Cherub moaned. Barbarossa splashed some rye on his face. He revived, and so did I. I pulled his hand to my chest, and there was a flicker of that smile. I should have let him walk me home.

“Gilda,” he said. “Don’t you know it’s dangerous at night?”

“What happened, chieftain?” said Barbarossa.

“An ambush. On our land. Half block south of the Borderline, those bastards in their rainbow silks.”

“Van Alen’s guardsmen.”

“They knocked us down like we was toy soldiers. Never knew bullets could fly so pretty. Like fireworks in the dark.”

“They had the guns?”

“And whips and chains and everything else. At the first pop of gunpowder, my best boys froze in their boots, our lines were broken, the rout was on.”

Cherub coughed, violently enough that his hurt leg slid off the cushion and crashed to the floor. He screamed like an animal caught in a bear trap, and I pulled him as close as I could.

“I was afraid . . . ,” I said, honest at last.

“Stop. I don’t want to hear anything about Gilda Carr being afraid.”

I chuckled, truly embarrassed, and we tried to remember how we talked to each other when we weren’t telling the truth.

“I just hate you seeing me looking so stupid,” he said.

“This is what happens when children play soldier.” I barked at Barbarossa: “Now how about some goddamned bandages?”

She gripped her lush curtain between both hands and ripped a swath long enough for me to wrap around Cherub’s ankle, which was either badly sprained or slightly broken. He moaned terribly, and I cinched the bandage tighter, and that, at last, shut him up.

“Put out the call, Thorne,” said Barbarossa. “I want every gang in the Lower West behind my banner. At dawn, we stride up Eighth Avenue to break that border down.”

“And the One-Eyed Cats,” said Cherub, trying to sit up, “will be leading the charge.”

“You can hardly walk,” I said, pushing him back down.

“Then I’ll crawl.”

“You’re a moron, Cherub Stevens, but I refuse to see you throw yourself away.”

“Three boys, Gilda. My boys. Dead for nothing. Blood demands blood.”

“How many men ambushed you?”

“A dozen, maybe.”

“Then this is no invasion. It’s a scouting expedition, or a provocation. Don’t give in.”

“You heard Cherub,” Barbarossa said. “Blood demands blood.”

She poured two more glasses of Boulton’s and pressed one into my hand. She smiled at me, and the panic in the room dissipated until it felt like we were just two women, alone in a boardroom, haggling over a deal. I drained the glass and savored the burn.

“Rushing into a war is a good way to lose,” I said. “Wait two days.”

“In two days, they’ll have pushed us into the river.”

“So fortify. Plan. Don’t attack.”