Section 28
Disguise
Lucky
Daylight means cameras. Cameras mean phones. Phones mean screenshots that get passed around with captions like isn’t that—and holy shit and I thought she was shorter. Gia Serrano walking a dog in the middle of the day would be a gift-wrapped mistake.
So instead, she stands by the window with her coffee and watches me clip a leash onto Diablo like she’s sending someone else’s kid to war.
“You don’t have to take him,” she says.
“Yes, I do,” I reply, because this is not up for debate. “We can’t stop walking him.”
“He’s recognizable.”
“So am I,” I point out. “At least he doesn’t have a Wikipedia page.”
She snorts despite herself. “You’re not wearing the helmet.”
I glance down at myself. Jeans. Jacket. Sunglasses. Face fully exposed for the first time in public since I started working for her.
“Yeah,” I say. “The helmet’s the problem now.”
“That sentence concerns me.”
“It should,” I agree cheerfully. “Frank knows there’s a man in a helmet attached to you. He doesn’t know what I look like. If anyone’s hunting, they’re hunting the mystery.”
“And the dog.”
I look down at Diablo. He looks back up at me, tongue lolling, utterly confident in his own immortality.
“Which brings us to phase two,” I say.
“There is a phase two?”
“Doggy disguise!”
Gia turns to face me slowly. “Are you suggesting glasses and a fake mustache?”
“See, that’s why you’re the boss,” I say. “But I was thinking… bolder.”
She stares.
“…Define bolder.”
I hesitate. “Tutu.”
“Why,” she says carefully, “do you have access to a tutu?”
I shrug. “You don’t survive this kind of life without accumulating weird shit.”
“That is not an answer.”
“Jealous, ice queen?”
Her eyes narrow. “Do I have a reason to be?”
“Absolutely not,” I say immediately. “Zero. None. Negative jealousy.”
She looks down at Diablo, expression softening just a fraction, then back up at me. “This is absurd.”
“Yes,” I agree cheerfully. “But effective.”
She sighs. “We are not putting him in a tutu.”
“…What about a hoodie?”
She considers that.
Diablo wags his tail harder, sensing victory.
“Fine.”
Diablo sits perfectly still while I wrangle a black hoodie over his head. It takes some maneuvering, a fair amount of negotiation, and one whispered promise of treats that I absolutely intend to honor.
When I’m done, he looks… ridiculous.
And anonymous.
Gia stares.
“…He looks like a SoundCloud rapper,” she says.
“I was going for emotionally unavailable barista,” I reply.
She shakes her head. “I can’t believe I’m saying this.”
“Try me.”
“This is… acceptable.”
Victory.
I straighten, clip the leash, and pause. Gia hasn’t moved from the window.
“You good?” I ask.
She doesn’t look at me. “This is the part where people make mistakes.”
“And you’re not going to.”
“No,” she says calmly. “I’m going to let them show their hands.”
I watch her profile in the glass. The way she carries pressure like it’s a familiar weight instead of a threat.
“Good.”
One brow lifts. “You’re taking a stand?”
“I contain multitudes.”
A corner of her mouth curves. “Be careful. You’re one speech away from being inspirational.”
“Disgusting. I’d never recover.”
She steps closer, close enough that I catch the faint scent of her perfume.
“Bring him back in twenty,” she says. “If anyone feels you out—”
“I’ll feel them back,” I finish. “Respectfully.”
She gives me a look.
“Less respectfully than that.”
“That’s the spirit.”
I open the door. Diablo pauses, looks back at her, tail wagging once like a promise.
“Don’t get shot,” she says.
“No promises,” I reply. “But I’ll try to disappoint as few people as possible.”
Outside, the city is loud and bright and pretending nothing’s wrong.
I keep my pace easy. Sunglasses on. Head up. Diablo trots beside me, hoodie flapping slightly, the picture of canine nonchalance.
A few people glance. Nobody stares.
Halfway around the block, my phone buzzes. A message from Gia.
G: Status?
I type back one-handed.
L: City unaware. Masculinity intact.
Three dots appear.
You’re insufferable.
I grin. She has no idea.
When we get back, I knock twice. The door opens immediately.
Gia looks me over like she’s checking inventory.
“You’re late.”
“Someone tried to pet him,” I explain. “He leaned into it. I think he likes his new persona.”
She looks down at Diablo. “Don’t get ideas.”
He sits. Angelic.
I unclip the leash and shrug out of my jacket.
“Anything happen while we were gone?” I ask.
“Nothing visible,” she says. “Which means something’s brewing.”
I nod. “That tracks.”
She watches me for a beat longer than necessary.
“You did good,” she says.
It shouldn’t matter. It does.
“Anytime,” I reply.
She turns back toward her desk—formerly known as my kitchen table—already shifting gears, already moving pieces on a board most people don’t even know exists.
I watch her for a second, then look down at Diablo.
“See?” I murmur. “We’re on the right team.”
His tail hits the floor once, solid and certain.
So am I.