Shards of reinforced glass coated her drafting table like gravel, two razor-thin slivers stuck to the linen of her sleeve. A dark, wet patch bloomed rapidly on the pristine white fabric. Lazaro, still on one knee, a loaded gun gripped in his right hand, did not blink as he stared at the blown-out frame. Juri, however, was breathing for both of them, a high-pitched, strangled sound escaping his throat. He had dropped under the work desk, clutching a broken biscotti in his fist. “Kida! Are you hit? You’re bleeding! I knew it! They always go for the unexpected target! The innocent bystander! It’s in all the movies!” Kida pressed her palm to the wound, a vague annoyance at the mess overriding the sting. “I am not an innocent bystander, Juri. And I am hardly unexpected. The contract… it made me the target.” She watched Lazaro. Lazaro rose and crossed the floor to the breach. Without peering outside, he pressed his bare palm flat against the jagged pane until blood welled along his lifeline. A low, guttural growl vibrated in his chest, a sound like grinding stone. His men, a phalanx of silent, grim-faced enforcers, were already swarming the courtyard below, their own rapid movements stark against the sudden, eerie silence that had fallen over the Cante Fortress. Within minutes, an emergency medical team swarmed the drafting room. Kida endured the antiseptic and the sterile bandages with the same stoic resignation she approached a failed structural beam analysis. Her injury was minor, a superficial graze, but the implications were not. The rivals hadn’t missed. They hadn’t aimed for Lazaro. They had aimed for her. The true Don. “The head of Metropolitan Enforcement, Commander Veridian, requests entry, Don Cante,” a capo announced from the threshold. Lazaro stood beside Kida, one heavy hand resting on the back of her chair, and merely tipped his chin. His gaze never left Kida, a silent question in its depth. The visitor marched in, a thickset man whose gold-braided tunic strained across his midsection. His salt-and-pepper hair was perfectly coiffed, his smile a practiced mask of concern. “Don Cante, a pleasure, under unfortunate circumstances. Don Lontis,” he added, a flicker of surprise in his eyes as he acknowledged Kida directly. “My sincerest apologies for this intrusion. We received reports of… an incident.” Kida watched him, dissecting his every move. The slight twitch in his left hand, the way his gaze darted to the ruined wall, not in curiosity, but in calculating fright. He was a professional actor, but a flawed one. His concern was for appearances, not for the bullet that had just ripped through her office. “Commander,” Kida said, her voice level, “your presence is unnecessary. The incident is contained.” She gestured vaguely at the armed men still sweeping the courtyard. Veridian chuckled, a dry wheeze. “Naturally, Don Lontis. Protocol demands documentation. A glance at the damage?” He walked toward the shattered wall, his path angling past Kida. As he passed, his hand brushed against hers, a quick, almost imperceptible motion. Something cold and smooth pressed into her palm. Kida didn't react beyond a faint tightening of her fingers. Veridian continued his hurried survey of the stone ledge, muttering about calibers. Kida’s gaze remained placid, but inside, her mind raced. A burner phone. Under the pretense of adjusting her bandage, she slipped the device into her tunic pocket. Lazaro, ever-vigilant, watched her closely, his brow furrowed. She ignored him, her focus entirely on Veridian. Veridian spun around, his mouth drawn tight. “We have sufficient notes. We’ll be in touch if anything develops.” He dipped his chin. “One moment,” Kida said. Veridian froze. Lazaro went rigid beside her. “Your precinct, the Alta-Mora North Station,” Kida continued, her eyes fixed on Veridian, “it has a rather significant structural flaw, doesn't it? The load-bearing walls on the west side, near the old armory, they're not up to code. A sustained tremor, say, from heavy demolition work on a neighboring property, could compromise the entire section. Perhaps a, ah, *misfiled* permit could explain such activity.” Her voice was devoid of inflection, a mathematician stating a fact. But the implication was clear, cold, and utterly precise. Veridian’s practiced smile evaporated. His skin drained to gray, his eyelids twitching. His hand trembled visibly now. “I… I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Don Lontis.” “I’m sure you don’t,” Kida replied. “Good day, Commander.” He practically fled the room, his earlier bravado replaced by an almost frantic haste. As soon as the door clicked shut, Kida’s hand went to her pocket, her fingers closing around the burner phone. She needed to know what was on it. What could make the Alta-Mora Police Chief risk his life to deliver a message? She pulled it out, her thumb brushing the screen. A single video file. She tapped it. The grainy footage showed a familiar bakery in the city's old quarter, the one Nola loved for its pistachio croissants. And there, through the cafe storefront, sat Nola, laughing while dipping pastry in foam. But the camera angle wasn't accidental. It lingered, then zoomed in on a man in a dark car parked across the street, his face obscured by shadow, but his intent clear. He was watching Nola. Watching her every move. Kida felt something calcify inside her. It wasn't just a threat. It was a declaration. They knew Nola was her weakness. And her survival, her mere continued existence as Don, wasn’t enough anymore. Survival was a passive state. This required action. She had to obliterate them. Every single one. The phone was snatched from her hand. Lazaro stood over her, the burner phone now held between his thumb and forefinger, suspended like a dangerous insect. His irises were fixed and flat. He didn’t shout or demand an explanation; his knuckles whitened around the casing. “Whose throat,” he whispered, the sound scraping like a blade against iron, “do I need to open?” He did not wait for a response, gripping her uninjured wrist and stepping into her space until her lower back met the heavy drafting desk. His face was inches from hers, his breath warm on her cheek. “Tell me.”

The Midpoint Mutiny