Section 44
Visibly Damaged
Lucky
Ah fuck. I wake to the taste of copper, my tongue thick against teeth that feel loose in places they shouldn’t. The light above me is slicing through my eyelids when I try to open them. Pain radiates from the back of my skull in slow, methodical waves. Not my first hit to the head.
Probably won’t be my last—if I survive this.
My wrists strain against rope, my shoulders scream from being wrenched behind me, and the metal chair beneath me is cold enough to burn through my jeans.
I focus on breathing. In through the nose.
Out through the mouth. The way they taught us when everything hurt too much to think.
“Welcome back.”
The voice drifts from somewhere beyond the light—casual, almost bored.
I blink until shapes solidify. The VIP room.
Gia’s private space. My vision steadies enough to take in the changes—the plush red couch dragged away, her artwork stripped from walls, leaving bare concrete and exposed wiring like an autopsy of the room’s former elegance.
Frank’s done more than occupy; he’s gutted it like a fish.
“You’ve been unconscious for seven minutes. I was beginning to wonder whether my man hit you too hard,” Frank continues, stepping into view.
I squint up at him.
He’s not what you’d expect from a man who’s spent decades in violence. No scars. No broken nose. Just silver-touched hair and expensive fabric draped over a body that’s softening with age and comfort. He looks like someone’s disappointed father.
“Motherfucker,” I say through gritted teeth, my throat feels raw enough that Gordon Ramsay would ask it to moo.
“I don’t suppose you’d like some water?” he asks.
I spit blood onto the floor. His shoes—Italian leather, hand-stitched, probably cost more than three months of my salary—shift back slightly.
“Stubborn,” he notes. “That tracks with your file.”
My file. Of course there’s a file. There’s always a file.
Frank pulls up a chair—the chair from Gia’s desk, the one she sits in when she’s making decisions that change lives. He positions it directly across from me, close enough that our knees almost touch, then sits with the casual confidence of a man who believes he owns whatever room he’s in.
“Let’s talk, Matthew.”
“Lucky,” I correct, my voice a croak.
“I know what you prefer to be called,” Frank replies. “I’m choosing not to use it.”
Fair enough.
He studies me with detached interest, like I’m a science experiment with unexpected results. “You know, when I first saw you on the security feed, I thought you were just another idiot with a death wish. But you’re not an idiot, are you? Whatever Valenti might have thought.”
I say nothing. The room tilts slightly, then rights itself. Possibly a concussion. I focus on a point just past his shoulder, a technique I learned in my second deployment.
Pick a spot. Make it your anchor. Let everything else fade.
I count my breaths.
One. Two. Three.
“Nothing to say?”
He leans forward. “Perhaps you’d prefer to discuss Gia’s meeting with DeLuca last week? The one that wasn’t on any official calendar?”
Four. Five. Six.
His smile tightens.
“Her father altered the building more than once. Private access points. Storage spaces omitted from the plans.”
I meet his eyes now. “You seem to know already.”
“Confirmation is valuable,” he says. “Almost as valuable as cooperation.”
My head throbs with each heartbeat, a drum signaling danger. The ropes around my wrists are professional work—tight enough to restrict but not cut circulation. Someone who knows what they’re doing tied these knots. This isn’t Frank’s first interrogation.
“You understand chain of command,” he continues. “Loyalty to structure rather than individuals.”
The coppery taste increases and realize I’ve bitten the inside of my cheek. “You think that’s why I enlisted?”
“I think you enlisted because you were running from something,” Frank replies. “Most do.”
Not wrong.
“Gia’s father built something extraordinary,” Frank says, changing tactics. “A legacy of strength. She’s dismantling it piece by piece with her… innovations.” He makes the word sound like a disease.
Sweat gathers at my temples, trickling down my neck. The room is too warm. Deliberately so, probably. Small discomforts add up. They taught us that, too.
“Gia knows what she’s doing,” I say.
Frank’s eyes light up—the first real response he’s gotten. “Does she? The digital accounting. The clean fronts. The ‘strategic alliances’ with people who would have been put in the ground ten years ago. She’s making herself vulnerable, and she doesn’t even see it.”
I test the ropes again. Nothing gives. My fingers stretch, seeking any edge, any weakness in the binding.
Frank’s hand connects with my cheek—an open-handed slap that snaps my head sideways and sends fresh stars exploding across my vision.
The slap was calculated—enough to hurt, to disorient, but not enough to damage. Frank doesn’t want me unconscious again. He wants me aware. Present. Suffering.
I retreat into my training. Compartmentalize the pain. Section it off. Name it, acknowledge it, set it aside.
“Let’s try this again,” he says, voice unchanged. “Tell me what I want to know. Or I could have one of my men work on you,” Frank continues. “They’re less… refined in their methods. But I prefer conversation.”
“This how you have conversations?” I ask.
“Only with people who disappoint me.”
“No wonder you’re single.”
Another slap—harder this time. My vision whites out momentarily. When it clears, Frank is studying his palm with mild interest.
“You know what fascinates me?” he asks. “How quickly she took you in. How readily she accepted your story. ‘Lucky.’ The mysterious man in the helmet. No questions asked.”
My stomach tightens. This is what he’s fishing for—not information about operations, but about Gia herself. About us.
“She’s usually more careful,” Frank continues. “More methodical. It’s almost as if you… clouded her judgment.”
I try to smile through blood-slicked teeth. “Maybe she just likes dogs.”
Another hit—closed fist this time, connecting with my ribs. Air leaves my lungs in a rush. I double over as far as the ropes allow, gasping.
“Let me be clear,” Frank says, all pretense of casualness gone. “I despise dogs.”
I wheeze through the pain, forcing myself upright again. “Sorry to disappoint.”
Frank studies me for a long moment, then his expression shifts. The cold calculation fades, replaced by something more insidious—concern. Paternal worry. It’s more unnerving than the anger.
“She’s making mistakes,” he says softly. “Dangerous ones. Her father built walls around this organization—protection, structure, clarity. She’s tearing them down. Opening doors that should stay closed.”
“Evolving,” I counter.
“Exposing. She doesn’t see the knives waiting for her. But I do.”
I stare at him, trying to read beyond the performance. There’s something genuine in his concern—or at least, he believes it’s genuine.
“Her father trusted me to guide her,” he continues. “To ensure the transition was smooth. To prevent… recklessness.”
“You mean to control her.”
His eyes narrow. “To protect her from herself.”
“From where I’m standing—well, sitting—she’s still alive, while her father isn’t. Seems like one of them had the right idea.”
Frank leans in. “She trusted you enough to sleep beside you. Do you know how rare that is for her?”
I strain against the ropes hard enough that they bite into my skin. Fresh pain lances up my arms.
“Her father would be disappointed,” Frank says. “Not just in her leadership, but in her… attachments.”
I already knew I was bait. What I hadn’t understood was that catching me was only the first part.
The room tilts again. I fight the nausea rising in my throat when Frank steps away, and makes a phone call. I know just from the tone of his voice who’s on the other line.
I try to warn her, but it comes out as muffled cries.
“Lucky,” Frank calls, and drags the office chair dramatically toward me, “your boss is on the phone.”
“Fuck off, Grandpa Corleone!”
His mouth flattens.
“Charming.”
He shoves cloth between my teeth before I can say anything useful. I try to warn Gia not to come, but it comes out like trying to argue with a dentist who insists on asking questions while both hands are in your mouth.
Frank waves me off and continues the call, ending it on a not even disguised threat.
“Well, that’s that,” he says matter-of-factly, roughly tugging the gag free.
“She won’t come,” I say, not believing it even as the words leave my mouth. “She’s smarter than that.”
“Is she?” Frank stands, straightening his jacket with practiced precision. “Or is she exactly where I need her to be? Emotional. Reactive. Making decisions with her heart instead of her head.”
I close my eyes. Think of Gia standing by the window that morning, coffee in hand, the sun catching on her profile. The stillness in her. The control.
Please don’t come.
“She’ll see through this,” I say.
“Perhaps.” Frank paces slowly, each footstep deliberate against the concrete. “But she’ll still come. And when she does, she’ll be walking into a situation where every outcome works in my favor.”
I open my eyes, forcing clarity through the pain. “What does that mean?”
“Alone, she’s reckless. With soldiers, she’s escalating. If she stays away, she abandons one of her own.”
Neat. Symmetrical. The kind of trap that looks perfect when you assume everyone else follows your rules.
“Whatever she chooses, people will remember the version I give them.” Frank’s smile is hideous.
“All of this because she wouldn’t do things your way,” I say.
Frank stops pacing. “All of this because she wouldn’t listen. Because she thought she knew better than decades of experience. Because she forgot who she was dealing with.”
He’s wrong. He’s the one who’s forgotten who he’s dealing with.
“What’s funny?” Frank asks, noting my smile.
“Nothing.”
Frank waits, curling his fist and looking at me like a butcher assessing a piece of meat.
“You’re gonna hate how this ends,” I say, and get rewarded with a hit to the ribs in the exact same spot as before.
“Think of it this way, Matthew. You’re helping her father’s legacy survive. That’s worth something, isn’t it?”
“Go to hell!” I wheeze.
“For what it’s worth, I do see why she kept you around. Loyalty is rare these days.”
I strain against the ropes again, feeling them cut deeper into my wrists. Blood trickles down my fingers, hot and slick. I rock the chair, testing its foundation. Nothing gives.
I stop fighting the ropes.
Frank is still talking somewhere behind me, but the words blur into noise.
He thinks every choice leads where he wants it to.
That’s the problem with men like him.
They forget Gia has never been very good at following other people’s rules.
And he just told her exactly where to find me.
I close my eyes.
“Don’t come,” I whisper to the empty room.
But even as I say it, I know.
She will.