Section 45
Change of Plans
Gia
The city blurs past my window as I drive toward Red.
My knuckles have gone white against the steering wheel, the only visible sign I’m anything but composed. In the rearview mirror, two black SUVs maintain perfect distance—Dante’s men falling into formation behind me like disciplined shadows.
The clock on the dash reads 7:17 a.m.
Chicago is awake. Early commuters. Coffee lines. Delivery trucks. A man in a neon vest smoking outside a bakery like the world is still simple.
Frank would be expecting me.
Just not like this.
Rain starts as a mist, then turns heavier, drumming against the roof in a rhythm that matches my pulse. The wipers cut clean arcs through the downpour, revealing flashes of skyline—jagged, gray, unforgiving.
Red waits at the edge of the industrial district, its silhouette beginning to emerge through the weather.
At a red light, I breathe once.
Twice.
Center.
This isn’t about feelings.
Unfortunately.
It’s about who gets to take what’s mine.
The light changes. I press the accelerator with precise control, neither too fast nor too slow. Desperate people speed.
I am not desperate.
I am inevitable.
The SUV behind me flashes its lights once—Kowalski signaling they’re in position.
I reach for my phone.
Bellini is expecting Frank to disappear on schedule. Our arrangement was clear.
This is no longer clean nor efficient.
Men like Bellini don’t appreciate revised timelines.
I dial anyway.
Three rings. Never more, never less with him, just like his half-smile.
“Serrano.” His voice comes smooth through the speaker, unhurried, as though I’ve called about dinner reservations rather than murder. “To what do I owe this pleasure so early?”
“Change of plans.”
“That,” he says after a deliberate pause, “is an interesting way to start a conversation.”
My grip tightens on the wheel.
“Frank has something of mine.”
“Red?” he says immediately. “Though you’ve never struck me as sentimental about real estate.”
“Not the club.”
The silence that follows is different.
Interested.
“Ah,” Bellini says softly. “The man in the helmet.”
I say nothing. But Bellini is not a man who needs help with obvious things.
“How unfortunate for Frank,” he murmurs.
“Well…”
I take a corner cleanly, tires hissing over wet pavement.
“He never struck me as the type to misunderstand leverage,” Bellini continues. “Though perhaps he’s grown nostalgic.”
“He’s grown careless.”
“Careless men die quickly.”
“Then we agree.”
A low chuckle. “On Frank? Usually.”
Bellini lets the silence stretch.
My teeth press together.
“How valuable is he?” Bellini asks.
I stop at another light, watching raindrops race each other down the glass.
“A man’s life is worth more than a club,” I say, and almost look around to see who spoke.
Bellini hums, and I can almost see the half-smile behind it.
“How noble.”
“Don’t make this irritating.”
“Irritation implies surprise. I’m simply adjusting.” A beat. “You’re risking momentum for one man.”
“I’m altering a timeline,” I say. “Not abandoning it.”
“Of course.” He sounds amused now. “Business first.”
He doesn’t believe me—not fully.
Which is fair. I don’t fully believe me either.
I turn onto the street leading to Red’s parking structure. Through the rain-streaked windshield, I can make out movement near the garage entrance. Two guards. Frank’s, not mine.
“Frank’ll answer for what he’s done. But on my timeline. By my methods.”
“Your methods,” Bellini repeats. “I see.”
“Our arrangement still stands,” I clarify.
“Your priorities have shifted,” he says.
“Temporarily.”
“Mm.” He lets that sit for a moment. “The temporary things are often the most expensive.”
I almost hang up on him.
“Three things, then,” he says.
Of course. It’s always three with him.
“One: the arrangement stands. Two: I keep the favor. Three—” a pause, and I can hear the half-smile land. “I’ll expect an update.”
“You’ll get one.”
“Gia.”
I slow as I approach the garage entrance.
“Yes?”
“In our world, we rarely find people worth disrupting plans for.” His voice drops slightly, something colder beneath the polish. “The ones who manage it usually become either our greatest strength or our most significant vulnerability.”
“I’m aware of the risks,” I say.
“I’m sure you are.”
He hangs up.
I slip the phone into my pocket and take one final breath before turning into the garage.
In the rearview mirror, Dante’s remaining SUV glides into position at a discreet distance. They’ll wait for my signal before moving.
Frank thinks he knows exactly how this ends.
He thinks I’ll come in emotional, impulsive, compromised by the fact that Lucky matters more than he should.
He’s right about one thing: I am compromised.
But Frank has always mistaken care for weakness, and that’s why he keeps surviving just long enough to become inconvenient.
Lucky went back to Red for me.
To buy me time.
I intend to use every second of it.
The garage swallows my car into its concrete belly.
I park where I have a clear line of sight to the service entrance and kill the engine.
Rain whispers through the open structure. Somewhere overhead, water drips steadily through a crack in the ceiling.
As I check my weapon I find myself thinking about dimples. About fresh herbs growing in a kitchen window. About hands that know how to hurt but choose to be gentle.
I step out into the rain.
Cold needles kiss my face. My heels strike concrete. I smooth a hand over my coat, lift my chin, and look toward the entrance to my club.
Lucky—the stupid, reckless, impossibly loyal idiot—came here alone.
I didn’t.