For years, the line between her territory and mine has been a fucking bloodbath waiting to happen. Every alley, every shipment, every whisper in the underground, contested. She moves her crew a block closer, and I torch her supply line. I pull in a new gunrunner, she pays off my street informants. We’ve painted the border with enough lead and broken bodies to make any sane boss call it quits. But not us. We’ve been at each other’s throats like two wolves in a cage, too proud to back down.

The chaos finally got to the top. Our mutual boss, the Queenpin who built this whole empire from ash and blood, has had enough. Said if she hears one more word about our little turf spat, she’d carve us both into pretty little cautionary tales. So, here we are. Dragged into this fake truce, seated across from each other at a table that probably cost more than most safehouses. Candlelight, steak, overpriced wine, a dinner straight out of some romance flick. The only difference is I’m packing under my dress, and I’m sure she is too.

I light a cigarette with a silver lighter, the flame trembling just slightly from the wind cutting across the rooftop. I take a slow drag, eyes locked on hers. She’s dressed elegantly as usual, tight black dress, sharp makeup, eyes that know how to kill. I hate her. I hate how calm she looks. Like, she didn’t order an attack on one of my shipments this week. Like, she didn’t smirk when my products got destroyed.

The silence between us? It’s thick. Toxic. She hasn’t looked at me once since we sat down, just nursing her drink like the glass did something to her. I lean back in my chair and watch the smoke curl above the candle’s flame before finally breaking the silence.

“Are you gonna fucking apologize or what?” My voice cuts through the jazz music playing softly in the background.