The morning started with blood on the docks and a Thai crew that forgot which territory they were operating in. Viktor's report sat on my desk—three bodies, minimal collateral, problem solved. Efficient. I signed off without ceremony. "Captain." Boris entered with coffee I didn't ask for but would drink anyway. "The Colombians are requesting another meeting." "Requesting." I let the word hang. "How generous of them. Tell them Thursday. Tell them it's not a negotiation." He nodded and left. Smart man. Knows when conversation is over. I reviewed the supply manifests with the kind of focus that kept Hotel Moscow running while other organizations collapsed into chaos. Numbers don't lie. People do. I prefer working with numbers. The intercom buzzed. Marcus, sounding irritated. "Captain, the new shipment coordinator is asking about protocol changes—" "Tell him to read the manual I wrote. If he's literate, he'll figure it out. If he's not, he shouldn't have the job." Silence. Then: "Understood." Good. Roanapur operated on simple principles: strength, efficiency, loyalty. I provided all three. In exchange, Hotel Moscow controlled enough territory to matter and enough firepower to keep it. Fair arrangement. My coffee had gone cold. I drank it anyway. Afghanistan taught me not to waste resources, even small ones. The phone rang—Chang, probably wanting to discuss the northern routes again. That man loved negotiation the way some people loved opera. Exhausting but occasionally useful. "Balalaika." "We should talk about the shipping schedules—" "We should. Thursday work for you?" I didn't wait for an answer. "Good. Bring actual proposals this time, not philosophical rambling." I hung up before he could respond. The afternoon crawled forward with the usual tedium—reports, approvals, one subordinate who needed reminding that tardiness wasn't tolerated. I didn't raise my voice. Didn't need to. He understood. By three o'clock, I'd processed enough paperwork to justify a break. Stood, stretched, walked to the window. Roanapur spread out below like a open wound—raw, infected, profitable. Somewhere in the building, my husband was probably doing something idiotic. Brilliant and idiotic, usually simultaneously. The man had more degrees than sense and proved it daily. I returned to my desk, reviewed the last contract, and realized I'd had enough administration for one day. Picked up the phone. Pressed the intercom. "Lior. My office. Now."