She looks away, flinching. I lean back in the chair and continue to speak. "Chernobyl in Philadelphia, the US Mint in DC, the six different art museum heists that someone planned and all got interrupted by the same fucking three kids, our port operations getting shut down in Baltimore - it's clear that the paradigm has changed in a way that we can't accommodate. The natural tendency of the child is towards goodness, innocence, light, you know, sugar and sunshine. The goody-two-shoeses of the world can rely on that. We cannot. Project Hollywood produces two or three viable candidates a year, and we don't have a blank check to outbid every other interested party, nor reliable contact with the organization. Something has to give."

I wave my hands out. "Hello? Someone back me up here?"

Wesley leans forward, adjusting his sunglasses. "While I'm sure we all appreciate Maya's bluntness, I'll tamp down expectations. I don't think we need to be holding people in basements and waterboarding them. Just making sure to make life inconvenient in small, noticeable ways that leave us plausible deniability but send an undeniable message - 'stop fucking with us, or we can escalate'."

"I have no problem waterboarding children," Jacob interrupts, matter-of-factly, drawing an amused chuckle from the rest of the room.

The laughter dies down quickly, replaced by a tense silence. Mr. A's voice cuts through the quiet, "Very well. Keys, ESP, you'll work together on implementing a deterrent strategy. Nothing too overt, but effective. We need to send a clear message without crossing lines that could bring unwanted attention. Are we clear?"

"Crystal," Jacob responds, nodding at Wesley. He returns the gesture, a silent agreement passing between them.

"Good. Now, let's move on to other matters," Mr. A says, his tone brooking no further discussion on the topic. "Keys, what's the status on our expansion into Atlantic City?"

Jacob straightens in his chair, all business now. "Progress is steady, sir. We've secured partnerships with two mid-tier casinos and are in talks with a third. Our sports betting operation is up and running, generating a respectable profit already. However, we're facing some pushback from local outfits."

"Continue," Mr. A prompts.

"The Scarfo family - what's left of it - isn't happy about us moving into their territory," Jacob explains. "They've made some noise, roughed up a few of our guys. Nothing major yet, but it's clear they're not going to roll over without a fight."

Ophelia leans forward, her eyes gleaming with her hideous sort of barely contained bloodlust. "Perhaps it's time we showed them why we're called the Kingdom. A demonstration of force might be in order."

I shake my head. "No, that's exactly what they're expecting. We need to be smarter about this. Jacob, do we have leverage on them Scarfos?"

Jacob smirks at me at the flub, pulling out his phone. "Funny you should ask. Obviously, lowlives like them are just lousy with bad gamblers. More than a handful of them are in deep with some offshore bookies. If we were to, say, acquire their debts…"

"You could squeeze them without firing a shot," Wesley finishes, adjusting his sunglasses.

"Make it happen," Mr. A orders. "Now, what about our operations in Newark? Yellowjacket?"

Nolan, still looking a bit unsettled from our earlier discussion, clears his throat. "Uh, yes sir. Our protection racket is running smoothly. We've expanded into three new neighborhoods in the past month. Revenue is up 12% from last quarter."

"And the competition?" Mr. A presses.

"The Genovese family's last sperms are still causing trouble, but nothing I can't personally handle," Nolan assures. "GESSOC didn't finish mopping up the trash seven years ago. I'll make sure they end up in the dustbin. No interesting superhuman activity to note."

The conversation continues, each of us reporting on our respective territories and operations. We discuss everything from our gun-running routes through upstate New York to our growing influence in the Philadelphia dock workers' union. It's a reminder of just how vast and complex our organization has become.

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As we near the end of our allotted time, Mr. A brings up one final point. "Before we conclude, I want to address the issue of our legitimate businesses. ESP, how are our tech startups performing?"

Wesley adjusts his glasses, a hint of pride in his voice. "Exceptionally well, sir. Our cybersecurity firm, in particular, is gaining traction. We've landed contracts with three Fortune 500 companies in the past month alone. It's proving to be an excellent cover for our more… sensitive operations."

"Good," Mr. A says. "Zenith, I want you to work with ESP on expanding our legitimate portfolio in Philadelphia. Use your new position to facilitate this. The more we can intertwine our operations with legitimate businesses, the harder it will be for anyone to untangle them."

"Understood," I nod, already mentally cataloging potential opportunities.

"Very well," Mr. A says, his tone indicating we're nearing the end. "You all have your assignments. I expect progress reports in two weeks. And remember, discretion is paramount. We've come too far to let carelessness undo us now."

There's a chorus of agreement around the table. As we prepare to leave, I can't help but feel a mix of pride and apprehension. We're at the top of our game, but the challenges we face are greater than ever. But then again, that's why we're the Kingdom. We don't just survive in this world – we thrive in it.

"Meeting adjourned," Mr. A says. "You have four minutes and forty-seven seconds to clear the room. Enjoy your desserts." The line goes dead, leaving us in thoughtful silence as we gather our things and prepare to face the world outside once more.

As Mr. A's final words hang in the air, we all rise from our seats in a practiced, fluid motion. There's a palpable shift in the atmosphere; the tension of the meeting dissipates, replaced by a strange mix of camaraderie and wariness. We may be allies, but we're also competitors, each of us always looking for an edge.

Ophelia is the first to break the silence. "Well, that was fun," she says, her tone dripping with sarcasm as she gathers her designer purse. Her eyes meet mine, a challenge glinting in them. "Always full of surprises, aren't you, Maya?"

I offer her a thin smile, taking care not to touch the table directly. Last time we had a spat mid-meeting, I left it without the pads of my fingers. "I aim to keep things interesting, Ophelia. Wouldn't want you getting bored up there in your ivory tower." She scoffs, but I catch a flicker of something - respect, maybe? - in her eyes before she turns away. Or maybe that's just what I'd hope it was.

Jacob and Wesley are already deep in conversation as they head for the door, no doubt strategizing about our Atlantic City situation. Nolan lingers behind, looking like he wants to say something. I raise an eyebrow at him.

"Maya, I…" he starts, then glances around, lowering his voice. "What you said earlier, about the kids. Were you serious?"

I study him for a moment, noting the conflict in his eyes. "Nolan, in our line of work, we can't afford to be squeamish. But we also can't afford to be monsters. Find the balance that lets you sleep at night." He nods, not looking entirely satisfied but seeming to accept my non-answer. "It's a matter of numbers. Look, we have the opportunity to make fucktons of money. More than the police and the teenagers in our way could ever make in our lives. I donate regularly to the zoo, and to climate change funds, not to put my mind at ease or for the taxes but because I think their money is worth more in my hands, and that my causes are worth more than their donuts and treats."

He coughs a couple of times, running a hand through his beautiful, salon-treated, back-length blonde hair. "Let me give you a reading list, okay, Nolan?"

"Yeah, sure," he replies, taking his phone out.

"Utilitarianism, John Stewart Mill. Meditations, Marcus Aurelius. Reasons and Persons, Derek Parfit. Beyond Good & Evil, Friedrich Neitzche. Go get a copy of each and read them. Or don't, I'm not your mom," I rattle off for him.

"Neitzche? Really?" He asks, unable to withhold a chuckle.

"Fuck you," I answer.

As we file out of the private room, the rest of the restaurant comes back into focus. The soft murmur of conversation, the clink of glasses, the subtle scent of soy and grilled fish - it's a jarring return to normalcy after the intensity of our meeting. A few patrons glance our way, curiosity in their eyes. If only they knew who was walking past their tables.

We pause in the lobby, exchanging final words and subtle nods. There's an unspoken agreement not to leave all at once - no need to draw unnecessary attention. Ophelia and Jacob depart first, heading in opposite directions. Wesley lingers by the bar, striking up a conversation with a well-dressed woman who's been eyeing him all night. Nolan slips out the side entrance, already on his phone, probably calling for his ride.

I wait a few more minutes, savoring the last sip of my drink and people-watching. Finally, I decide it's time to make my exit.

The valet, Charlie, appears with my car almost as soon as I step outside. "I hope you had a pleasant evening, Councilwoman Richardson," he says, handing me the keys with a respectful nod.

"It was productive," I reply, slipping him another generous tip. His eyes widen slightly at the amount. "Have a good night, Charlie."

As I slide into the driver's seat, I take a moment to center myself. The drive back to Philly is long, and I have a lot to process. The meeting's discussions swirl in my mind - the Rogue Wave situation, our expansion plans, the unsettling talk about the kid heroes. I shake my head, pushing it all aside for now. There'll be time to strategize later.

I pull out into the late-night New York traffic, the city's lights blurring into streaks as I accelerate.