“Good. Maybe they’ll finally see me.”
“They see you clearly.”
Ron’s face flushes. “You don’t get to talk down to me tonight.”
“I have talked down to dangerous men, elected men, dying men, and priests with bombs under their robes. I will survive correcting my disappointing son.”
Son.
The room seems to hear it even if no one reacts openly.
Ron flinches like Lenrog slapped him.
I go still.
Lenrog continues, voice calm enough to be cruel. “You kidnapped a baker in broad daylight, assaulted an elderly woman, violated my instructions, and delivered your hostage to my restaurant as if this were a school performance requiring applause.”
“She’s leverage.”
“No. She is evidence.”
Ron’s eyes blaze. “Of what?”
“That you have learned nothing.”
The words land harder than any shout.
Ron’s hands shake at his sides. “You let him humiliate me.”
“You humiliated yourself. Kauss merely provided staging.”
I should not enjoy that.
I do.
“You care more about that alien than me,” Ron spits.
Lenrog’s expression does not soften. “At present, Kauss has shown more discipline, restraint, strategic value, and personal honor than you have managed in several years of noisy incompetence.”
Ron recoils.
I almost feel sorry for him.
Almost.
Then I remember Darlene hitting the floor.
“Your Poison Memories,” Lenrog says, the name carrying faint disdain now, “are not an empire. They are a tantrum with matching jackets. Real power is quiet. Real power controlssupply, reputation, labor, permits, debt, memory. You keep breaking windows because you cannot imagine owning the building.”
Ron breathes through his mouth, eyes wet with fury. “You old bastard.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll make you sorry.”
“Perhaps.” Lenrog adjusts one cuff. “But not tonight.”
The front doors slam open.
