Section 14
All Guns Are Purse Guns
Gia
Chicago mornings have a rhythm—coffee cart steam, early runners, the distant rumble of the L train negotiating its aging bones. I appreciate rhythm.
Diablo does not.
He drags me down the sidewalk like I’m an inconvenient accessory to his morning constitutional, eighty pounds of muscle and zero respect for leash etiquette. His nose hits every lamppost, fire hydrant, and mysterious street stain with the dedication of a forensic investigator.
“You’re not actually a detective,” I tell him. “You just smell like one.”
He ignores me, tail wagging as he investigates a discarded pizza box.
The morning is cool, clean. The kind of morning where nothing should go wrong.
Which is exactly when I see him.
Lucky.
He’s half a block away, walking toward me in worn jeans and a leather jacket, like he just rolled out of bed—or someone else’s bed—and decided that was a look.
It is.
Damn him.
Professional distance, I remind myself.
This was handled.
Then he spots me and jogs over like we’re friends instead of… whatever this is.
“Boss,” he says, and I swear the fucker is grinning. “Fancy seeing you here.”
“Lucky.” I keep my voice neutral. “You’re up early.”
“Day shift.” He crouches immediately, all attention shifting to Diablo. “Oh hello, handsome boy.”
Diablo, the traitor, goes absolutely feral with joy.
He lunges forward, nearly yanking the leash out of my hand, and plants both paws on Lucky’s chest. His tail helicopters and his entire body wiggles. He makes a noise I can only describe as a happy scream.
Lucky laughs—genuinely delighted—and scratches behind Diablo’s ears like they’ve known each other for years.
“Oh, you’re a good boy, aren’t you?” Lucky says in that stupid baby-talk voice that should be illegal on grown men. “Yes you are. Yes you are.”
I stare.
Diablo hates everyone.
He tolerates me because I feed him and occasionally let him sleep on furniture that costs more than most people’s cars. He growls at my staff. He’s bitten two prospects and a delivery driver.
And now he’s rolling over for belly rubs from a man in a motorcycle helmet who definitely sleeps in his jeans.
“He doesn’t usually do this,” I say flatly.
“What, be adorable?” Lucky’s helmet tilts up at me, still rubbing Diablo’s stomach.
“He’s a menace.”
“Takes one to know one,” Lucky says, which—rude—and then Diablo licks his neck.
Lucky doesn’t even flinch. He just laughs again, pure and easy, like chaos is something he enjoys instead of something he survives.
I hate how attractive that is.
No. I don’t hate it. I resent it. There’s a difference.
“You’re going to spoil him,” I say.
“Too late.” Lucky stands, wiping dog slobber off his jacket. “He’s already my favorite coworker.”
Diablo sits perfectly at his feet, tongue out, looking up at Lucky like he’s just discovered religion.
“Traitor,” I mutter.
Lucky tilts his head, voice softening into something more dangerous. “You jealous, boss?”
“Of the dog? No.”
“Of the attention?”
Heat flickers low in my stomach. I ignore it.
“Don’t you have a shift to get to? That I pay you for?” I ask coolly.
“Yeah.” He doesn’t move. Even though I can’t see it behind the visor, I feel his gaze linger—just a beat too long to be casual. “But I’m not in a hurry.”
Diablo barks once, like he’s agreeing.
I sigh.
I should walk away. Maintain distance. Reinforce boundaries.
Instead, I say, “Walk with me.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
??
We walk in silence for half a block. Diablo trots between us, perfectly behaved for once in his miserable life. Lucky keeps pace beside me, hands in his pockets, shoulders loose, like he belongs here.
Like this is the most natural thing in the world.
“So,” Lucky says eventually, “do you always walk Diablo in the morning, or am I just lucky?”
I glance at him. “I’m guessing you’re always lucky. It’s in the name, after all.”
“True.” He grins. “Want to know a secret? It’s actually Luckett,” he whispers conspiratorially.
“Yeah, I’ll stick with Lucky.”
Diablo stops to investigate a trash can. Lucky crouches again, running his hand down Diablo’s back with easy affection.
“He really is a good dog,” Lucky says quietly.
“He’s a nightmare.”
“But you like him anyway.”
Something tightens in my chest.
I look away.
“We should keep moving,” I say.
Lucky stands, brushing off his hands. “Whatever you say, boss.”
We walk another block. The city wakes up around us—shop owners unlocking doors, joggers passing by, the smell of fresh bread from the bakery on the corner.
It’s… nice.
Which is the problem.
I’m not supposed to do nice. Nice is distraction. Nice is weakness. Nice is what gets you killed when you let your guard down.
And I’ve been letting my guard down a lot lately.
I glance at Lucky. He’s watching Diablo with the stupid posture of someone who’s never met a creature he didn’t immediately love.
“Why did you sleep with me?” I ask suddenly.
Lucky splutters. “Uh. What?”
“The extremely inadvisable decision to let you—” I gesture vaguely. “That. Why?”
He stops walking. Turns to face me fully.
“Are you seriously asking me why I had sex with you?”
“Yes.”
“Because you’re fucking hot. Besides, you asked.”
“That’s it?”
“What were you hoping I’d say?”
“I wasn’t hoping.”
“Liar.”
I give him the death glare I’ve perfected over the years. Grown men have covered in fear, but Lucky just shrugs.
“You wanted me. I wanted you. It was simple,” he says.
“Nothing about this is simple.”
“Maybe not,” he admits. “But that part was.”
I stare at him. Searching for the lie, the angle, the manipulation.
There isn’t one.
He’s just… honest.
Infuriating.
I exhale sharply and bend down to grab Diablo’s collar. He’s sniffing at something disgusting on the sidewalk, and I need to redirect before he eats it and I have to explain to my vet why my dog has trash poisoning again.
“Come on, menace,” I mutter, fingers closing around the leather—
Crack!
The sound splits the air.
Something hot screams past my head—so close I feel the air moving wrong. A physics lesson I didn’t ask for.
Lucky’s hand is on my back, shoving me down, his body already moving before the echo fades.
“Down!”
I hit the pavement hard, knees scraping concrete, Diablo’s leash tangling around my wrist as he barks—vicious, protective.
Another shot.
Concrete explodes two feet to my left, shrapnel biting my cheek.
My brain catches up in fragments:
Bellini’s men. Three of them. Dark suits. Terrible cover.
Lucky is already moving, pulling me behind a parked car with one hand while his other goes to his waistband.
“Stay down,” he says, voice gone cold and clipped, all the warmth burned out of it.
Then he’s up, gun drawn, returning fire with precision. He’s done this before.
A lot.
I don’t stay down.
I never do.
I reach into my purse—oversized, expensive, deliberately chosen—and pull out my Glock. The weight settles in my palm like an old friend.
Lucky glances back. “Are you kidding me right now?”
“All guns are purse guns,” I mutter, “if you just have a large enough purse.”
Another shot. Glass shatters above us. Diablo snarls, low and vicious, every muscle tensed.
I peek over the hood of the car.
Bellini’s crew, definitely.
Amateur hour.
“Left side,” I say calmly.
“I see him.”
“He’s favoring his right leg. Old injury.”
Lucky fires. The man goes down, clutching his knee, screaming.
“Good call,” Lucky says.
“I know.”
We move in sync—Lucky provides cover while I shift position, Diablo staying low and close, his training finally kicking in. Another shot. Another man down.
The third one panics, bolting toward a black SUV parked at the corner.
“He’s running,” I say.
“Let him,” Lucky replies. “We need to move. Now.”
He’s right. Sirens wail in the distance—someone called the cops. We don’t need that attention.
Lucky grabs my arm, pulling me up, and we run.
Diablo keeps pace, his leash flapping wild behind him.
We duck into an alley, then another, Lucky navigating like he’s memorized every escape route in the city.
Finally, we stop behind a dumpster, both of us breathing hard.
Lucky turns to me, checking me over with quick, efficient movements. “You hit?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
His hands linger on my arms for just a second longer than necessary. Then he drops them, stepping back.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, rolling his shoulders. “That was—”
“Close,” I finish.
“Yeah.” He exhales sharply, placing his hands on his knees. “Too close.”
I re-purse my gun, smoothing down my jacket. My hands are steady. My pulse is not.
“Bellini’s getting bold,” I say.
“Or desperate.”
“Same thing.”
Lucky nods, then he looks down at Diablo, who’s sitting perfectly at my feet, panting but calm.
“Good boy,” Lucky says softly, scratching behind his ears.
Diablo’s tail wags once.
I stare at them both—the man who just saved my life and the dog who actually listened for once—and feel something dangerous shift in my chest.
“We should get you somewhere safe,” Lucky says.
“I’m always safe.”
“Gia—”
“I’m fine.” I cut him off, voice firm. “I can take care of myself.”
“I know.” His posture is steady, unflinching. “But you don’t have to.”
I swallow.
“Come on,” I say, turning away before he can see my face. “Let’s get back to Red.”
Lucky follows without argument.
Diablo walks between us, perfectly behaved, like he knows something just changed.
But Hell will freeze over the day I let someone else take care of me.