Section 25
Damage Control
Gia
Lucky’s kitchen is too neat for the things I’m about to do in it.
Morning light slants through the window and lands on the countertop, catching on the leaves of the basil plant like it’s trying to be hopeful.
The smell of coffee—real coffee, not the scorched apology they serve at Red—fills the room.
Diablo is sprawled on the floor with his chin on his paws, supervising.
This is too fucking calm and domestic.
I set my phone down, flex my fingers once, and begin.
The statement takes exactly twelve minutes to draft. Every word has to carry weight without emotion.
Yesterday’s incident was the result of unauthorized action by individuals acting outside established agreements. Stability remains our priority. Any further escalation will be addressed decisively.
I don’t name Frank, or Bellini, but everyone will know exactly who I mean.
I send it through the proper channels—lawyers, intermediaries, the kind of people who get paid obscene amounts of money to repeat other people’s words without attribution. The message will ripple outward in under an hour.
Then I don’t look at my phone.
Lucky leans against the counter a few feet away, arms crossed, posture relaxed in a way that’s entirely deliberate. He hasn’t spoken since I started typing.
“Coffee?” he asks finally.
“Yes,” I say. “Black.”
He moves without comment, pours a mug, and slides it toward me like he’s done this before. The handle faces the correct direction. I notice.
The coffee is… good. Suspiciously good.
I look at him over the rim. “Did you poison this?”
“Not unless you count the beans being ethically sourced,” he says. “Which I don’t.”
“Good.”
I set the mug down and open my laptop. Maps. Financial reports. Message logs. The city arranged into grids and numbers and potential failures.
Lucky watches for a moment, then looks away, gaze drifting to the window instead. He gives me space. That, too, is a choice.
“You’re not on the clock,” I say, not looking up.
“I know.”
“You could leave.”
“I could.”
He doesn’t.
I scroll through a list of names and flag three in quick succession. Mid-level. Loyal to Frank. Quietly reassigned to places where they can’t do damage. Or at least not fast damage.
“You’re moving people already,” Lucky observes.
“Waiting is how rumors get traction.”
“Right,” he says. “Like mold. You don’t see it until it’s everywhere.”
I glance at him. “Is that from experience?”
“Mostly bathrooms,” he says. “But yeah.”
Despite myself, my mouth twitches.
Diablo shifts, tail thumping once, then stills.
I rub at my temple. The adrenaline is wearing off, leaving behind the kind of exhaustion that makes your bones feel hollow.
“You always do this alone?” Lucky asks, carefully.
“It’s the job.”
“That wasn’t the question,” he says mildly.
I pause, fingers hovering over the trackpad.
“No,” I say. “I just don’t usually trust anyone to stand close enough not to get hurt.”
“That’s… considerate,” he offers.
“It’s practical.”
He hums, not arguing.
“I like knowing how systems break,” he adds, absently plucking a basil leaf and rolling it between his fingers. “But I don’t like being the only one who knows where the cracks are.”
I study him for a beat, then take another sip of coffee.
“That’s how people get promoted,” I say.
“That’s how people get blamed,” he counters. “Usually posthumously.”
I snort quietly. Damn it.
“Frank’s going to push,” Lucky says.
“He already has,” I reply, tracing my finger along the rim of the cup.
“And Bellini.”
“Yes.”
Lucky exhales through his nose. “You don’t seem worried.”
“I am,” I say. “I just don’t let it drive.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It’s efficient.”
“Those aren’t the same thing,” he says, not unkindly.
I tilt my head. “You always correct your boss?”
“Only when she’s smarter than me and still wrong,” he says. “It’s a character flaw.”
I consider that.
“You ever want out?” he asks.
The question is gentle. No implication. No pity.
I think about it.
About Red. About the cost of building something that lasts in a city that eats people alive.
The question sits between us longer than it should.
Nobody has asked me that before.
They ask whether I can do it.
Whether I’ll survive it.
Whether I’ll win.
Never whether I want something else.
“No,” I say honestly. This was what I was raised for. The only thing I know—and I’m good at it. “Someone has to keep the gangsters at bay.”
He nods. “Fair.”
My phone buzzes.
Once.
Then again.
I glance down. Messages lighting up the screen. Acknowledgments. Requests. A single, carefully worded reply from Dante.
I don’t open them yet.
Instead, I close the laptop.
Lucky notices immediately.
“Everything okay?”
“For now.”
I lean back against the back of my chair, arms crossed, mirroring his stance without meaning to. The kitchen suddenly feels smaller. Intimate.
“Thank you,” I say.
“For what?”
“For not making this harder.”
He tilts his head. “You want harder?”
I give him a look.
He grins faintly, then sobers. “You don’t need me to fix this. I know that.”
“Correct.”
“But I can stand here,” he continues. “And if someone tries to break the door down, I can be in the way.”
Something in my chest loosens. Just a fraction.
“That’s acceptable,” I say.
Diablo huffs approvingly.
Lucky glances down at him. “See? Even the boss agrees.”
I shake my head. “Don’t get used to it.”
“Trust me, I won’t.”
But he doesn’t move.
Neither do I.
Outside, the city keeps breathing—ignorant of statements and power shifts and quiet wars being planned over good coffee and fresh herbs.
For the moment, this is contained.
For the moment, I am not alone at the center of it.
That is a dangerous thing to start wanting.