Section 31
Pressure Points
Gia
I don’t wait.
I’m in a car headed south, coat buttoned, bob on fleek, expression neutral enough to pass for any other woman with money and a schedule. Any other woman with a helmeted bodyguard in tow. Business as usual, and all that.
The loading docks come into view like they always do—concrete, steel, men who believe logistics is beneath notice until it stops working.
Lucky rides in the front seat, helmet back on, jacket zipped, posture loose but ready. He hasn’t said a word since we left. He doesn’t need to. His presence is loud enough.
The docks, however, are too quiet.
My spider-senses tingle. Or my threat radar.
I step out of the car and feel eyes shift—calculating stares follow us. People clock me, then clock Lucky, then revise whatever assumptions they walked in with this morning.
Good.
I don’t announce myself. I walk into the office of the site manager, a man who’s been here longer than Frank’s been pretending he understands supply chains.
“Shipment delay,” I say conversationally.
“Yes,” he replies, too quickly. “Weather. Union backlog.”
“Neither of which applied today,” I say. “Try again.”
He swallows. “We were advised to—”
“By whom?”
A beat.
He exhales. “Frank Nemico.”
There it is.
I nod once. “Thank you for your honesty.”
“That’s it?” he asks, clearly braced for consequences.
“For now,” I reply. “Resume standard routing. Any further instructions that don’t come from me get logged. Not followed.”
He nods immediately. Relief flickering.
Lucky shifts behind me, enough to add punctuation to any statement I make.
We move through the building. I ask questions. I listen. I adjust.
By the time we leave, the system is back in motion.
Frank wanted hesitation.
I gave him continuity.
We’re halfway back to the car when my phone rings.
“DeLuca? You’re calling early.”
“Darling,” he says, voice strained. “I’ve just had the most exhausting conversation of my life.”
“That’s saying something.”
“Frank tracked me down,” he continues. “Very earnest. Very paternal. Very convinced I’d enjoy being folded back into the boys’ club.”
Lucky’s helmet tilts toward me. Listening.
“And?” I ask.
“And I rolled my eyes so hard I pulled something,” DeLuca replies. “I may sue him for emotional damages.”
I smile despite myself. “What did he want?”
“To ‘stabilize’ things,” DeLuca says. “To make sure we’re all aligned. He said your name like it was a fond memory instead of a warning.”
“Of course he did.”
“He’s setting a meeting,” DeLuca adds. “Neutral ground. Big show of reasonableness. Bellini’s name came up.”
My jaw tightens. “Did it?”
“Yes,” he says. “Not attached to anything. Just… floated.”
“I appreciate the warning. And… thank you, Antonio.” The words feel foreign, like my tongue tries to form unfamiliar syllables. I half expect my mouth to start burning, power of Christ compel you-style. Disappointingly, nothing happens.
“Always,” DeLuca replies. “Also, for the record? If anyone tries to frame you as the weak link, I will personally burn their wardrobe.”
“I’ll hold you to that. Text me the details.”
The call ends.
I slide the phone back into my pocket and keep walking.
Lucky opens the car door for me. Once I’m inside, he asks quietly, “Meeting.”
“Yes.”
He nods, helmet catching the light. “We going?”
“Obviously.”
“Cool,” he says.
I glance at him. “You’re awfully calm about that.”
“I trust you,” he replies. “And I don’t trust them.”
“That’s the correct order,” I say, unable to quite suppress the corner of my mouth.
We pull away from the docks as trucks resume their slow, steady crawl. Business restored. Message sent.
“They’re converging,” I say.
Lucky’s gloved hand rests near his sidearm, casual but ready.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “And they’re about to find out why that’s a bad idea.”
I look out the window.
Frank wanted me reactive.
Instead, I reminded him who still runs this city.
It’s time to decide who bleeds first.