The smell of gunpowder still hangs in the foyer, but I don't let the maids sweep up the brass casings yet. I want us to walk on them. I want us to hear the crunch of the attack under our boots every time we take a step. It keeps the rage fresh.
"War room," I announce, stepping over a pile of shattered stained glass. "Everyone. Now."
My brothers look at me. Nikos is bleeding from a cut on his cheek. Leo is reloading his magazines. Even Dimitris, clutching his injured shoulder, looks up. They don't question me. The girl who used to ask permission to speak is gone. The woman standing in the wreckage of her home is giving orders.
We gather around the tactical table. The mood is grim. We took a hit. They drove right up to our front door and sprayed us with lead.
Damon Petrakis is there. He’
