Section 20
Hard Work
Gia
Red is pretending everything is normal.
The lights are on. The staff move through their assigned routes with professional efficiency. From the outside, it probably looks like a temporary closure for electrical work or plumbing or whatever excuse we fed the city this time.
Inside, it feels like holding your breath too long.
I sit at my desk and work.
That’s what I do when the world tilts—I tighten it back into alignment with lists, numbers, decisions. I approve invoices. I reroute deliveries. I flag three names for quiet observation and one for immediate removal from my orbit.
Nobody argues.
They’re obeying, but they’re not backing me. Not fully. I feel it in the pauses before responses, the way eyes slide away too quickly, the subtle gravitational pull toward Frank’s authority even when he’s not in the room.
I am alone at the center of my own operation.
Again.
My phone buzzes.
Sylvie’s name lights up the screen.
I answer immediately.
“Please tell me you’re calling to say you’re kidnapping me,” I say.
She exhales. “Let me just grab the duct tape and I can be there in forty minutes.”
“Bless you.”
“And I’m bringing DeLuca.”
I grimace. “That’s not comforting.”
“He’s bringing wine.”
“Fine. I accept my fate.”
She laughs softly. “You okay?”
I glance at the office door, at the quiet hallway beyond it.
“No,” I say honestly. “But I’m operational.”
“Classic you,” she says. “We’ll come sit in your murder club and pretend it’s a girls’ night.”
“I don’t do girls’ night.”
“You do now,” she replies. “Hang tight.”
The call ends.
I stare at my phone for a moment longer than necessary, then place it face-down on the desk like it can’t judge me if it can’t see my face.
A knock sounds.
I look up. “Come in.”
Lucky leans into the doorway, helmet on, jacket half-zipped. Diablo sits beside him, tail wagging like he’s just returned from a successful campaign.
“We went for a walk,” Lucky announces.
I arch a brow. “I can see that.”
Diablo trots forward and plants himself at my feet, staring up at me with expectation.
Lucky grins under the helmet. I can feel it.
“Look, buddy,” he says brightly, crouching beside the dog. “There’s mommy!”
I freeze.
“What did you just say?”
He blinks. “Mommy?”
“I am not his mother.”
Lucky tilts his head. “You feed him. You house him. You issue commands.”
“He is a pet,” I say flatly. “Not a child.”
“Don’t listen to mommy, Diablo-bub,” Lucky whispers conspiratorially.
Diablo’s tail thumps harder.
Traitorous animal.
“Stop teaching my dog nonsense,” I say.
Lucky rises to his feet, unrepentant. “Copy that. No more emotional manipulation. Can I teach him to high-five? Because we’ve almost got it.”
“If that’s something you find amusing,” I mutter, looking at the computer screen.
Lucky hesitates. “Things seem calm. Could I take a short break? Shower, change, that kind of thing?”
I consider it. The cameras are steady. The perimeter is quiet. For now, Bellini is watching, not acting.
“Fine,” I say. “Ten minutes.”
“Yes, boss.”
He turns to go.
“Lucky.”
He pauses.
“…Do not call me mommy again.”
“I make no promises,” he says solemnly, and disappears down the hall.
I sigh and rub my face.
Diablo noses my knee insistently.
“Yes,” I tell him. “I know. Everyone is an idiot except you.”
He wags, satisfied, and places a massive paw on my leg.
“This your attempt at a high-five, bud?” I say. My face does something strange, my cheeks hurt. My chest swells. Perhaps I’m coming down with something.
Time passes strangely in quiet buildings. Minutes stretch. My inbox refills. I lose myself in logistics again until Diablo stands abruptly and huffs.
“What?” I ask.
He turns in a tight circle, then trots toward the hallway with purpose, stopping to look back at me like I’m late.
“No,” I say automatically. “I’m busy.”
He barks once.
Low. Demanding.
I glare at him. He does not care.
“Fine,” I mutter, pushing back from the desk. “Lead the way.”
He escorts me down the corridor like he’s assigned himself an executive function.
The door to the private room is ajar.
Steam curls faintly into the hallway.
I stop.
My instincts prickle. The dog’s obviously doesn’t, as he thunders on into the room.
“Diablo, heel! Sit? I—come back.”
I go after the damn dog, and almost run straight into Lucky.
I’m going by Diablo’s judgment, since he’s not wearing his helmet. As a matter of fact he’s not wearing much of anything.
Wet hair pushed back from his face. Skin flushed from heat. A towel wrapped low around his waist, one hand braced on the dresser like he’s just realized he’s not alone.
We stare at each other.
For one impossible second, my brain refuses to reconcile the man in front of me with the one I know.
This is not what I expected.
He looks… unfair.
Open in a way that feels like a lie.
Pretty in a way that irritates me on principle.
“You—” I start.
He startles. “I—!”
He reaches instinctively for a visor that isn’t there.
Diablo trots past me happily and flops onto the rug like this explains everything.
Lucky exhales.
“Oh. Hi.”
I catalogue details against my will—the line of water still tracing his collarbone, the way his expression shifts instantly from easy to guarded, the faint tension in his shoulders like he’s bracing for judgment.
This is the face he hides.
This is the part he keeps armored.
Soft mouth. Clear, bright blue eyes. Baby face.
“You look like a twelve-year-old frat boy,” I blurt. Because he looks like he should be losing beer pong, not surviving shootouts. This disgustingly pretty idiot man child is the man I—
He blinks.
“…Thank you?”
I gesture vaguely. “This is false advertising.”
He smiles, a big smile that could light up this entire club. He has dimples, which just seem deeply unfair.
“Aw, you’re staring,” he says, hooking one thumb into the towel and leaning on the dresser. My eyes immediately commit treason by noticing the v of muscles and the trail of hair disappearing underneath the towel. Absolutely the hell not, eyes!
“I didn’t mean to—” I begin, then clear my throat. “Get dressed.”
“Absolutely,” he says, but keeps smiling.
“Wanna watch me change? Cause I don’t mind—”
“No! I—”
I turn on my heel and leave before my thoughts can organize themselves into something dangerous.
Behind me, Diablo sighs deeply, as if disappointed in both of us.
I walk back toward my office with my pulse doing entirely inappropriate things.
The helmet suddenly makes a lot more sense.