7. Lucky
7
LUCKY
I ’ll never look at my office the same way again. Her scent lingers in the air, refusing to leave me, assaulting my senses, and instinctively I know I’ll never again smell patchouli or orange blossom and not think of her. I ask housekeeping not to clean my office until further notice. I inhale deeply every time I step into the space, the scent of sex and flowers wrapping around me like a comfortable blanket that I never want to let go of.
I’ve come to the club every night for three nights after I had Jacklyn Vicci against the wall, on my couch, on my desk. If I’d had my way, I would have continued to fuck her well into the night, but once she took control of the night, it was game over and I had to concede defeat when she told me in her own unshakably controlled way that it was time for her to go. I’d watched her leave with a realization that it was the first time in my life I’d actually felt like I wanted a woman to stay.
I’ve never given much thought to being in a relationship. My mother, vile woman that she was, really did a number on my father, God rest his soul, and by extension, on us Gatti boys. In my mind, I imagine myself getting past her traitorous ways and finding someone, maybe settling down someday and having a kid or two. But the reality is different. I can lecture everyone about happy ever afters and taking a chance, but when it comes to myself, I can’t see past my own demons to want to see a girl again. It’s true, I’ve never been in a relationship. In all my twenty four years, I’ve never so much as come close to wanting to see a woman on a more than casual basis. But Jacklyn Vicci has turned that desire on its head; I may not admit it, but the fact that I’m still thinking about her three days later tells me that I’m more than hung up on her.
I want to see her again.
I want to fuck her again.
Then I want to rinse and repeat, over and over again.
I think maybe tonight’s the night. If she doesn’t come in, I’m going to call her. It’ll be a first for me, but I think I’m ready to take the plunge. I’m ready to take a chance on someone who could possibly be a keeper.
I walk through the club, my sanctuary, a haven from the brutality and chaos that plagues the city outside. It also serves as a paradise for many who frequent it. It is the one place where order is maintained, where the elite of the underworld gather to drink, network, and let their guard down ever so slightly. Membership to this exclusive establishment is by invitation only, and there is one distinct rule by which patrons must abide; no violence within these walls under any circumstances. That law is so binding that it’s punishable by death; people know well enough not to break it and risk the consequences.
When we built this club on the remains of an ancient temple, we considered it sacred ground. We did not allow anyone to think otherwise, and we still don’t. Our club is our temple, our nirvana.
Yet tonight, I feel a shift in the atmosphere. The air hangs heavy with fatigue, carrying an unspoken fury that travels through the surroundings. It's as if a taut tension is unravelling and the world holds its breath, anticipating the imminent ignition of a fiery spark.
And then it happens. The first punch lands...to my soul.
Amidst the sounds of clinking glasses and murmured conversations, I hear a loud thud followed by shouting and crashing furniture. My stomach tightens as I turn to see a large man swinging wildly at someone sitting at the bar.
"Rafi," I whisper, knowing he will already be moving into position to handle the situation, as he always does. This is our club, and we will not let anyone destroy what we’ve built.
As I push through the crowd towards the commotion, two more men enter and start attacking other patrons. It's clear they have little or no respect for our rules.
I see people heading for the exit in an attempt to escape the violence. This is not what they signed up for. And I know that it will take a lot to recover from this. It took me two years to build this club and establish its reputation as a safe haven for the underworld, and it's all at risk now.
I soon realize that this isn’t just a brawl at a bar. This is something more. These guys are out of their depth and don't know who they're messing with. Either that, or they simply don’t care. And now these punks think they can come in here and destroy everything I've built? Not on my watch. Not even close.
A primal scream escapes me as I charge headfirst into the fray; I don't want any bloodshed on my property, but I won't let these hoodlums get away with the damage they're causing.
It’s too late to warn Rafi before a fist collides with his jaw. The impact is loud, a crack that silences the room for a split second before chaos erupts.
The big guy who threw the punch is built like a brick wall, and he hasn’t come alone. Three others follow, their expressions twisted with a mix of malice and adrenaline.
Rafi wipes the blood from the corner of his mouth as he surges to his feet.
I spin just in time to block a swinging bottle aimed for my head. The glass shatters against my forearm, sending shards flying, but I don’t flinch. Instead, I drive my elbow into the gut of my attacker, doubling the man over before slamming my knee into his face. Blood sprays from the guy’s nose as he crumples to the floor.
I take a quick look and find that Rafi isn’t idle. The man who’d punched him comes in for another swing, but Rafi ducks, countering with a brutal uppercut that snaps the guy’s head back. He follows with a swift kick to the kneecap, a sickening pop echoing as the man howls and falls.
Two have gone down, but the other two are relentless.
One of the men—a wiry guy with a nasty scar running across his cheek—grabs a cane and swings it at my head. I duck again, the stick grazing my temple but not enough to faze him. I roar and lunge forward, grabbing the cane and yanking it hard, pulling the guy off balance. I drive the butt of the stick into his ribs, then crack it across his face, the sharp sound of wood splintering as the scarred man hits the ground.
Two bouncers jump into the fray, surrounding Rafi as he locks himself into a brutal grapple with the last assailant, a bald man with fists like hammers. The guy lands a punch to Rafi’s ribs that makes him stagger, but Rafi recovers quickly, slamming his forehead into the guy’s nose. The sound of a crunch fills the air as the man reels back, howling in pain as he clutches his face.
I step forward, delivering a devastating hook to the man’s temple, sending him sprawling.
The big man - the one who instigated the fight - is back on his feet, blood dripping from his mouth as he roars like a bull. He charges, tackling me to the ground.
“Lucky!”
I hear Rafi’s yell above the din of the fight. On my fight, I drive my fist into the side of the guy’s head, over and over, until the man’s movements slow and he’s pulled off me. With a grunt, I twist, reversing our positions until he’s on his back on the floor. I grab a nearby chair and smash it over the man’s back, the wood splintering on impact
The big guy groans, collapsing into unconsciousness as he lays motionless.
The room is still now, the fight over as quickly as it began. I stand amidst the wreckage—overturned tables, shattered glass, and four unconscious men sprawled at our feet.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, my knuckles raw and bloody. I look at Rafi leaning against the bar, a deep cut on his forearm but otherwise intact.
The bouncers take control of the situation, ushering the four men away from the bar and towards a staff entrance.
"Take them to the back," I instruct one of the head bouncers, my voice sharp. He nods, signalling for the others to step in and help restrain the troublemakers. They've just learned the hard way that rules at Ignite are not open for negotiation.
The bouncers act swiftly, cuffing their wrists with heavy steel restraints before leading them towards the back hallway. Rafi and I follow closely behind, my anger simmering like a cauldron of burning lava.
The back office is small, hidden behind heavy curtains usually reserved for beaks for the bar staff. Tonight, we're not concerned with pleasantries.
I enter the room, my boots echoing loudly on the marble floors like a ticking clock. "Sit down," I bark as my bouncers shove the four men into the room, their faces now drained of color as the gravity of their actions sets in.
Rafi has a bruised jaw and is prodding one of the men, while several other bouncers stand guard with stoic expressions.
My gaze flicks from one man to the next, assessing each one carefully.
"Gentlemen, I'm curious to know what brought you to my establishment tonight," I begin. “And how you got in.” My eyes flick to the bouncers, letting them know there’ll be hell to pay later; there’s no way these clowns are Bonafide members of my club.
No one speaks, no one even flinches. They attacked a Gatti stronghold tonight. But no one gets away with that. No one. They need to understand that part of Gatti culture is that we don't start wars - we end them.
"We came to settle a debt.” One of the men spits, landing a glob on my shoes. I look down at my new Ferragamo shoes and slowly shake my head before lifting my gaze back up to glare at him. He will pay for that with blood.
I don't respond immediately. Instead, I walk around the table, scrutinizing each man in turn. They don't flinch, but I can see beads of sweat forming on their brows. Good. They should be nervous.
"What debt would that be?" I finally ask, taking a seat across from them.
"Your guy is responsible for my brother's death!" he yells, his thick neck veins bulging.
The silence lingers heavily in the room.
“And who would your brother be?” I ask him. “We are…responsible… for a lot of deaths.”
The man shrinks back in fear at the malice in my tone, and I take pleasure in his fear. I relish it. He doesn’t answer, opting instead for silence. Smart man.
I nod to one of my bouncers, silently asking him to check the men's identification. He does so, removing their wallets and placing their ID cards on the desk. Idiots, if you ask me; who walks into an underworld club looking for trouble with their IDs in tow?
"Moreno. Vicci. Vicci. Calli," my bouncer reads off the names, then looks up in agreement with me and everyone else in the room. This was retaliation for some of the Vicci deaths during the gunfight with Frank Falcone. He had infiltrated the Maltese and the Viccis and persuaded some of their men to defect, a few of who died during the final showdown with Falcone. It's not our problem, but the Vicci family is still stewing in the scent of their own defeat. Still looking to start a war on our territory. My anger rises until it consumes me.
"Does your boss know you're here?" I ask, my voice becoming colder. "Did she send you?"
The man who spoke before lifts his eyes to meet mine, contempt radiating through him, but he doesn’t respond. I narrow my eyes at him; his silence is as good as an acknowledgement that Jacklyn Vicci knows exactly what’s happening in my club at this very moment. I see red. Red hot murderous rage. A few days ago, Jacklyn Vicci came into my club and seduced me. And today, some of her men came in and started a bar fight, the likes of which we’ve never seen in my establishment. The timing seems oddly off, if you ask me, and I have to wonder if her visit wasn’t research she was doing in preparation for this attack.
"You crossed a line. My line. And that cannot go unpunished. You brought this upon yourselves," I state calmly. "But let's be clear - you thought you could come into my establishment? My establishment!" I roar. "And there wouldn't be consequences?"
The tension in the room is palpable now, like a live wire humming and ready to snap. They know what's coming, they just don't know when or how.
I pull out my phone and unlock it.
I dial the number I've recently added to my contacts, a number I will now commit to memory. I wait for it to connect and don't even give her a chance to speak.
"The truce is over."