TUESDAY, 9:41pm

The parking lot was almost empty. The lights overhead flickered, casting long shadows across the cracked pavement. Grace sat behind the wheel of her husband’s old Jeep, her gloved hands tight around the steering wheel. Her heart pounded so loud it drowned out the quiet hum of the engine.

In the backseat, Sam adjusted her mask for the third time.

“I feel like I’m gonna puke,” she whispered.

“You’re not,” Ava said. She was calm—too calm—checking the time on her burner phone. Her blonde hair was pulled into a tight braid, hidden under the black hoodie they’d all agreed on. She looked more like a mercenary than a dental assistant. “You puke, you slow us down.”

Grace took a shaky breath, staring at the store across the lot. *Benson’s Market.* It looked so ordinary. Bright fluorescent lights. Cheesy end-cap displays of soda and chips. Two employees inside, just like Ava had said. The cashier leaned on the counter, scrolling his phone. The assistant manager was counting cash in the office.

Everything was ready. The security camera feed had gone dark fifteen minutes ago, just like Ava’s “guy” promised. The back alley was clear. The registers were full after a busy day.

Five minutes.

That’s all it would take.

Ava turned to them. “Masks on. Phones off. No names.”

They nodded.

Grace pulled the ski mask over her face and felt her identity vanish beneath it.

No more PTA meetings. No more playing perfect wife.

Just silence. Adrenaline. And the sound of their boots on asphalt as they moved like ghosts toward the front doors.

Inside, the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead.

“Get on the ground!” Ava barked the second they burst through the entrance, her voice sharp and cold.

The cashier yelped, dropping his phone. Sam pointed her fake pistol at him—plastic, painted black, but terrifying in the moment.

Grace moved fast, heart hammering as she vaulted the counter and headed for the office, just like they practiced.

The assistant manager, a skinny man with thinning hair, looked up just in time to see her slam the door open.

“Don’t move,” she said, her voice lower than usual. Shaking. Controlled. “Fill the bag. Now.”

He stared at the gun in her hand—also fake—and obeyed without a word.

She watched the bills disappear into the duffel. The stack was bigger than she expected. Way bigger.

Something about it felt wrong.

Too much. Too fresh. Too... clean.

But there was no time to think.

She grabbed the bag, turned, and bolted out the door.

They met in the alley. Three silhouettes with pounding hearts, adrenaline crashing into silence. Grace handed Ava the bag.

Ava froze.

“What the hell...?”

Grace blinked. “What?”

Ava reached in, pulled out a brick of cash—wrapped in plastic, labeled with numbers.

Drug money.

Not store cash.

Their mistake wasn’t just theft.

It was theft from someone *very dangerous*.

Sirens echoed in the distance. Too far to be for them—yet.

But someone knew.

Grace's stomach dropped.

Sam’s voice cracked. “What did we just walk into?”

Ava looked up, face pale. “We just robbed a f**king cartel front.”

The three of them stood frozen in the alley, the weight of what they’d done starting to sink in.

“This… this wasn’t just a register job,” Sam whispered, eyes wide behind her mask. “This is cartel money. Ava—what the hell did you get us into?”

“I didn’t know,” Ava snapped, voice low and tense. “It’s a grocery store. I didn’t know *this* was behind it.”

Grace grabbed the duffel, heart thudding against her ribs like a warning bell. “We need to go. Now.”

They took off running, the plastic-wrapped cash thudding dully with each step.

Back in the Jeep, the silence was heavier than the money.

Ava finally broke it. “We lay low. We don’t use the cash. We don’t talk to anyone. Not until we figure out what kind of shitstorm we just stepped in.”

Grace drove, knuckles white, mind racing. Her pulse still hadn’t come down. The zip of the cash bricks. The way the assistant manager hadn’t even *tried* to stop them. Like he knew better.

That wasn’t fear.

That was protocol.

(The next morning.)

Grace sat at the kitchen table again, but this time the bills were gone—replaced by the duffel bag now stuffed inside a laundry hamper in her closet. She stared at her cold coffee and waited for the wave of panic to stop.

Her burner phone buzzed.

**Ava:** *Meet. 12PM. My place.*

Grace replied with a single thumbs-up emoji.

When she arrived, Ava had the curtains drawn and Sam was already pacing in the living room.

“I did some digging,” Ava said, tossing a folder onto the coffee table. “That store is owned by a shell company. The shell company is owned by *Russo Imports*. Sound familiar?”

Sam paled.

Grace’s voice came out hoarse. “Cain Russo?”

Ava nodded. “The Cain Russo. Drug distribution, laundering, racketeering—you name it. The man’s got half the city in his back pocket.”

Sam collapsed onto the couch. “We’re dead.”

“No,” Ava said firmly. “We return the money.”

Grace looked up. “What?”

“We put it in a bag. Drop it somewhere. Send a message. We didn’t know who we were stealing from. That it was a mistake.”

Grace felt her stomach twist. “You think a man like that gives a damn about apologies?”

Ava hesitated. “I think it’s better than waiting for them to come find us.”

Too late.

Because at that moment, three sharp knocks pounded on the front door.

They all froze.

Then a voice—low, calm, dangerous:

“Open the door, ladies. We need to talk.”