Section 49
Poison
Gia
Frank’s body hits the floor, the thud traveling through empty space where music and life should be. I don’t move as his limbs twitch once, twice, then still.
I feel Lucky tense behind me, the chair creaking as our bodies adjust to this new reality.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Peachy,” comes the strained reply.
Frank’s men stand paralyzed, their hands hovering near weapons they no longer know if they should draw.
Bellini sighs. It sounds more like mild inconvenience than murder.
“Great whiskey,” he says, setting his still-full glass on the bar with a soft click. “Terrible company.”
Frank’s guards look at each other, then at their fallen boss, then at Bellini and his men who have somehow materialized at strategic points around the room. The calculation is visible on their faces—the rapid reassessment of odds, of loyalties, of survival.
One by one, they lower their hands.
Bellini straightens his already immaculate tie and crosses the floor toward us, stepping carefully around Frank’s twitching form like avoiding a spill on expensive carpet.
“Sorry about that, love,” he says, producing a small key from his pocket. “Do untie the bruised one,” he then motions for his men. The handcuffs open with a quiet snick that feels inappropriately delicate given the circumstances.
I rub my wrists where the metal dug into skin, watching Bellini’s face for any sign of betrayal. His expression remains pleasant, almost bored, as if we’re not standing over a dying man.
The chair creaks as Lucky is freed.
“That was—” I say, through gritted teeth.
“Amazing, I know. No need to thank me. You actually inspired me.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your perfume,” he says suddenly, leaning slightly closer. “Belladonna, isn’t it?”
“And blood orange,” I confirm, rising slowly from the floor.
My club looks even worse from this new vantage point.
Frank’s redecorating efforts were more extensive than I first realized—my artwork removed from walls, leaving ghostly rectangles where frames once hung.
The custom leather furniture pushed aside for metal folding chairs.
The crystal decanters behind the bar rearranged in a configuration that makes my teeth ache.
My space violated, remade in his image. Not just occupied, but erased.
“So that’s the smell I’ve missed in my bed.”
Lucky’s voice is rough and slightly slurred from the beating he’s taken. When I turn, the sight of him makes something twist painfully beneath my ribs—his face mottled with bruises, dried blood crusted at the corner of his mouth, ropes cutting into his wrists deep enough to draw blood.
His helmet sits on the floor beside him where Frank’s men placed it after capture. Even in this state, he manages a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
He’s not looking at Bellini or his men. He’s looking at me.
I meet his gaze steadily, letting my eyes convey what my face cannot: I see you. I’m here. This isn’t over.
Frank makes a wet, gurgling sound from the floor. I don’t look at him. I won’t give him the satisfaction.
“The whiskey?” I ask instead.
Bellini gestures toward the expensive crystal tumbler still sitting on the side table, barely touched except for Frank’s fatal glass.
“Highland single malt,” he says with a hint of professional disappointment. “Twenty-one years. Shame. Fine whiskey should be enjoyed slowly.”
My eyes narrow. “You tried framing me by using Belladonna?”
The question hangs between us, sharp as broken glass. If Bellini wanted to implicate me in Frank’s death, using my personal stock would be an elegant touch. A taste of my poison. Frank’s men would testify I was present. Motive established. Opportunity clear. Method linked directly to my bar.
Bellini’s eyebrows lift in mock offense.
“Absolutely not. Do I look like a bog witch?” He reaches into his tailored jacket pocket and produces a small empty glass vial, rolling it between his manicured fingers.
The crystal catches the harsh overhead light, winking like a conspirator.
“Colorless, odorless, untraceable. Highly flammable, too. Clean, right?”
There’s clinical pride in his voice, the satisfaction of a professional describing their craft. Not boasting, just stating facts.
Behind him, Frank’s breathing has become labored, each inhale a desperate scrape against time.
His eyes are open but unfocused, staring at the ceiling as if searching for answers there.
This man who thought he could take everything from me, reduced to a body failing command by command.
I should feel something more than this cold satisfaction, but I don’t.
Lucky reaches for his helmet, and hesitates a moment before grabbing it by the chin guard. His movements are stiff, pained, but determined. I expect him to put it on—to retreat behind that barrier the way he always does when vulnerability threatens.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he strides toward the barely conscious Frank, poison working its way through his system. Lucky’s knuckles whiten around the helmet’s edge as he raises it high, muscles tensing under his torn shirt.
“Matthew…” Frank manages, weak and foamy.
“Lucky.”
Blood sprays across the polished floor, droplets catching light like rubies before gravity claims them.
Frank makes a gurgling noise.
His fingers twitch against the floor.
Lucky strikes him again. The impact is sickening—a wet crack that reverberates through the empty club. Then everything is quiet.
Bellini observes the violence with mild interest, like a man watching an unexpected turn in a chess match. “Huh,” he says softly. “Less clean now.”
His men remain positioned by the doors, weapons visible but not raised. No one moves.
I watch without emotion. Not because I don’t feel anything—but because what I feel doesn’t fit any category I have names for. This isn’t satisfaction or justice or even revenge. It’s just necessary. Like cauterizing a wound.
Lucky stands with some effort, chest heaving, helmet dripping red onto the floor. His eyes find mine across the room—wild at first, then settling into something steadier as our gazes lock.
I survey the room slowly, deliberately. The overturned furniture. The bloodstains. The stripped walls. The hollow shell of what was once mine. What Frank thought he could take and remake.
Some spaces can’t be reclaimed once violated. Some boundaries, once crossed, can never be unbroken. Some betrayals leave stains that no amount of redecorating can cover.
My voice is cold and decisive when I speak. “Burn it down.”
It lands between us. A command. Final and irrevocable.
Lucky turns toward me, blood-spattered helmet still gripped in his hand. His eyes search mine, looking for some sign that this isn’t what I really want.
He finds none.
Bellini tilts his head slightly, that half-smile playing at his lips. “Thorough,” he says, as if I’ve suggested a particularly effective cleaning method. “I can arrange that.”
“No,” I say. “This is my club. My execution.”
He considers this, then nods once. “Of course.” He gestures to his men, who begin to withdraw toward the exit with practiced efficiency. “You’ll want privacy for this part, I imagine.”
“Lussari’s men?”
“Informed about the situation.” Bellini checks his watch. “Four more minutes and they’d come in guns blazing. Good men.”
“That they are,” I say, rubbing my wrists.
As Bellini passes me, he pauses. “Our arrangement,” he says quietly, “remains in effect. One favor. You’ll know when.”
I don’t respond. We both know the debt exists now, written in poison and blood.
Bellini pauses at the door, framed against the morning light spilling from outside. “Be seeing you,” he says, half-smile still in place. Then he’s gone, taking his men with him, leaving me and Lucky alone with what remains of Frank Nemico and the shell of my club.
Lucky moves closer, stopping just far enough away to respect whatever invisible boundary I might need.
“Hi,” he says, and there’s a hint of dimple underneath the purple swelling.
“You look awful.”
“You too.” His face is a map of pain and questions, but he asks only one. “You sure about this?”
I look around one last time at Red—at what it was, what Frank made it, what it could never be again. I think about the nights I’ve spent here, building something that was mine. The decisions made. The power earned. The respect commanded.
Some things, once broken, are worth rebuilding. Others need to be razed to the ground so something new can rise from the ashes.
“Yes,” I say, and there’s no hesitation in my voice.
I walk behind the bar and pick up the whiskey bottle.
My father believed some things were worth saving. He never said they couldn’t be remade.
I pour the whiskey across the bar.
Across the dance floor.
Across Frank’s blood.
I find a lighter and flick it. Watch the flame steady.
Then let it fall.
With a whoomph the flame races across the path I drew in a brilliant blue line, blooming around Frank’s body. This isn’t about destruction, but purification. Not just revenge, but reclamation.
Sometimes the only way to save something is to burn away everything that doesn’t belong.