29. Jacklyn
29
JACKLYN
I sprint into the woods, the trees thick around me, the ground uneven beneath my feet. The cool afternoon air slaps at my skin as I rush through the forest without direction. I discarded the rifle a while back after I realized it wasn’t even loaded. My signature heels, too, have gone the way of the wild, and I don’t so much mind the cuts and lacerations that form on the bottom of my feet as I literally fly between the trees. My heart pounds in my chest as I run, adrenaline coursing through my veins. I don’t look back. I can’t.
The afternoon gives way to the darkness, and my body is exhausted, but I can’t stop. I can’t be caught. Not now. Not after I’ve come this far.
I don’t know how long I’ve been running when I finally reach a road. The headlights of a car flash in the distance, and I force myself to wave, my arms shaking from exertion. The car slows, then pulls over.
The window rolls down. An older man looks at me, confused, his gaze flicking from my disheveled state to my wide eyes. He doesn’t ask questions as I struggle to catch my breath.
“Please,” I say, my voice hoarse. “I need help. I... I need to call someone and I need somewhere safe.”
He nods without a word and throws open the passenger side door, waiting for me to get in. Then he reaches into his pocket, pulling out his phone. My fingers fumble as I dial the only number I know by heart—the number my eyes lingered on dozens of times when I contemplated calling then decided not to. The number of the only person I have left who may be able to help me or put me in contact with someone who can.
The phone rings twice before he picks up.
“Lucky?” I rasp.
“Jacklyn?” His voice is rough, but there’s a familiarity in it that almost brings me to my knees. “Where are you?”
“I’m... I’m,” I say, my voice cracking as I look around. We’ve just driven into a clearing, and I duck to get the name of the stop we’re at. “I’m at the Two Rivers Diner at Twin Junctions,” I tell him, as we pull into the diner. “I need your help,” I whisper. “I need to get to Seattle.”
There’s a long silence on the other end of the line. I hold my breath, waiting for him to speak. When he does, his voice is steady, colder than before.
“Don’t move. Stay exactly where you are. I’m coming for you.”
And for the first time in days, I let out a breath. A tiny spark of hope ignites in my chest as I feel like I might just survive this.
I sit in the corner booth of the diner, my back pressed against the wall, my eyes darting to the windows every few seconds. The older man who picked me up on the side of the road and brought me here—David, as he introduced himself—sits across from me with a steaming mug of coffee. He’s been kind, offering me a blanket from his car and a quiet reassurance I’m too strung out to absorb fully. He has watery, pale blue eyes that speak of years of wisdom and peer at me as though he doesn’t quite understand where I materialized from.
The waitress, a middle-aged woman with a no-nonsense air, brings me water and a plate of toast without asking. I nibble on the corner of the bread, trying to keep my hands from trembling, but the jittery adrenaline hasn’t left my system.
“Don’t worry, kid,” David says, breaking the silence. “Whoever you’re running from won’t find you here.”
I nod, clutching the warm ceramic mug in my hands, the heat grounding me.
The bell above the diner’s entrance jingles, and my heart leaps into my throat. Two men enter—burly, wearing dark jackets—and I immediately tense. Their eyes scan the room, and for a split second, I’m certain they’re here for me. But they move to the counter, talking in low voices to the waitress.
“They’re regulars,” David says, his voice low, and immediately my anxiety dissipates.
I force a nod. The minutes stretch into eternity. I keep my gaze on the windows, watching for headlights, for any sign of Lucky. And then, I see it—a pair of beams cutting through the night, the low rumble of an engine growing louder. The sound of more vehicles as they come to a screeching halt outside the diner.
The truck screeches to a stop outside, and the diner’s door bursts open. Lucky strides in, his face shadowed beneath a baseball cap, his dark hair brushing his collar. He looks different when he’s not in a suit—leaner, sharper—but his eyes, those cold, calculating eyes, haven’t changed as they skirt across the room looking for me.
Behind him, three men follow, their presence suffocating the small space. They’re armed, though they keep their weapons discreetly out of sight. When Lucky’s gaze finds mine, his expression softens in an instant.
“Jacklyn,” he says, crossing the room in three long strides. He stops short of touching me, his eyes scanning my face, taking in the dirt, the bruises, the exhaustion. “You look like hell.”
“I feel like it too,” I mutter, my voice shaky. Finally feeling safe, I let out the sigh I’d been holding in and watch as Lucky’s men stand by the door and keep their eyes trained outside the diner.
David rises slowly, his kindly eyes finding mine as a small smile spreads across his face. “Looks like you’re in good hands,” he tells me, dipping his chin in Lucky’s direction. “Tab’s taken care of.”
“Thank you,” I say, meaning it. I give him a weak smile as I continue. “I’m truly grateful.”
Once David is gone, the tension in the room thickens. Lucky’s men fan out, one by the door, another at the counter, and the third scanning the parking lot through the window. Lucky crouches in front of me, his voice low.
“What happened, Jacklyn?”
I shake my head, pressing my palms against my eyes. “It’s... it’s too much. He’s going to kill me, Lucky. He won’t stop.”
I watch as his expression morphs form concerned to angry in a second. He stands abruptly, pulling out his phone and barking orders into it. I catch fragments as he asks more men to secure the perimeter and bring the car up to the door, before he hangs up and gestures to me.
“Let’s go.”
I stagger to my feet, my legs weak beneath me, and he steadies me with a hand on my elbow.
The night outside is colder than before, the air biting against my skin. A black SUV idles by the front door, its engine humming softly. Lucky opens the door and practically lifts me into the backseat.
As the SUV peels out of the lot, Lucky glances back at me, his jaw tight. “You’re safe now. If Daniel Russo wants you, he’ll have to go through me first.”
A heavy sigh escapes my lips, but the weight in my chest doesn’t lift. Because as we speed through the darkness, all I can think about is all the men I’ve lost and the family I’ve lost control of.
I’m glad I’m alive. I am. It’s only by some sheer miracle that I managed to escape my captors and chanced upon a stranger who was willing to help me get to safety. And now I’m here with the Gatti family, and a slew of others – Seattle is here; all the major players have come out in a show of force, and they’re ready to rip into Daniel Russo on my behalf. I’ve never been more grateful in my life, even if the weight of a thousand burdens still resides in my heart and my mind.
I may be grateful to be alive, but I’m in mourning for those that had to die trying to save me. And that grief is all consuming; it rips through me like a meteor, until it manifests and turns into something more fearful.
Fury.
I wrap my arms around myself, but it doesn’t help. It doesn’t shield me from the onslaught of emotions that are tearing me apart. Lucky hovers nearby, his eyes locked on me with a mix of relief and worry. His usually calm, calculating demeanor is cracked, and I know he’s holding himself back, trying not to push me too hard, too fast.
My voice is trembling but firm when I finally manage to start talking. Lucky nods, signaling to the others in the room to give us space. The majority leave, but Scar Gatti and Dante Accardi stay behind, reserving their places against a back wall as they watch Lucky and I quietly. I feel their presence like a protective barrier around us, the gatekeepers who will undoubtedly keep any further violence away from me.
Lucky sits across from me, his hands resting on his knees. “Take your time,” he says. His voice is soft, but I can hear the steel beneath it—the promise that whoever did this to me will pay.
I take a deep breath, staring at the floor for a moment before looking up at him. Lucky’s told me they watched the whole thing on camera footage, but they still want to hear it from me; maybe there’s something they missed in the footage. “They ambushed us,” I say, the words tumbling out of me like a flood. “We were coming back from the meet with Seattle. Everything seemed fine until it wasn’t. We were…I don’t know, maybe a few blocks away from the intersection, when the car in front of us just stopped. Shots rang out…” My voice catches, and I clench my fists, my nails digging into my palms. “It happened so fast. One minute, we were driving, and the next, the car was stalled, and there was blood everywhere.”
Lucky doesn’t interrupt. He leans forward slightly, his attention fixed entirely on me.
“I saw my men getting killed. They were shooting everywhere but at our car – as though they knew where I was and wanted me alive. I pulled out my guns,” I continue, my voice barely above a whisper. “I fought. God, I fought so hard, but there were too many of them. They killed Marco, and…” I close my eyes, the memory of Marco’s last moments assailing my senses.
“They took me to a cabin,” I say after a pause. “Deep in the woods. I don’t even know where exactly. They tied me up, kept me in a room. Daniel Russo was there.
Scar indicates the cuts and bruises on my face, his face hard as he looks at me. “He do that to you?” Scar’s jaw tightens, and I can see the tension in his body, the barely contained rage simmering beneath the surface. I’m sure he already knows the answer to his own question, but I nod anyway.
“We had a fight.”
I close my eyes momentarily as I try to shut out the image of Russo’s palm as it crashed down against my face. I haven’t even looked at myself in a mirror yet, but I know I must look bad for him to be asking. I can’t imagine I looked any better when David picked me up and thank my lucky stars once again that he stopped for me.
“After Russo left, there were three of them watching over me. Rio, Tony, and Preppy. For… I don’t know how long. Hours? Days, maybe? It’s all a blur.” I shake my head in confusion. There were times when I was drifting in and out of consciousness; I have no idea how much time passed before I was able to escape.
“Do you know what they wanted?” Dante asks.
“Me. Alive. My brother. Daniel was desperate to know where I’d sent him.”
I catch the exchange of looks between the men, quick and loaded, like they’re in on something I’m not. I can’t quite pin down which part of my response has them hesitating, but before I can ask, one of them fires off another question. I exhale sharply, the weight of it all pressing down, and then start again, trying to ignore the tension simmering just beneath the surface.
“Where’s Jack?” Dante asks.
I hesitate, and he sees this. This is my most closely guarded secret; my brother Jack’s safety is paramount to me.
“You have nothing to worry about with the men in this room, Jacklyn. I give you my word.”
“Ukraine.”
The men look at each other in surprise.
“That’s a war zone,” Scar points out.
“Exactly. No-one’s going to think to look there.”
A look of obvious pride sweeps over them at the ingenuity of my plan.
“How did you manage to get away from Russo?” Dante asks.
“They left me with Preppy. College kid who had no idea what he was doing. I tackled him after I told him I needed to use the restroom and ran into the woods.”
I replay the escape in fragmented sequences in my mind, reliving the desperate moments as if they’re happening all over again. The icy cold of the night air on my skin as I ran barefoot through the woods. The sound of my own ragged breathing, the pounding of my heart as I stumbled over roots and rocks, half-blind in the fading light. The fear that my captors would somehow catch up to me, shoot me in the back as I put distance between us.
“I don’t know how far I ran,” I say. “It felt like hours. But I ended up on a road and flagged down a truck. The driver stopped; he didn’t ask too many questions, just… he just got me out of there.”
“You did good,” Lucky says, breathing a sigh of relief. He looks up at his older brother and gives him a dark look. “We need to find Russo.”
“We’ve already dug his grave,” Dante says. Hearing this from Mr Seattle himself, I know that Daniel Russo is as good as dead and buried.
“I thought I was going to die there,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “At one point, I considered it an option; wished they’d do it so I wouldn’t have to live with the loss of my men, my friends.”
“You’re safe here,” Dante says, looking at Scar. The older Gatti brother pushes off the wall and walks toward me, his kind eyes allaying any fears I might have.
“You’ll stay with Allegra and I,” he decides. “At least until all this blows over. Allegra can’t wait to meet you.” He smiles.
“I don’t want to bring any danger to your door.”
“The danger’s already here, Jacklyn. It’s always been here.”
Lucky reaches out, his hand covering mine. It’s a small gesture, but it anchors me, pulls me back from the brink.
“You’re safe now,” he says, his voice steady.
I nod, but the fury inside me doesn’t abate. “Safe,” I repeat, the word tasting bitter on my tongue. “But not whole. Not after this.”
Lucky’s grip tightens as the promise of vengeance hangs heavy in the air.
I look at him, at the determination in his eyes, and for the first time since my escape, I feel a flicker of something other than grief or rage. Hope.
But it’s fleeting. The memories, the pain, the fury—they’re all still there, simmering just beneath the surface. And I know that until I confront them head-on, they’ll continue to consume me.
“I need to be a part of this,” I say, my voice firm despite the tremor in my hands.
Lucky hesitates, but he sees the resolve in my eyes and nods. “You’ve probably got information about Russo that we’ll need.”
The weight in my chest shifts, just slightly. There’s still a long road ahead, but I’m not walking it alone. And for now, that’s enough.