter.

She turned back to the booth. The captain was staring at her, his mouth slightly open, his cigar dangling precariously from his lower lip.

Slowly, a wide, crooked grin spread across his face. He stood up, smoothing the lapels of his expensive suit, and walked over to where she stood amidst the carnage.

"Madonn'," he breathed, looking from the floor back to her. "They said you were good, ColdFire. They didn't say you were a one-woman army."

"They understate things in Kensington," she said, wiping a speck of blood off her leather glove.

The captain reached into his pocket. For a second, it looked like he was reaching for a weapon, but instead, he pulled out a thick, heavy gold signet ring—the mark of his family's inner circle. He didn't put it on his finger; he held it out to her, resting on his palm.

"Look," the captain said, his voice dropping to a low, serious rumble. "The Don and I... we've been looking for someone with your specific set of skills. Someone who doesn't panic. Someone who can shoot the wings off a fly and handle herself when things get messy. The North Side is pushing hard, and we're going to war."

He stepped closer, locking his dark eyes onto hers. "I'm not offering you a contract job, ColdFire. I'm making a proposal. Join us. Full-time. You wear the colors, you get a cut of the numbers, the docks, the bootleg tracking. You'll be my right hand. A made woman in the South Philly outfit. No more freelancing for peanuts. What do you say?"

ColdFire looked down at the gold ring gleaming under the neon light, then back up at the captain. The 1950s was a man's world, especially in the mob. But standing there, surrounded by three grown men she'd just dismantled in under thirty seconds, she knew she held all the cards.

She picked up the ring from his palm, tossed it in the air, caught it, and slid it into her pocket.

"I say," she smiled, a cold, dangerous thing, "you just bought yourself the best insurance policy in Philadelphia. Now, pour me another drink. We have an agreement to finalize."