Section 46
Entering the Trap
Gia
The moment the door opens everything feels wrong.
Not the usual cocktail of perfume, sweat, and spilled liquor—the scent of questionable decisions layered over bass-heavy music. This is cleaner. Emptier. Like a crime scene that’s been wiped down but not quite scrubbed of memory.
The lights are on.
Every one of them.
The dance floor glows a sterile white instead of its usual crimson pulse. Chairs are overturned. Tables pushed aside. Someone has dragged half the furniture toward the walls like they’re clearing space for a performance.
Which, in a sense, they are.
Frank always did enjoy theater.
My heels click against the polished concrete as I step inside.
The sound echoes.
Behind me, the door closes softly. Dante’s men are somewhere outside, positioning themselves the way professionals do—quietly, methodically, waiting for the moment the board shifts.
Frank stands in the center of the room.
He’s chosen the spot carefully, directly beneath the chandelier that usually casts fractured red light across the dance floor. This morning it spills white illumination over him like a spotlight.
He looks like a man hosting brunch.
“Gia-bella,” he says warmly, as one of his goons takes my purse and pats me down awkwardly.
He finds my phone but misses the Beretta Bobcat secured beneath my left breast. His hands stop several inches short of thorough. Frank’s men have always been more frightened of touching me incorrectly than of me shooting them. Men.
I take in the room before answering.
Two men by the bar.
One near the DJ booth.
Another by the staircase.
Bad positioning. Worse discipline.
Frank never did understand that the difference between intimidation and security is attention.
And then I see Lucky.
He’s tied to a metal chair near the VIP section, ropes cutting tight across his wrists and waist. His head is tipped slightly forward, brown hair falling into his face.
Blood has dried at the corner of his mouth.
My stomach turns over.
I lock it down immediately, but Frank notices.
“You found the place all right,” he says pleasantly.
I walk further into the room, ignoring the guards who stiffen as I pass them.
Four visible. Two concealed badly enough that I can hear them shifting in the hallway.
My club feels smaller like this, stripped of its pulse. Its chaos.
“You’ve redecorated,” I say.
He glances around as though seeing it for the first time.
“I needed space.”
“For what?”
He gestures casually toward Lucky.
“For conversation.”
Lucky lifts his head.
Our eyes meet.
The bruise along his jaw is blooming purple. One eye is starting to swell. But he’s conscious, alert, watching me.
His mouth moves slightly.
Don’t.
Rain taps softly against the high windows.
Frank steps a little closer to Lucky, resting one hand lightly on the back of the chair like he’s presenting an exhibit.
Lucky shifts slightly against the ropes.
“Gia—”
Frank backhands him across the mouth without even looking.
The crack of it echoes in the empty club.
My hands stay loose at my sides.
My breathing stays even.
Frank turns back to me as if nothing happened.
“You see the problem,” he says mildly. “People like him create complications.”
“People like him solve them.”
Frank smiles faintly.
“And yet here he is.”
He lets the silence stretch, waiting to see if I break it.
I don’t.
Eventually he sighs.
“Let’s not pretend we don’t understand the situation,” he says. “You want him back.”
“I want my club back.”
“Ah.” His smile widens. “And here I thought you were sentimental.”
He steps aside slightly, giving me a clearer view of Lucky, bruised and bleeding. He’s still glaring at Frank like he’s calculating the physics of launching the chair across the room.
Frank spreads his hands.
“Red,” he says.
Then he nods toward Lucky.
“For him.”
Even the rain seems to pause.
Lucky stares at me.
We both know what the smart answer is.
Frank watches my face carefully, studying every flicker.
Waiting for emotion, for weakness. He gets nothing from me.
I tilt my head.
“You misunderstand something, Frank.”
His eyebrows lift.
“I don’t like people touching my things,” I continue calmly.
I glance at Lucky, then back at Frank.
“And I’m keeping both.”
The smile spreads slowly across Frank’s face.
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
He turns toward the bar.
“Gentlemen,” he says.
The men who had been pretending not to listen suddenly straighten.
“Join us.”
Two more men step from the hallway, jackets open over shoulder holsters. Frank’s, but not regular Red security.
Lucky exhales sharply.
“Gia—”
Frank places a hand on Lucky’s shoulder and squeezes hard enough that the chair creaks.
“You see,” Frank says conversationally, “this was never really about negotiation.”
I fold my arms. “No?”
He steps closer to me now, his voice softening.
“This was about confirmation.”
“Of what?”
Frank looks at me a beat too long, something almost sympathetic crossing his face.
“That you’d chose him in front of witnesses.”
The rain outside intensifies.
The guards shift, tightening the perimeter.
Lucky pulls against the ropes again.
Dante has seven minutes. If I don’t walk back out or cancel the order, he comes through every entrance at once.
Frank glances around the empty club like he’s admiring the stage he’s built.
“You always did have a talent for drama,” I say.
He chuckles.
“Learned from the best.”
“Ah. Daddy dearest,” I scoff.
Frank turns his head slightly toward the back entrance.
“No, Gia. From you. Bring him in.”
Somewhere behind us, a door opens.
Lucky goes still.
I don’t turn around.
Frank watches my face with quiet satisfaction.
“Let’s see,” he says softly, “how this plays out.”