Don waited a minute after Samantha’s footsteps faded, then stepped out of his room and headed toward the living area.
The space was already occupied.
Miss Claire sat comfortably on the sofa, posture relaxed. She wore a fitted black jumpsuit, clean lines from shoulder to ankle, cinched at the waist with a deep green belt that matched the stones set into her jewelry.
A slim erald necklace rested at her collarbone. A silver watch with green gemstones circled her wrist. Black aviators hid her eyes for now, giving her that unreadable look she favored.
Beside her, Samantha sat in the opposite corner of the couch in soft ho clothes, hands folded loosely in her lap, smiling far too brightly for soone pretending not to be impressed.
Near the kitchen, Sylvia stood with Sumr. Sylvia was still in her school uniform, blazer draped over a chair, tie loosened. Sumr leaned against the counter in her usual hoy attire, arms crossed as she listened.
Don slowed his steps as he caught the tail end of their conversation.
"I really miss having you at school," Sylvia was saying, animated hands sketching her point in the air. "I keep telling Mom she should let drop out too. It’d be way more fun."
Sumr laughed quietly. "Right? We could even begin our own start-up."
Across the room, Samantha was mid-complint. "I wish I were half as fashionable as you. I really love the necklace..."
Claire waved it off without looking. "Nonsense. From what I’ve seen, you’re quite fashionable."
"Oh, that’s just thanks to my friend Fabio—"
That was when Don stepped fully into view.
Samantha noticed first. Her face lit up. "Oh, there you are, sweetie."
She stood, smoothing her clothes, then turned back to Claire. "I’ll leave you two to talk." She glanced at Don again. "I’ll be in my office if you need , honey."
"Alright," Don said, already moving to take the recliner beside the sofa.
He hadn’t even settled in when Sylvia called out, waving enthusiastically. "Hiya, Don! Did you miss ?"
The grin she wore made it clear she already knew the answer she wanted.
Claire sighed and turned her head just enough to look back. One glance.
Sylvia shrugged, hands up, expression innocent to the point of mockery.
Claire turned back to Don and removed her aviators, folding them neatly before resting them in her lap. She tilted her head slightly.
"Apologies for her," she said. "So then—how have you been?"
Don resisted the urge to raise a brow. Claire wasn’t one for idle conversation. Not with him. Their recent exchanges had been short, professional, and always purposeful.
He didn’t linger on it.
"Good," he said. "Aside from the usual soreness. Yourself?"
"The days have been modest," Claire replied. "Though I could do without the increased military presence. It’s bad for business."
"Really?"
"Of course," she said evenly. "But are you truly interested in discussions involving troop deploynts, political maneuvering, or competition over defense contracts?"
Don leaned back. "Sounds too complicated for soone like ."
Claire studied him for a second, then allowed the corner of her mouth to lift. "Quite the opposite, I think. But I digress."
She turned her attention toward the kitchen. "I hope I’m not interrupting training. I rely ca to drop Sylvia off for her sleepover and thought we might exchange a few words."
’Does that an she wants to talk more,’ Don wondered, ’or that she has nothing else scheduled?’ Reading Claire had never gotten easier.
"Not at all," he said. "I enjoy talking with you. I always feel like I learn sothing new."
That earned him the smallest of smiles—there and gone almost imdiately.
"Perhaps we could continue tomorrow," Claire said. "I had planned to take Sylvia golfing, but I suspect she’ll be occupied with your sister."
Don did have training lined up. He let it go.
"Sounds like a good way to spend my rest day."
"Wonderful."
Claire picked up her aviators and stood, turning toward the kitchen. "Sylvia, darling, I’m off. I’ll return tomorrow. Do behave."
Sylvia waved. "Okay, bye Mom. I’ll call if anything."
Claire nodded and headed for the exit. Don stood and followed, walking her to the door.
She paused just before leaving.
"By the way," she said, tone shifting slightly. More serious now. "I heard your club suffered an attack. Gang-related."
"Yes," Don replied. "Tied to the forr owner. It’s been handled."
Claire’s look lingered a mont longer than necessary. "I do hope so."
Then she turned, her expression smoothing out again. "I’d quite like to see what you do with the place."
With that, she left.
Don stood there a second after the door closed.
’What does she an by that?’
He scratched the back of his head and let out a quiet breath before turning and heading back toward his room.
Once back in his room, Don didn’t stop.
He talked with Winter for more than half an hour, the conversation looping, refining, discarding angles and returning to them again from different sides.
He lay on his bed by the end of it, one hand draped over his forehead, the other resting on his stomach, fingers tapping out a slow rhythm as he stared upward. Winter stood at the foot of the bed, her ocular unit projecting a cluster of translucent screens into the air.
Images cycled.
A lavish hotel—private entrances, underground parking, discreet service corridors. Floor plans shifted as Winter highlighted choke points and blind spots.
Another screen showed Harold Barclay exiting a courthouse, face tight, guards flanking him as caras flashed. Microphones pushed forward.
A third held a still fra of Andrew Barclay and Ashley Richmond standing side by side at a public function, smiles fixed, bodies angled just enough to suggest unity rather than closeness.
Winter let the images hang.
"What do you think?" she asked.
Don drumd his fingers once more, then stopped. "I think it might just work."
He sat up, swung his legs off the bed, and stood.
"Tell Gary he can begin phase one of the plan."
Winter’s optic dimd briefly in acknowledgnt.
Don reached for his phone on the dresser, then paused. "I have sothing else to handle."
Nearly half an hour later, Don was back at the Deadly Damsels.
The place still slled ashy.
Burned material had been hauled out in sections, blackened chunks stacked near the alley entrance. Workers moved through the floor with gloves and masks, scraping, hauling, loading. The music was off. The lights were half power.
Inside Madam Lily’s office, the door shut behind him with a dull THUD~.
A large bag sat on the desk between them.
Lily stood behind the desk, arms folded. She wore one of her usual dresses—cut daringly low, fabric clinging where it shouldn’t have, design bold enough to draw eyes away from the strain in her face.
She looked at Don. Then at the bag.
"What’s this for?"
"Paynt to the BKB alliance," Don replied.
Lily’s brow creased as Don continued, "You said it was getting dangerous."
"It is. More than dangerous," she snapped. "They shot at one of my girls’ cars. So of them ran. Packed up and vanished because of this shit." She slapped a hand against the desk. "They want payback for what you had Ash pull."
Don’s tone stayed light. "Of course they do. Hence the money."
Lily stared at him, disbelief bleeding into anger. "Paying them won’t end this. Half the city wants Ash’s head now. At this rate it’s not even safe for ." She leaned forward. "What the hell are you planning?"
"That’s for to know."
He reached down and lifted a second bag from the floor, placing it beside the first.
"And this," he continued, "is for the girls. The ones who stayed. Get them sowhere safe. Just for about a week."
Lily hesitated. Confused. Uneasy. But money was money.
She glanced at the bags again.
Don tapped the first one once. "Make sure that one gets delivered by one of the dirty cops you know."
Her eyes snapped back to him. "How do you—"
"Good," Don said, cutting her off as he turned toward the door.
Lily watched him leave, eyes flicking from the bags to his retreating back.
’What the hell is he planning?’
The door closed behind him.
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