Section 51
Control Systems
Gia
The elevator ride is quiet. The kind of silence that stretches, thin and tight, like a wire pulled too far.
Lucky leans back against the mirrored wall, arms folded loosely across his ribs like he’s pretending they don’t hurt. Blood has dried in uneven streaks along his jaw, his knuckles, the edge of his shirt. He hasn’t said much since we left the street.
He usually fills silence the way other people fill space—carelessly, instinctively, as if it doesn’t occur to him that it might matter.
Now he just watches.
The mirrored walls catch us at different angles—fractured reflections, overlapping, distorted. Lucky is visibly damaged, and while my reflection looks composed, it couldn’t be further from the truth.
The doors slide open.
I step out first.
My apartment greets me exactly as I left it—silent, immaculate, untouched. The kind of stillness that comes from control, not comfort. I never bring anyone here.
Lucky follows a step behind.
He doesn’t say anything immediately, but I feel it—the shift in his attention, the way he takes in the space.
Floor-to-ceiling windows dominate the far wall, the city spread beneath them like a living map. The furniture is minimalist, precise—clean lines, neutral tones, nothing unnecessary.
I set my keys down on the designated bowl on the counter.
“Sit,” I say.
Lucky looks at the couch like it might be a trap.
“Is this where you interrogate people?” he asks.
“No,” I reply, already moving toward the cabinet where I keep the medical supplies. “That room has worse lighting.”
He huffs something that might be a laugh and lowers himself onto the edge of the couch carefully.
I return with antiseptic, gauze, a clean cloth.
He watches me as I set everything down on the table in front of him.
“You keep a trauma kit in your living room?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Of course you do.”
I ignore him. “Hold still.”
“I’m not moving.”
“You were about to.”
“Fair.”
I take his chin between my fingers and tilt his face toward the light.
The bruise along his jaw has darkened. There’s a split at his lip that will need stitches if he wants it to heal cleanly. His eye will swell shut by morning.
He smells like smoke and blood. And something underneath that—familiar, annoyingly grounding.
I clean the cut at his lip first.
He doesn’t flinch.
“Try-hard,” I mutter.
“I’m deeply committed to impressing you,” he replies.
“Then you’re doing it wrong.”
He smiles.
It pulls at the cut. He hisses.
“Don’t do that,” I say.
“Don’t be charming?”
“Don’t move your face.”
“Got it. No charm.”
That would be a first.
I work in silence for a few minutes.
This is something I understand—damage, assessment, repair. There are steps. There is logic. There is control.
People are more complicated.
Lucky shifts as I press against his ribs.
“Those are bruised,” I say.
“Shocking.”
“Possibly cracked.”
“Less shocking.”
“You’ll live.”
“High praise.”
I wrap his wrists last, where the ropes cut deep. He winces, and closes his eyes. I want to say I’m sorry, but I don’t know how.
When I’m done, I step back.
He looks… better.
I start putting the supplies away.
Behind me, the couch creaks.
“You actually live like this?”
I pause.
“Like what?”
“Like you might have to evacuate in ten minutes.”
I turn.
He’s not looking at me. He’s looking at the room.
For the first time I take it in through someone else’s eyes. At the absence of things.
“At least,” he adds, “that’s the vibe.”
“It’s efficient,” I say.
“If you’re IKEA.”
I cross my arms. “It is when you’re trying to stay alive.”
He finally looks at me.
“You’re not in a war zone, Gia.”
I hold his gaze.
“Aren’t I?”
He doesn’t answer that.
Because he knows—he’s been in one. Because he recognizes it.
His attention shifts toward the windows.
I follow his gaze.
The city stretches out below us—streets, buildings, movement. From here, it’s all patterns. Flow. Territory.
“You picked this place for the view,” he says.
“Yes,” I admit.
“Not because it’s pretty. So you can see everything.”
I don’t respond.
He nods to himself, like he’s confirming something.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “That tracks.”
He walks toward the windows, slower now, testing his ribs with each step.
He stands there for a moment, looking out.
Then glances back at me.
“You can see Red from here,” he says.
I don’t move.
“What’s left of it,” I say, dragging my palms down my trousers.
“You can rebuild it. If you want to.”
“I know.”
He turns back to the window.
“You built your whole life like this, didn’t you?” he says. “Everything in reach. Everything visible. Nothing… personal.”
“It is personal,” I reply.
He shakes his head slightly.
“No,” he says. “It’s strategic.”
The word lands harder than it should.
Because it’s true.
“What happens if something matters more than the plan?” he asks.
“That doesn’t happen.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“Really.”
Silence stretches between us.
The city hums below.
“You came for me,” he says.
I look away first.
“That was a calculated decision.”
“Bullshit.”
I close my eyes briefly.
Open them again.
“You were an asset,” I say. “Compromised in a way that could—”
“Stop,” he whispers.
He takes a step closer.
“You can say that if you want,” he says. “But don’t say it like I’m stupid enough to believe it.”
I meet his eyes.
There’s no humor there now.
“You walked into a room full of guns,” he continues. “You burned down your own club. You—”
He stops himself.
Shakes his head.
“That’s not an asset calculation.”
“It was necessary.”
“No,” he says. “It was you.”
I turn away, moving toward the counter to create distance.
“You don’t understand,” I say.
“Then explain it.”
Explaining requires dismantling things I’ve spent years building. Because the systems I rely on don’t have language for this.
Because—
“Growing up,” I say finally, my voice steady because I will it to be, “I was not what my father wanted.”
Lucky doesn’t interrupt.
“He wanted a son,” I continue. “An heir who fit the expectations. Who could step into his place without… adjustment.”
I rest my hands against the counter.
Grounding.
“I was an only child,” I say. “So he made do.”
“That sounds like a win.”
“It wasn’t.”
I glance back at him. Even with one eye nearly swollen shut he’s beautiful. There’s no trace of pity in his expression, which gives me courage to carry on.
“The first time I cried after shooting practice, he made me shoot until I stopped. Do you know what it takes to be seen as equal in a room full of men who don’t believe you should be there?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer.
“You don’t get to be emotional,” I say. “You don’t get to hesitate. You don’t get to be… anything that could be interpreted as weakness.”
“Like feelings,” he says.
“Yes.”
I exhale slowly.
“I learned very quickly that competence was rewarded,” I continue. “Precision. Control. Results.”
“And everything else?”
“Was unnecessary.”
“That’s not what that means,” he says.
“It is in practice.”
He shakes his head.
“No,” he says. “That’s just—” He stops, and searches for the word. “—toxic masculinity in better tailoring.”
I blink. That was not what I expected.
“You’re comparing my upbringing to—”
“I’m saying,” he interrupts gently, “that someone taught you feelings make you weak. And you decided they were right.”
“They were.”
“Gia…”
The words settle somewhere uncomfortable. Too close to something I don’t want to examine.
I look away.
“I didn’t cry at his funeral,” I say.
The admission slips out before I can stop it. Heavy, honest, and goddamned ugly. Also true.
Lucky doesn’t react immediately.
“Did you want to?” he asks.
I open my mouth.
Close it.
I don’t know. Or I do, and I don’t want to say it.
“That’s not the point,” I say.
“It kind of is.”
I shake my head.
“It wouldn’t have changed anything.”
“It might’ve changed you.”
I look at him sharply.
“I don’t need changing.”
I step toward him.
Close the distance.
“That mindset is what kept me alive,” I say. “What built everything I have.”
“And what’s it costing you?” he asks.
The question lands like a blow.
Because every answer sounds expensive.
Every answer asks me to become someone I don’t know how to be.
Someone who survives without armor.
Silence fills the space between us again.
“I’d buy our son pink dresses if he asked for it.”
I freeze.
“…our son?”
His eyes widen slightly.
“…Diablo,” he says quickly. “I meant Diablo.”
I stare at him.
He rubs the back of his neck, looking far less composed than two seconds ago.
“Big guy’s got opinions,” he mutters. “Seems like the type.”
I should dismiss it.
I should move on.
I should reestablish control of this conversation.
“You’re insufferable,” I say.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “I’ve been told.”