Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 154368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 772(@200wpm)___ 617(@250wpm)___ 515(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 154368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 772(@200wpm)___ 617(@250wpm)___ 515(@300wpm)
He smiled, and even though he was younger than me. . .he seemed older. . .wiser. . .but that was what death did. “What grows best in ash? Hmmm.”
I raised my eyebrows.
"Everything. Forest. Empires." The line of his jaw twitched. "Enemies.”
I swallowed.
"If you survive your father in this war. . .I'll be watching to see what grows in yours."
I bet you will.
He walked off without another word.
His men fell into formation behind him, a wall of dark suits and cold eyes. Together they headed in the direction of the helicopter waiting on the other side of the island.
Fucking Lion.
I put my gaze back on the fire, still watching the area in the pyre where the folder had been.
Reo appeared at my shoulder. His jaw was tight. I knew that look—he'd wanted to kill the Lion too. Yet, he didn't speak. Just stood there, watching the pyre with me.
Soon, I heard helicopters starting up. The sound grew louder, then began to fade as Kazimir and his men lifted off.
I stared at the fire.
At the ash.
At everything I'd just let burn.
And then Reo spoke, "You did the right thing."
I wanted to believe him.
I wasn't sure I did.
But it didn’t matter anymore. The folder was now ash. My father was still breathing. And somewhere on this island, my Tiger was in a kitchen, holding together a world she didn't yet understand she'd already started to rule.
I thought of what the Lion had said about soft places having soft places. “Put more men on Nyomi’s grandmother.”
“Yes. I caught that. It’s already done.”
“Good. Nothing can happen to her grandmother.”
“Agreed.” Reo pulled out his phone. “We have other things that need to be done today.”
“Yes. But all of that can wait. I need to check on my Tiger.”
Reo smirked. “Your Heart.”
“Yes.” I nodded. “My Heart.”
“I’ll make sure she’s still in the kitchen.” He began to press on the phone’s screen.
“Hold on.” I thought of how rough this morning had been for my Tiger and me. “I need to do more than check on her.”
“Alright.”
“Call Hiroko first.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. I want to do this right.”
Chapter seven
The Firebird
Nyomi
Stravinsky's The Firebird played through the kitchen's hidden speakers—violins climbing in golden spirals, horns blazing beneath them like embers refusing to die.
Chef Bunzō had chosen this full orchestral ballet for our soundtrack today.
It ran nearly forty-five minutes, and had been composed in 1910, when Stravinsky was still young, hungry, and trying to prove himself.
I knew the story well.
A prince wanders into an enchanted garden and captures a magical firebird. She gives him one of her feathers in exchange for her freedom—a single burning plume that later saves his life when he faces the immortal sorcerer holding thirteen princesses captive.
In the end, the firebird's magic destroys the sorcerer and transforms everyone he'd imprisoned, turning stone back into flesh, death back into life.
"We can play this for inspiration," Chef Bunzō had said with that easy smile of his. He was younger than I'd expected when I first met him—late thirties, maybe close to my age—with sharp cheekbones and clever eyes that probably missed nothing. "The Firebird is about transformation. Death and rebirth. I thought it fit what we're creating today."
He wasn't wrong.
The kitchen was alive with heat and limitless ideas. Steam curled from pots. Knives flashed under fluorescent light. The massive industrial range glowed with blue flames, and above it all, the smell of slow-braising oxtail wrapped around me.
This is what I needed.
After everything—the spy hunt, the betrayals, the pyre I'd witnessed burning outside our window—I needed to create something.
To transform raw ingredients into nourishment.
To remind myself that my hands could build, not just destroy.
Around us, the kitchen hummed with activity.
Five of Chef Bunzō's staff moved through the space like dancers in a choreographed performance.
Right from the beginning, the music shifted the whole kitchen. The dark, prowling introduction gave way to quick rhythm.
In the ballet, this was the moment the prince first glimpsed the firebird darting through the sorcerer's garden.
Near the prep station, a young woman with her hair pinned back, sliced scallions. And as the music rose, her knife matched the tempo.
Flash.
Flash.
Flash of scallions falling into perfect thin ribbons right along with the pizzicato strings—quick plucked notes that danced off her blade.
Beside her, another woman—older, with laugh lines around her eyes—carefully arranged small plates for tasting. Her movements were precise and unhurried.
A third woman stood at the pastry station, piping delicate swirls of matcha cream onto miniature tarts, testing the ratio of bitter to sweet. She'd look up every few minutes to catch my eye and smile, genuinely curious about what we were creating together.
The two men worked closer to the industrial refrigerators. One was tall and quiet as he prepared mise en place—tiny bowls of chopped ginger, minced garlic, measured spices—while the other, younger and more animated, was taste-testing a honey-bourbon glaze, and his expression shifted from thoughtful to delighted as the flavors hit his tongue.