"All of it?" Gray Streak blinks.
"Hit them simultaneously. Warehouses, gambling den, protection routes. Leave nothing."
"The logistics alone—"
"Are manageable." Joss traces routes on the map. "If we move at midnight. Guards change shift at eleven-thirty. Fifteen-minute window where coverage is thin."
She knows their schedules down to the minute.
"I could handle the eastern routes," she offers. "While you focus on the main warehouses. More efficient."
Splitting us up. Again. She's been doing this since yesterday.
"We move together." My vision blurs. I blink hard. "Gather everyone. War council in twenty minutes."
Gray Streak leaves. Joss doesn't.
"This is about the disrespect," she says.
"This is about reminding everyone what I am."
"What you are is managing bathroom schedules and discussing fabric samples." Not judging. Observing. "The Kitchen King has accuracy to it."
My shadows spike, then drift back toward the warm floor spots.
"Tonight changes that."
"Does it? You'll kill Felix, take his territory, then what? Come home to morning tea and garden planning?"
"I'll come home to an expanded empire and proper breakfast."
She almost smiles. "Though you might want to rest first. You look exhausted."
"I'm fine."
"Let me stay here tonight. Keep an eye on things while you handle the territory. Make sure she's safe."
There it is. The helpful suggestion that feels wrong.
"She'll be safe. Here. With my people."
The dining room has been transformed. Tablecloth. Runners. Doilies placed with mathematical precision. My maps look obscene spread over Olivia's domesticity.
"Warehouse team here." I point to dock positions. My finger lands slightly off. "Grimm takes the gambling den. Gray Streak handles protection routes."
"What about their safe houses?"
"Burn them."
"All of them?"
"Did I stutter?"
The door opens. Olivia wanders in, hair pinned with a paintbrush, flour on her cheek. "Has anyone seen my scissors? The good ones?"
Everyone freezes. Twenty killers suddenly fascinated by walls. My shadows abandon tactical positions to drift toward her feet.
"They're probably in the kitchen," Finn offers.
