Section 32
Fault Lines
Lucky
The car is silent, apart from the cheerful directions from the GPS lady. Gia looks straight ahead, not once has she glanced in my direction.
“Is this about last night?” I finally blurt. Not my most subtle moment.
“Why would it?”
“Everything’s about me,” I say lightly. “I’m very self-centered.”
“Lucky,” she says carefully, “there are parts of this world you don’t—”
“Know?” I finish. Her jaw tightens. “I didn’t sign up to be briefed on every skeleton in every closet. But I did sign up to stand next to you.”
“I didn’t ask you to—”
“You didn’t have to,” I interrupt. “You let me.”
She looks away first.
The GPS cheerfully announces there’s an exit in the next quarter mile.
Her expression doesn’t change, but something in her posture does—like a weight just settled on her shoulders.
I feel it in my gut.
“What?” I ask.
The silence stretches. The kind that precedes impact. We switch lanes preparing to exit.
“There are things,” she says, measuring it out, “that are only dangerous if you pretend they aren’t real.”
I nod. “That’s not an answer.”
“No,” she agrees. “It’s a warning.”
Fair enough.
“Where you go I go.”
Her throat moves. She looks like she wants to argue—and then like she wants to stop herself from saying something else.
The rest of the drive is silent again.
She’s out of the car almost before the parking break is on and walks in like she owns the place.
I follow at a distance, helmet on, invisible by design, blending into the category of men who exist to open doors and break problems if needed. Nobody stops her. Nobody questions her.
The room is already full when she enters.
Frank, of course, has his back to the door and still claims the head of the battered conference table like it’s first-century Rome, smirk and all.
Bellini is there too—quiet, observant, eyes sharp in the way men get when they think patience is a virtue instead of a delay. The Morozovs sit side by side, voices low, trading irritation in Russian.
DeLuca isn’t there.
Neither is Dante.
Smart men.
Gia doesn’t wait to be acknowledged.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” she says calmly, taking the empty seat at the table like it’s always been hers. “It appears my invitation got lost in the mail.”
Silence.
Frank’s face tenses for a nanosecond—a tell he covers with the sort of smile reserved for funerals. “Gia. This was meant to be a preliminary discussion.”
“And yet,” she replies, crossing one leg over the other, “here we are.”
One of the Morozovs watches her with new interest.
Bellini says nothing. His eyes flick briefly to me. Then away.
“Getting shot at puts a damper on my yoga class,” Gia says, studying her nails, then continues. “Since I’m here, let’s dispense with the fiction. This isn’t about stability. It’s about impatience.”
Frank spreads his hands. “That’s unfair.”
“No,” she says. “It’s accurate.”
She turns slightly toward the Morozovs. “You were told I’m overextended. That Red is vulnerable. That Frank’s actions were… preventative.”
The scarred Morozov makes a face. “They say you hesitated.”
The other is gnawing the side of a pen cap with such violence it’s threatening the plastics industry.
Gia smiles.
It’s not warm.
“Hesitation,” she says, and lets her tone thread the needle between polite and get to the fucking point, “would have looked like silence. Instead, I restored logistics, rerouted access, and neutralized the people who thought listening without acting made them invisible.”
The room shifts.
The other Morozov leans forward. “You punished them?”
“I corrected them,” Gia replies. “They’re still alive. That should tell you something.”
A beat.
Then the scarred one nods. Once.
Bellini’s mouth tightens.
Frank finally leans forward. “You’re making this adversarial.”
Gia turns to him fully now. “You made it adversarial when you acted without authorization.”
“You don’t own—”
“I manage,” she cuts in. “Which means I decide where pressure is applied and where it’s absorbed.”
The Morozovs exchange looks again. This time, approving.
Frank leans back, spreading his arms across the chair like a wingspan. “We were just discussing leadership, and succession before you disrupted the agenda.”
She doesn’t blink. “And you think Bellini deserves a seat.”
“Nobody’s suggesting that,” Frank says. “But the man has made his presence known. That can’t be ignored.”
A Morozov snorts. “Is not about ignoring. Is about not negotiating with amateur who gets lucky shot, da?”
Bellini finally speaks. “You’re very confident.”
“Yes,” Gia agrees. “I am.”
Frank exhales slowly, like a man who’s decided it’s time to stop pretending.
“Since we’re being honest,” he says, “there’s something you should know.”
The room stills.
“About who you employ.”
I feel it the shift. The moment the blade clears the sheath.
Gia doesn’t blink. “If this is a threat—”
“It’s information,” Frank replies smoothly. “Which you value. Or so I’m told.”
Bellini watches closely now.
The Morozovs frown.
Frank’s gaze flicks—just briefly—past Gia.
Toward me.
“Helmets hide faces,” he continues. “But they don’t erase histories.”
Gia’s spine goes rigid.
“You might want to ask your man,” Frank says lightly, “where he learned to stand so loyally. And for whom.”
The silence that follows is absolute.
I’ve always known this conversation would happen.
Just never like this.