The rain-slicked streets of Manhattan gleam beneath the yellow glow of streetlamps as my town car glides to a stop in front of Nobu Fifty Seven. I take a deep breath, centering myself before stepping out onto the sidewalk. The valet, a young man with carefully styled hair and an immaculate uniform, greets me with a respectful nod. "Good evening, Councilwoman Richardson," he says, his tone perfectly modulated to convey both deference and warmth.

I smile, handing him the keys with a generous tip. "Evening, Charlie," I reply, pleased that I remembered his name from my last visit. It's the little things that build loyalty, after all. As I walk towards the entrance, I can't help but marvel at how far I've come. From the streets of West Philly to the halls of power in both the legitimate and shadow worlds. The irony isn't lost on me – I once swore to protect this country, and now I'm one of the very people I used to fight against. But the world isn't as black and white as I once believed, and sometimes you have to work within the system to change it.

The maître d' greets me warmly, leading me to a private room in the back of the restaurant. The space is a study in understated luxury – soft lighting, plush seating, and exquisite artwork adorning the walls. But what catches my eye is the state-of-the-art security system discreetly integrated into the room's design. Cameras with a 360-degree view, signal jammers, and what I suspect is a white noise generator to prevent eavesdropping. Upper Management doesn't leave anything to chance.

As I settle into my seat, I can't help but think about the last time I was in New York, a quarter ago. It'll be nice to report back. It'll be annoying to see Ophelia.

The door opens, and she saunters in as if summoned by my thoughts, her presence immediately filling the room. She's dressed to the nines in a sleek blue dress that hugs her curves, her Jessica Rabbit-red hair looking like a blood-soaked halo around her pale skin and narrow, almond-shaped eyes. So clearly dyed. "Maya, darling," she purrs, air-kissing my cheeks. "So good to see you. Love the suit – Armani?"

I nod, forcing a smile. "Good eye, Ophelia. You're looking well yourself."

She preens under the compliment, settling into the seat across from me. There's a tension between us, an undercurrent of rivalry that we both pretend doesn't exist. Ophelia may be Upper Management's right-hand girl, but I know who's been here longer. She lucked into a nice position. I've got real experience. They'll be renaming me "Mrs. Barometer" any day now, as soon as she crashes and burns.

Wesley and Jacob arrive next, engaged in a heated discussion about the latest advancements in quantum computing. "I'm telling you," Wesley says, his voice low and intense, "the implications for our encryption protocols are staggering. We need to start preparing now, or we'll be left in the dust."

Jacob nods, his fingers absently tracing the outline of a fidget toy - probably a padlock - in his pocket. "Agreed. But the cost of implementation…" They trail off as they notice Ophelia and me, offering quick greetings before taking their seats. I can't help but admire their focus – even in social situations, they're always thinking about the bigger picture, always planning three steps ahead.

Nolan is the last to arrive, his usual swagger tempered by a hint of nervousness. He's been on edge ever since that run-in with his own Toddler Squad last month – a close call that could have exposed our operations in Baltimore. "Sorry I'm late," he says, sliding into the remaining seat. "Traffic was a bitch."

Ophelia rolls her eyes, but I give him a reassuring smile. We've all had our close calls, our moments of doubt. What matters is how we bounce back. "No worries, Nolan," I say. "We were just getting started."

He visibly relaxes, reaching for the sake bottle in the center of the table. As he pours himself a generous cup, I can't help but notice the slight tremor in his hand. We'll need to keep an eye on him, make sure he doesn't crack under the pressure.

As we wait for Upper Management to join us virtually, the conversation drifts to more mundane topics. Ophelia complains about the latest modern art exhibit at the MoMA, dismissing it as "pretentious drivel masquerading as profundity." Wesley chimes in with a surprisingly insightful analysis of the artist's use of negative space, and soon they're engaged in a spirited debate about the merits of contemporary art, and the needs of the art market.

Jacob, meanwhile, is regaling Nolan with the tale of his latest conquest – a redheaded bombshell he met at a speakeasy in Boston. "I'm telling you, man," he says, a grin spreading across his face, "she was something else. Legs for days and a mind like a steel trap. Turns out she's some hotshot lawyer working for the DA's office." Nolan whistles appreciatively, but I can see the wheels turning in his head, calculating the potential risks and rewards of such a liaison.

I listen to their chatter with half an ear, my mind already racing ahead to the meeting to come. The Rogue Wave situation is spiraling out of control, and we need to come up with a plan to deal with it – fast. And then there's the issue of these kid heroes popping up all over the place, complicating our operations and stirring up public sentiment against us. Not to mention the constant juggling act of maintaining my public persona as a crusading city councilwoman while secretly running as the consigliere of one of the most powerful criminal organizations on the East Coast. I take a sip of my water, wishing it were something stronger. It's going to be a long night.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

"So, Maya," Ophelia says, her voice cutting through my thoughts. "I heard you had a little run-in with some overzealous fans the other day. Care to share with the class?" I suppress a sigh, knowing exactly what she's referring to. Last week, a group of environmental activists had ambushed me outside City Hall, demanding I take a stronger stance on climate change.

It had taken all my self-control not to use my powers to blow them halfway across the city. "

Just some concerned citizens exercising their First Amendment rights," I say smoothly. "Nothing I couldn't handle."

Ophelia's eyes narrow, sensing there's more to the story. "And I suppose the sudden gust of wind that scattered their protest signs was just a fortunate coincidence?"

I shrug, neither confirming nor denying. "You know how unpredictable the weather can be in Philly. And you know how big the penalties for weather manipulation are."

The others chuckle at our exchange, but I can see the calculation in their eyes. They're always watching, always assessing, looking for any sign of weakness or vulnerability. It's exhausting sometimes, this constant game of chess we play with each other. But it's also exhilarating, a test of wit and will that keeps me sharp. I wouldn't have it any other way. As the waiter enters with our first course – an exquisite arrangement of sashimi and nigiri – I settle back in my chair, ready for the games to begin.

As we dig into the sashimi, the conversation turns to more personal matters. Nolan regales us with tales of his latest theatrical endeavor – a community production of "Waiting for Godot" that he's directing in his spare time. "It's been a real challenge," he admits, gesturing with his chopsticks. "Getting amateur actors to understand the nuances of Beckett's existentialist themes… it's like pulling teeth sometimes."

Ophelia snorts delicately. "Darling, if you wanted to explore the futility of human existence, you could have just attended one of our budget meetings." This elicits a round of laughter from the group, even Jacob cracking a smile, fake as it might be.

Wesley, who's been quietly observing the exchange, leans forward. "Speaking of community involvement," he says, his voice low and measured, "I've been thinking about expanding our youth outreach programs in Boston." I raise an eyebrow, intrigued. Wesley's always been the most civic-minded of our group, constantly looking for ways to build goodwill in the communities we operate in. It's a strategy that's paid off more than once, giving us a buffer of public support that's proven invaluable during crackdowns. Who wants to snitch on the guy that owns the community center?

"What did you have in mind?" I ask, genuinely curious. Wesley's eyes light up, and he launches into an explanation of his plans for after-school coding programs and mentorship initiatives.

As Wesley talks, I can't help but marvel at the contradiction of it all. Here we are, some of the most dangerous criminals on the East Coast, casually discussing community service between bites of otoro. It's a reminder of the complex web we weave, the delicate balance between our public and private lives. I glance around the table, taking in the faces of my colleagues – my friends, if I'm being honest, except for Ophelia, who could get hit by a car on the way out and leave me all the happier for it.

The waiter returns, clearing away our empty plates and replacing them with steaming bowls of miso soup. The rich, savory aroma fills the air, momentarily silencing our conversation as we savor the first sips. It's Ophelia who breaks the comfortable silence, her voice taking on a more serious tone. "Have any of you been keeping up with the situation in Chicago?" she asks, her eyes scanning our faces. I feel a flicker of concern – Chicago's been a powder keg lately, with tensions between the old guard and the new players reaching a boiling point.

"Last I heard, the Outfit was making moves to consolidate their power," Jacob says, his brow furrowed. "But there were rumors of some new player entering the scene, stirring things up."

Ophelia nods, a grim smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Those rumors are true," she confirms. "I got word from one of my contacts out there. Apparently, there's a new crew calling themselves the 'Windy City Wreckers' – real original, I know." She pauses, taking a sip of her sake before continuing. "They've been hitting Outfit operations hard, disrupting supply lines, turning lieutenants. And get this – word on the street is they've got some serious firepower backing them up. Military-grade stuff." A ripple of unease passes through the group. We all know what that could mean – government involvement, or worse, some rogue agency looking to carve out their own piece of the pie.

"Any connection to them?" Wesley asks, pinching the bridge of his nose, adjusting his sunglasses.

"No," Ophelia says, and that's that. Nobody's been able to get into contact with them since the coup in Afghanistan. And it's annoying, because I'd really like a refund on Deathgirl now that she's stuck in the world's most secure prison."

"Have we confirmed any of this?" I ask, my mind already racing with the potential implications for our own operations. If this new player is as well-connected as Ophelia suggests, it could send ripples across the northern markets. Potentially bad for business.

Ophelia shakes her head. "Not yet. My contact's digging deeper, but it's slow going. The Wreckers are keeping a tight lid on things." I nod, making a mental note to reach out to some of my own sources. We can't afford to be blindsided by this, not with everything else we're dealing with.

"Keep me posted," I tell Ophelia. "If this spreads beyond Chicago, we need to be prepared."

The mood at the table has shifted, the earlier levity replaced by a tense focus. We've all seen what happens when new players try to muscle in on established territory – it never ends well, and the collateral damage can be catastrophic.

As the main course arrives – a stunning array of sushi rolls and grilled seafood – the conversation naturally shifts to lighter topics. Nolan, his earlier nervousness seeming to have dissipated, launches into a hilarious story about a recent mishap during one of his heists. "So there I am, right?" he says, gesturing expansively with his chopsticks, "hanging upside down from this ventilation shaft, trying to bypass the laser grid, when suddenly –" He's interrupted by a sneeze, sending a small glob of wasabi flying across the table. It lands with pinpoint accuracy on Jacob's sleeve, causing the usually stoic man to yelp in surprise. For a moment, we all freeze, the absurdity of the situation sinking in. Then, as one, we burst into laughter.

For a group of murderous gangsters, it all sounds surprisingly genuine. Even I believe it, for a moment.