Section 38
Takeover
Gia
Dante’s spare office breathes cold air against my skin. I don’t adjust the temperature. The chill keeps me alert, keeps me focused as I watch fifteen different angles of Frank Nemico strutting through my club like he’s measuring for new drapes.
The main monitor captures him in perfect clarity—silver-streaked hair freshly cut, suit pressed within an inch of its life, smile calculated to the millimeter. He looks directly at Camera Three as he passes, and I swear he winks. As if we’re sharing a joke, not a declaration of war.
Red has never looked so foreign to me, its familiar crimson lighting now casting shadows that don’t belong. Frank has already changed the accent lights—softened them, made them less aggressive. More welcoming, he’d probably say. More profitable, I know he means.
He stops to shake hands with a regular who’s spent enough money in VIP to put my hypothetical grandchildren through college.
Frank clasps his shoulder like they’re old friends, though I know for a fact they’ve never met.
The gesture is practiced, confident, the handshake lingering exactly two seconds longer than necessary.
Establishing dominance while appearing gracious.
I taught him that move fifteen years ago.
On Screen Four my lead bartender for three years darts a nervous glance at the nearest camera. His eyes linger, and I know he’s wondering if I’m watching. If I’m coming back. If this is permanent.
I zoom in on his hands. They’re steady as he pours, but his shoulders have inched toward his ears. Fight or flight calculating beneath the surface.
I don’t blame him. Red’s staff know the rumors about Frank. About men who question his decisions suddenly finding their car windows smashed or their pets missing. Nothing that can be traced back, of course. Just life’s unfortunate coincidences.
My teeth grind together as Frank takes center stage, the red spotlight catching the silver in his hair like a halo. Devil in a tailored suit playing at sainthood.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he says, voice smooth as aged whiskey. The crowd quiets, faces turning toward him with that mixture of curiosity and wariness reserved for men with power they didn’t earn. “Welcome to Red. My club welcomes you all tonight.”
My fingernails dig crescents into my palms. Ownership claimed in five syllables while maintaining a benevolent smile.
“Tonight is special,” he continues, scanning the room like a conductor before his orchestra.
“Tonight marks a new chapter. Same music, same drinks, same beautiful faces—” a smattering of appreciative laughter ripples through the crowd, “—but with a renewed commitment to making your experience unforgettable.”
Translation: Nothing visible will change. The dismantling will happen beneath the surface, where customers can’t see the seams coming apart.
He finishes with a toast to “loyalty and tradition,” the irony so thick I could bottle and sell it.
The crowd raises their glasses. On Screen Two, I catch my floor manager watching with a careful blank expression that doesn’t reach her eyes.
She’s worked for me long enough to know choreographed bullshit when she sees it.
Unable to tear my gaze from the screen I watch as Frank approaches staff members one by one, issuing directives that systematically unravel my operational structure.
The bartenders move to stations they’ve never worked.
The security rotation shifts, leaving the back entrance understaffed.
The hostesses are reassigned to tables they don’t know.
To the untrained eye, it looks like minor adjustments. To mine, it’s watching someone methodically dismantle a machine I spent years fine-tuning.
The system will survive tonight. Maybe even tomorrow. But within a week, the seams will start to show. Service will slow. Regulars will notice. Problems will multiply. And Frank will step in with solutions that conveniently require more of his direct oversight.
I’ve seen this playbook before. I wrote half of it.
My jaw is tight enough to ache. I consciously relax it, force my breathing to steady. Emotion is a liability I can’t afford right now. Frank wants me rattled. Wants me to storm in, create a scene, give him an excuse to paint me as unstable.
I could intervene. The speaker system is still connected to my laptop. One button and my voice would fill the space, reclaiming authority in an instant.
But that’s what he wants. A direct confrontation. A public power struggle.
I lean back in my chair, eyes fixed on his satisfied smile as he watches his minor chaos unfold. Let him think he’s won the opening move. Let him grow comfortable in his temporary victory.
Frank has always confused patience for weakness. And I’ve always been willing to let him.
Monitor Three shows the VIP lounge, where Frank personally escorts a group of women to a prime table—one I typically reserve for DeLuca when he visits. I recognize the woman immediately.
Influencer. Socialite. Judge Matthews’ daughter.
Useful.
On the screen Frank now approaches my private booth—the one area of Red that has always been exclusively mine. No one sits there without explicit invitation, not even on the busiest nights.
Frank runs his hand along the plush red leather of the curved bench, a gesture so intimate it borders on obscene. Then, with deliberate slowness, he removes his suit jacket—Italian wool, charcoal gray, custom tailored to mask his softening waistline—and drapes it across the seat.
A flag planted. Territory claimed.
I feel something hot and dangerous rise in my chest. This is no longer business. This is personal.
Frank sips a drink slowly, eyes finding the camera again with predatory precision. He knows I’m watching. Wants me to see him enjoying the seat of power, wants me to feel the violation of his body where mine should be.
I force my breathing to remain even, though my heart pounds against my ribs like it’s trying to escape, to confront him directly.
“Enjoy it while it lasts,” I whisper to the screen. “Consider it your retirement party.”
As though he heard me Frank’s gaze finds the security cameras, and he raises his glass in a silent toast. To me. A direct acknowledgment of our invisible audience of one.
I begin powering down the monitors one by one.
With each darkened screen, the control room grows dimmer. The familiar electronic hum that’s been my constant companion for hours begins to fade.
I press the final button.
The screen goes black.
The room plunges into darkness so complete it feels solid. I don’t move from my chair. Don’t reach for the light. I let the darkness settle around me like a second skin.
Frank thinks he’s won the night.
I’m playing for keeps.