25. Lucky
25
LUCKY
A ttila finally makes it in from France, just in time for another meeting. He walks through the door with the same quiet intensity he’s always had, taps me on my shoulder and I greet him like I’ve finally reconnected with a long lost friend. There’s something different about him; he’sevolved—tempered by time and circumstance, by the woman he married. Luna. His wife. She’s worked her magic on him in ways that are both subtle and undeniable.
His brown hair is longer than I remember, now brushing his shoulders in waves that speak of the French countryside he’s just come from. There’s an untamed wildness to it, but beneath that, a kind of purpose, like it no longer needs to be tamed, just managed. His face is sharper, his jaw more defined, the lines of his features carved deeper than before. Eyes that once held the recklessness of youth now hold something else—wisdom, a calmness that only comes with experience.
He looks at me with the faintest glimmer of amusement. But it’s not the familiar, mischievous gleam that used to accompany every conversation. It’s something more… settled. More secure.
And I realize it’s her. Luna has anchored him in a way I never thought possible.
I give him a nod, but my gaze lingers on him longer than it should. It’s strange, seeing him this way. I never expected Attila, of all people, to find balance in something as intangible as love. But here he is, a man who once thrived on chaos, now walking with the calm assurance of someone who knows where he stands, what he wants.
As I take my seat, my eyes scan the room, landing on the faces of the others gathered around the table. These men are legends. Giants in the underworld, their names whispered in hushed tones across the globe. They've spilled blood, carved out empires, and fought wars with no guarantees of survival. Each of them is a force in their own right, wielding power that commands respect.
But as I take in their expressions, something shifts. These men, I realize, are not just warriors. They're not only ruthless kings who’ve built empires on the backs of chaos. They are husbands. Partners. Fathers.
The weight of that realization hits me like a blow to the chest. And with it, the unsettling truth that these men—these titans—are not defined by the violence they’ve committed. They are tethered to something far stronger. The women in their lives. The ones who temper them, hold them steady when their worlds threaten to crack under the pressure. The women who’ve softened their edges, grounded them, and given them something to fight for beyond power or control.
I look at Attila again, this time seeing him through a different lens. His easy, almost carefree demeanor is a reflection of the peace Luna has brought him. The years of rage and chaos seem to have faded into a background hum, far less potent than the strength that comes from belonging. I shift my gaze to Dante’s empty seat. I think of how fiercely he fought for Kingsley, how she became his anchor, the only thing that kept him from sinking into the abyss of his own mind. I think of Scar—hard as steel, a man who would never show his vulnerability to anyone. But I’ve seen the way he looks at Allegra. Soft. Protective. Like she’s the last thing standing between him and a collapse he can’t afford to acknowledge. And don’t get me started on the the way he is with his daughter Scarlett – all I can say is God help the man who one day decides that he wants to take his princess from him.
For years, I avoided relationships. I swore they would only lead to destruction, convinced that I was better off alone. That I didn’t need anyone. But now, surrounded by these men—these empires built on both power and love—I can’t help but wonder if I’ve been wrong.
Maybe we can get it right.
As the conversation swirls around us—plans of action, logistics, moves to make on the chessboard of this city's underworld—Attila leans back in his chair, his fingers tapping absently on the table. His eyes are distant, thoughtful, but there's an ease about him that wasn’t there before. He catches my gaze and raises an eyebrow, the same teasing glint from years past still alive in his eyes.
“You miss me, brother?” he asks, his tone light but probing.
I shift uncomfortably in my chair, unwilling to show how much his presence is making me reflect on things I’d rather avoid.
“It’s always good having you guys around,” I say, trying to pass it off with a nonchalance I don’t quite feel.
He eyes me skeptically, a faint grin tugging at his lips, as if he knows I’m deflecting, avoiding something deeper. Something I’ve been avoiding for a long time.
My mind drifts back to the wreckage of my parents’ marriage. The ugliness of it. The endless fights. My father, a man of power, reduced to a shell of himself by a woman who destroyed him. A bloodthirsty woman hellbent of control and power. It was a blueprint I couldn’t escape, one I swore I’d never follow.
Relationships, I told myself, were lies. Deceit, manipulation. Control. I’d seen it all firsthand. And I promised myself I’d never be a victim to it. Not like him. Never like him.
But these men, these brothers —their relationships with their wives, their partners—they’re different. They aren’t built on lies. They aren’t about manipulation or control. They’re about commitment. Loyalty. They’re an exchange of trust I never let myself believe in.
The meeting ends, and the room begins to empty, but I linger in my seat. Attila stays behind, his posture shifting as he observes me. He walks over to my side, his expression unreadable.
“You’ve been quiet,” he notes, his arms crossed as he leans against the back of the chair. “What’s going on?”
I force a smile, but it feels tight and hollow. The words I want to say are stuck, lodged in my throat like a stone I can’t swallow.
He studies me for a moment, the kind of silence that stretches between us like a thread pulled taut. Then he nods toward the door. “Come on. Walk with me.”
I follow him outside into the crisp air, the heavy weight of the meeting finally slipping away as we leave the tense atmosphere of the war room behind. The cold bites at my skin, the quiet hum of the still air a stark contrast to the chaos we’ve been planning to face.
Attila lights a cigarette, the orange glow illuminating his face as he takes a long drag, exhaling the smoke in slow, steady streams. “You know,” he says after a moment, his voice steady, “Whatever it is, you know you have the support of every man that was in that room.”
I don’t respond, not because I don’t appreciate it, but because I don’t know how to. His words hang heavy between us, settling in my chest like a weight I can’t shake off.
And then, out of nowhere, he speaks again. “Caleph told me about Dante’s suggestion that you marry the Vicci girl.”
Something tightens in my chest at the mention of her. I’m not sure why it bothers me, but it does. The way he refers to her as if she’s nothing more than a random girl. A piece on a chessboard.
“That’s not going to work out,” I mutter, even though it sounds like I’m trying to convince myself more than him.
"Why not?" Attila shrugs, the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "The girl knows the game, looks good doing it, and from what I hear, she’s got a better aim than most of us. Hell, I’d bet she’s got more balls than half the men I’ve met." His eyes gleam with the kind of knowing that makes me feel like he's already heard the whole story—probably heard about how she took out two of her own men with ruthless precision.
For fuck’s sake, who marries a woman who has blood on her hands?
The question twists in my gut, but I keep my face stone-still.
I just shake my head, frustration leaking out before I can stop it. "You don’t get it," I mutter, more to myself than to him.
Attila doesn’t miss a beat. His eyes narrow, and he leans in just slightly, like he’s trying to peel away the layers of bullshit. "Get what?" he asks, his voice shifting into something sharper, like he’s already anticipating what I’m about to say. "Unless you’re telling me you’re not into women, I’m not seeing where the confusion lies here."
I don’t even think before the words spill out, the confession I didn’t want to make hanging in the air between us, thick with something I can’t shake. "I slept with her, okay?" The words come out clipped, harsh, like I’m trying to cut through the tension with a knife.
Attila goes still for a beat, his gaze momentarily blank before he leans back, raising an eyebrow like he’s heard something truly unexpected. The smirk fades, replaced by something closer to intrigue.
He shakes his head as if he’s trying to erase my words. A mix of disbelief and curiosity creeps into his voice. "And here I thought you were all about keeping your distance. ‘No strings, no complications.’ When?”
I can’t help the bitter laugh that slips from my mouth. It’s not funny, not at all, but it feels like the only way to swallow down the mess of emotions swirling inside. “Before all this. She came to the club.”
“She sought you out?”
“I don’t think so. It just happened.”
“And after that?” he asks, his curious gaze unmoving.
“Business as usual. A few days later, the attack happened at the club and we’ve been butting heads ever since.”
Attila’s expression shifts again, something like realization dawning on him, but it's not pity, just understanding. A slow, deliberate look sweeps over him. "You think you’ve fucked this up, don’t you?" he says quietly. "You think that because you slept with her, and everything that came after, there's no going back. That you’ve crossed some line you can’t uncross."
I don’t answer, but my jaw clenches tighter. He’s right, of course. It’s all tangled up in me now—Jacklyn Vicci and everything I never should’ve let happen.
Attila lets out a soft sigh, the weight of his words landing between us. "You know, it's funny," he says, "because the one thing you’re refusing to see is exactly what you need. A connection ."
The words hit me like a punch, but they’re not the kind that knocks you down—they’re the kind that leave you standing there, breathless, wondering what the hell just happened.
"What are you talking about?" I ask, my voice rougher than I want it to be.
He chuckles, a low rumble of amusement. "You're not the only one with scars, Lucky. But I learned a long time ago that the only thing more dangerous than not knowing your enemy is not knowing yourself . You're afraid of the wrong thing, brother. Fear isn’t in the bloodshed or the power struggles. It’s in your own vulnerability."
I look at him, trying to process his words, but it’s like trying to focus on a moving target. “And what, you think Jacklyn’s the answer?” I scoff. "I don’t have time for that shit. Not with everything going to hell."
Attila's gaze softens, like he’s trying to dig into me without forcing the issue. “I think you’re missing something. We all have our weaknesses, Lucky. But maybe this—" He gestures vaguely between us, the world we’re caught up in, the mess of it all, "—maybe this is where you stop running."
The space between us feels suddenly too small, too heavy, as though the very air we breathe is pressing in on me. The tension in my chest is unbearable, but Attila's words keep echoing in my head, refusing to fade. I want to argue, but I can’t—because there’s a truth buried somewhere in his words that I don’t want to face. I’ve spent my whole life running from connections, pushing people away, convinced it’s easier this way. But now... Jacklyn is somewhere out there, a part of this world I can’t untangle, and I’m here, torn between the man I am and the one I could be.
Attila straightens, a knowing look in his eyes. “You’ve got your brothers,” he continues, his voice softer now. “And they’ll always have your back. But it’s no sort of life not having someone who knows all the different little pieces of you. The good. The bad. The broken pieces. Someone who chooses you anyway, despite your flaws. It’s grounding.”
I shove my hands into my pockets, biting back the knot in my throat as we walk in silence, the quiet stretching out before us. His words echo in my mind, a lingering hum that I can’t shake off. For the first time in a long while, I wonder if I’ve been wrong. If I’ve spent all this time convincing myself I don’t need anyone, only to miss what could have been.
When we part ways, I return to my house, but sleep evades me. The night is long and restless. Jacklyn’s face haunts me. I tell myself it’s worry. It’s fear for her safety. It’s guilt. But there’s something more to it. Something deeper.
And as the first light of dawn filters through the window and I still haven’t slept, I realize something. Maybe it’s time to stop looking at my mother’s mistakes as the benchmark for everything. Maybe it’s time to open my eyes, to see the way my brothers have found strength in their women—and to ask myself if I’m ready to let go of the past.
Because if these men—the most dangerous, damaged men I know—can find peace in the arms of a woman, maybe, just maybe, there’s hope for me too.