Section 21
Dysfunctional Group Therapy
Gia
Bottom line is nobody gets into Red unless I say so.
By the time my guests arrives, I’ve already regretted agreeing to this three times. I could ghost them. Nobody would know.
I open the door just in time for Sylvie Hart to barrel into me at full speed.
“Hi,” she announces, hugging me like she’s trying to reassemble my skeleton. “You look like you’ve been emotionally waterboarded.”
“I was shot at,” I say.
“Yes! I heard!” she says brightly. “That’s why I brought snacks.”
Behind her, Antonio DeLuca sweeps in like the concept of drama given legs.
“Darling,” he says, kissing the air near both my cheeks. “I came the moment I heard you were having a masculine leadership crisis.”
“I’m not,” I say.
He looks around my office.
“…You absolutely are.”
Sylvie is already sitting on my couch, kicking off her shoes. “Okay, first of all,” she says, “this place is terrifying. Second of all, I love it. Third of all—”
She gestures vaguely around.
“—are you okay?”
I hesitate.
That’s new.
“Define okay.”
DeLuca pours wine like he’s auditioning for a lifestyle magazine. “She means are you sleeping, eating, or considering arson as a coping mechanism.”
“Mostly metaphorical,” I say.
“Progress,” Sylvie nods approvingly.
We settle in—Sylvie cross-legged on the couch, DeLuca draped like a scandal, me behind my desk pretending this is still a professional environment even though I’m holding a plastic cup of red wine.
Sylvie squints at me.
“You look mad,” she says.
“I am.”
“Like murder mad or spreadsheet mad?”
“Yes.”
She grins. “Okay, good. That’s my favorite flavor.”
“Bellini didn’t test Dante. Or the Morozovs. Or any of the men who love pretending they’re inevitable,” I say, words tumbling out before I can stop them.
DeLuca scoffs. “Men think anyone who doesn’t yell is weak.”
“Or anyone who doesn’t swing their dick around like a threat display,” Sylvie adds.
I snort despite myself.
“That’s what’s getting under my skin,” I admit. “My people are obeying me, but they’re hesitating. Waiting. Like they think someone else should step in.”
“Frank,” DeLuca says instantly.
I don’t deny it.
Sylvie frowns. “Ew. Nobody wants to see him swinging his dick around.”
DeLuca’s eyes sharpen. “Did he use the phrase ‘let the men handle it.’”
“…Yes.”
He laughs once. Not humor. Violence-adjacent delight.
“Ah. A classic,” he says. “Nothing inspires loyalty like casual misogyny.”
Sylvie scoots closer. “Listen to me very carefully,” she says. “You are not the weak link. He doesn’t know how to read you, so he’s panicking.”
I swallow.
“That’s not comforting.”
“It should be,” DeLuca says. “You terrify him.”
Sylvie nods enthusiastically.
I stare at my wine.
“You’re allowed to be angry,” Sylvie says gently. “And tired. And still in charge.”
“And if anyone thinks otherwise,” DeLuca adds, sipping his drink, “I will personally seduce their spouse and destabilize their household.”
“That’s not helpful.”
“It’s extremely helpful,” he says. “Just not operational.”
“Or we chop of their dicks with rusty garden shears,” Sylvie suggests.
I laugh.
It startles me.
The sound feels like a hinge that hasn’t moved in a while.
Sylvie beams.
We talk longer than intended.
About how surreal it is to wake up one day and realize the world has expectations of you that didn’t ask permission.
At some point, I notice movement in the hallway through the glass.
Lucky passes by once.
Helmet on.
Doesn’t look in.
I don’t mention him.
Neither do they.
When the bottles empty and the hour grows late, Sylvie stands and stretches.
“Okay,” she says. “We’re kidnapping you for real next time.”
“I’ll schedule it.”
DeLuca kisses my cheek. “You are not alone, Gia. Even when your idiots forget that.”
“I know,” I say.
And I do.
After they leave, the club settles back into silence.
I sit at my desk for a moment longer, warmth buzzing faintly under my skin—wine, laughter, support.
The office feels too small once they’re gone.
Every sound carries. Even Diablo’s breathing seems loud as he circles once before flopping onto the rug with a dramatic huff.
“Don’t start,” I tell him.
He ignores me.
I shut down my computer, stack the remaining paperwork into a neat pile I will absolutely pretend does not exist until morning, and stand. The wine has left me warm but not foggy—a gentle softening around the edges, like someone turned the volume down on my constant internal alarms.
The private room smells faintly of steam and expensive soap.
I stop just inside the doorway, suddenly aware of how strange it is to be here without intention. This room is usually transactional—rest, release, reset. Tonight it’s just… shelter.
I change into one of the spare shirts I keep folded in the drawer. It’s soft, oversized, anonymous. I kick off my shoes and sit on the edge of the bed for a moment longer than necessary.
Diablo jumps up beside me without asking.
“Absolutely not,” I say.
He settles anyway.
I sigh and lie back, staring at the ceiling. The lights are dimmed to a low amber, just enough to keep shadows from turning into threats. My thoughts try to spiral—Frank, Bellini, loyalty, optics—and I shove them aside with practiced efficiency.
Not tonight.
There’s a soft knock at the door.
“Come in,” I say.
Lucky steps inside, helmet on, posture careful. He looks like he’s bracing for instructions.
“Everything okay?” he asks.
“Yes,” I reply. “The others left.”
He nods. “Good.”
A pause.
“Security’s quiet,” he adds. “Perimeter’s solid.”
“I know.”
He hesitates, shifting his weight. I recognize that movement now—the moment before he chooses restraint.
“I’ll be outside,” he says. “If you need anything.”
He turns.
“Lucky.”
He stops immediately.
“Yes, boss.”
I sit up on one elbow. “You don’t need to take the chair tonight.”
“I’m fine with it,” he says quickly.
“That wasn’t what I said.”
A longer pause.
“The bed’s big,” I continue. “You can stay on your side. This is not—” I gesture vaguely, annoyed with myself. “It’s practical.”
He considers this very carefully.
“You’ve had wine,” he says.
“Enough to sleep,” I reply. “Not enough to make decisions I’d regret.”
His shoulders relax a fraction.
“If you’re uncomfortable,” I add, “say no.”
He doesn’t answer right away.
Then, quietly: “I’m not.”
I shift over, leaving deliberate space between us.
He moves with care, like the mattress might explode if he’s careless. He sits on the edge first, then lies down stiffly on his back, hands folded on his stomach like he’s awaiting inspection.
Diablo wedges himself squarely between us, victorious.
“Traitor,” I murmur.
Lucky huffs a soft laugh before he can stop himself.
We lie there in silence, the kind that doesn’t demand filling.
I close my eyes.
“Thank you.”
A beat.
“For what?” he asks.
“For staying,” I say simply.
He doesn’t answer immediately.
I wonder if I’ve asked too much.
When he replies, his voice is quiet. Careful.
“Always.”
Sleep comes slowly, but it comes.