Section 43
This Is Extremely Unfortunate
Gia
The Lussari command center breathes military precision around me—screens glowing blue-white, tactical maps spread across the mahogany desk, coffee cooling in a mug that doesn’t belong to me.
I’ve taken over this corner of Dante’s domain like a general planning a counteroffensive, which isn’t far from the truth. Frank’s occupation of Red demands a response, but I refuse to be reactive.
Reactive gets you killed.
I tap through another surveillance report, fingers steady despite the anger simmering beneath my skin.
Sylvie drifts past the doorway, pauses, then doubles back.
“You’ve been at this for hours.”
“I’m aware of time,” I reply without looking up.
“Are you aware of food? Sleep? Basic human requirements?”
I gesture toward the mug. “I’m hydrating.”
“That’s coffee.”
“It’s mostly water.”
She makes a sound that’s half laugh, half sigh, then disappears again.
If I stop moving, my mind wanders.
It wanders to helmets.
To the dog who hates everyone demanding belly rubs from him.
To the extremely inadvisable game of hide-and-seek that ended with Lucky on his knees between my legs in an unused office while I made choices that would embarrass me if I had shame.
This is why I avoid employees.
Employees complicate logistics.
Employees are not supposed to become variables I account for when planning retaliation.
My phone vibrates against the desk.
Unknown number.
At six-thirty in the morning, that usually means blood, leverage, or both.
Frank.
I let it ring once more before answering.
“Nemico,” I say, voice smooth as polished steel.
“Gia.” His tone carries that particular blend of warmth and condescension he reserves for women he’s underestimating. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything important.”
“What do you want?”
He chuckles softly. “Always efficient. It’s what I’ve always admired about you.”
I say nothing.
Frank hates silence. He fills it when he’s nervous. Or excited.
“I have one of yours,” he says at last.
My grip on the phone tightens a fraction.
“I’m not in the mood for riddles.”
“Your man paid us a visit tonight,” he continues lightly. “Luck seems to have abandoned him rather spectacularly.”
Something cold slips down my spine.
“I don’t have a man,” I say.
“No?” Frank laughs. “Then why was he sneaking through restricted areas on your behalf?”
My coffee trembles in its cup. I set it down before it can betray me further.
“Whatever he was doing,” I say, “he was doing without my instruction.”
“That’s interesting.” Frank’s voice drops, silk over a knife edge. “Because he seemed very invested in something here at Red.”
Lucky.
You absolute fucking idiot.
He went back.
Alone.
My pulse kicks hard at my throat, a betrayal I cannot quite mask even to an empty room.
“If he’s acting independently,” I say, “that’s hardly my concern.”
“See, that’s what fascinates me about loyalty,” Frank says. “It reveals so much. About trust. About hierarchy. About intimacy.”
The last word makes my skin crawl.
“Frank,” I say, “if you’re calling to negotiate, get to it. If you’re calling to gloat, I have better uses for my time.”
“He’s quite resilient, your Lucky.”
My jaw clenches.
Frank continues, pleased now. “Hasn’t said much. Which I respect. Loyalty is rare. Competence too. He won’t tell me what he was protecting.”
A soft whine cuts through the room.
Diablo has lifted his head from beside the wall. He’s staring at me now, ears pricked, body suddenly tense.
There’s a muffled sound in the background. Something heavy scraping concrete.
“Lucky,” Frank calls, voice raised slightly, “your boss is on the phone.”
“Fuck off, Grandpa Corleone.”
He’s alive.
Good.
That’s deeply inconvenient.
I exhale slowly. “What do you want, Frank?”
“An excellent question.”
“I didn’t send him.”
“Perhaps not. But it does make the screaming more sincere.”
Molten rage rolls through me so fast I almost speak before I think.
Instead I say, very carefully, “You’ll find he’s harder to break than most.”
Frank goes quiet.
I realize my mistake immediately.
Too much knowledge. Too much confidence. Too personal.
“How interesting,” he says softly. “And here I was thinking he was just another employee.”
I look down at the tactical map spread across Dante’s desk. Red is marked in crimson, entrances and exits annotated in my handwriting, basement access points circled in blue.
I should be thinking in terms of routes, personnel, timing.
Instead I’m remembering Lucky on night shifts. The way he watched a room like he could feel danger changing temperature. The way he made stupid jokes when I’d been staring at screens too long. The way he stood between me and trouble without waiting to be asked.
“I’d hate for you to misunderstand the situation, Gia,” Frank says. “He was found exactly where he shouldn’t have been. That usually warrants certain traditional responses.”
“Frank.”
Diablo stands now. Crosses the room. Presses his flank against my leg.
“However,” Frank continues, false consideration dripping from every syllable, “I understand how these things happen. Sometimes subordinates misread their place. Sometimes they confuse usefulness with importance.”
“You hurt him,” I say, surprising even myself with the undertone of murder and the speed with which the threat rolled off my tongue, “and we’re going to have a problem.”
Frank laughs.
“Oh, Gia.”
There’s affection in his voice.
“You’re already having one.”
The line goes dead.
I stare at the phone for a full ten seconds.
This is not my problem.
Lucky made a decision. Several, actually. None of them smart. If Frank wants to teach him a lesson about trespassing, that’s between them.
Employees are replaceable.
Employees are—
Diablo nudges my hand hard enough to break the thought apart.
I look down.
Amber eyes. Wet nose. Judgment.
“He went back for me,” I say, and hate how the words sound once they’re out loud.
Diablo’s ears tilt forward.
I stroke his head mechanically, mind racing through scenarios. Frank wants a reaction. He wants me emotional, visible, and off-balance. He wants me to come to him.
I will not give him the satisfaction.
But if I do nothing, Lucky doesn’t just have Frank to worry about. Bellini is already circling the edges of this mess like a shark smelling blood—and I’m the one who put him in the water.
I bought a removal. Not a rescue.
Whatever clock Bellini is running on Frank, it doesn’t care that Frank has Lucky tied to a chair in my club. Contracts don’t hurry for sentiment.
So I get there first, or I get there after.
Diablo presses harder against my leg.
His loyalty to Lucky makes painful sense now. One guardian seeing another.
“You knew,” I murmur. “You knew before I did.”
His tail thumps once.
For fuck’s sake.
I can’t let this run its course. I can’t write Lucky off as collateral and call it discipline. I can’t sacrifice him to preserve the appearance of control.
Because goddammit, I care.
About the stupid himbo in a helmet who refused to leave when things got complicated.
Who made me laugh when I should have been furious.
Who looked at me and saw something worth protecting.
I push the chair back and stand with more force than necessary.
“This is not because I care,” I tell Diablo.
Diablo blinks.
“Don’t.”
He looks at me like I’m insulting his intelligence.
“This is because loose ends are messy,” I continue, grabbing my coat and keys. “And because if Frank kills one of my employees, that sets a terrible precedent.”
Sylvie is hovering outside the command room and becomes instantly fascinated by a painting when I step out.
“Get Dante,” I tell her.
She moves suspiciously fast, which means she was already waiting for this exact moment.
Dante appears less than a minute later, all controlled focus and quiet fatigue. I explain the situation in clipped, efficient sentences because if I phrase it like a confession I will vomit.
Frank has Lucky.
Frank is baiting me.
Frank is in Red.
Sylvie folds her arms. There’s a gleam in her eye that says she is filing this away forever.
This caring business is disgusting.
“What did Lucky go back for?” Dante asks.
I pause. This man opened his home for me. I trust him. But still…
“To protect something,” I say, eventually.
Dante immediately understands. “Then Frank still hasn’t found it.”
“No.”
“He expects you to play by his rules,” Dante says. “To come alone. To walk into the version of events he’s already written.”
“Frank,” I reply, straightening to my full height, “has forgotten who the fuck I am.”
The ice queen settles over me again—not as a mask this time, but as armor around something worth defending.
Something I refuse to lose to Frank’s ego.
“He has men stationed at all Red’s entrances,” Dante says. “Basement included. You’ll need a team.”
“He wants me there,” I say. “He won’t stop me getting in.”
“Nothing is stopping anyone from shooting you halfway through the conversation.”
“Once,” Sylvie mutters, “I did it one time.”
Dante puts a hand on her arm without looking away from me. “And we’d still prefer you come out in one piece.”
“Fair,” I say, and add sternly: “Try to keep them alive.”
Dante taps the com unit on the desk.
“Assemble in the south wing,” he says, voice clear and commanding. “Five minutes. Full tactical gear.”
Diablo is already on his feet beside me, alert and ready, sensing the change in the room.
I look at the map of Red one last time.
My club.
My city.
My idiot.
“I’m coming for him,” I say, and the promise feels like truth spoken in blood.