34. Jacklyn
34
JACKLYN
I ’m wearing blue. It was the one thing that Allegra wouldn’t compromise on. She made me ditch my usual black, said I had to wear a color and wasn’t even open to negotiations on the matter. Usually, I’m my own person on my wardrobe, but I just didn’t have the bandwidth to argue with her, so I settled on blue. A minor sacrifice, considering the only other dress that fit me was lilac. No way was I wearing a dress that reminded me of a pink tutu.
The fabric clings to me like a second skin, simple in its elegance but heavier than I care to admit. It isn’t the weight of the satin or the beads that presses down on me, but what it represents: change, inevitability. The kind that seeps into every corner of my life, reshaping everything it touches, even me.
I inhale deeply, but the air smells wrong—too sterile, too clean for a place housing so many blood-soaked hands. There’s no scent of cigar smoke, no hint of whiskey on the breath of the men seated in the pews, no sharp edge of danger humming beneath the surface. It feels too clean for people who reside in our world.
The flowers, white lilies and roses, decorate the chapel in perfectly symmetrical rows, like they were placed with military precision. There’s nothing in this room that’s left to chance. Even the air feels choreographed.
I glance down at my hands, clasped tightly in front of me. They tremble slightly, the tremors barely perceptible, but I feel them—like the beating of a heart that refuses to stop even when it’s been broken a thousand times over. I want to pull away, to rip off the fabric and let myself breathe, but I don’t. I just sit there, frozen in this moment.
The sound of heels clicking against the stone floor breaks through my thoughts, sharp and steady. Mia’s walk down the aisle is nothing short of a triumph—a vision in white. Her smile is bright, her joy unmistakable, and as she reaches Brando at the altar, I can’t help but envy her. She’s about to begin something real . Something pure, untainted. A love story of her own. I wish I could say the same for myself.
I always thought that love would be a choice. I thought the power, the wealth, the responsibility would come second to the connection I would share with a man. But that was before I understood how fragile my empire really is. Before I saw how quickly everything could crumble.
The Vicci empire is my burden. I wasn’t given the choice to walk away from it. I wasn’t given the luxury of stepping into something normal. Not when my father died. Not when Jack was shot. Not when everything changed. I made my choice, or rather, the choice was made for me. And now, I have to live with it. Own it.
I look up just as Brando and Mia exchange their vows, and for a moment, the world blurs. I’m not even sure I heard the priest’s words. All I can hear is the dull thrum of my heartbeat in my ears, the sharp taste of metal at the back of my throat.
"Do you take Brando to be your lawfully wedded husband?" the priest asks, and Mia answers with a breathless “I do,” her eyes shining with something I can’t name.
“I do,” I mutter under my breath, repeating the words in my mind, though I know they aren’t for me. They belong to Mia and Brando, to a future they’re about to carve out for themselves, one of love and loyalty.
But my “I do” is for something else.
For Lucky. For the future. For this moment, when my world will shift again.
I glance over at him, standing just a few feet away at the front of the chapel. His figure is outlined by the soft light filtering through the stained-glass windows, the hues of blue and gold casting an almost ethereal glow around him. His expression is unreadable, but I see the tightness in his jaw, the way his eyes flicker with something dark and heavy. He’s just as trapped as I am, but neither of us will admit it.
I take a slow, steadying breath and force myself to look away, my gaze drifting toward the sea of faces in the pews. Dante’s presence is felt like a shadow across the room, his influence heavy in the air. His quiet influence is like a current running beneath everything, steering us, pulling us toward this inevitable union. His expectations are clear, and he’s given me no choice but to walk this path.
I can feel Marco’s absence like a physical ache, his death a wound I’ll never be able to fully heal from. He was my protector, my family, my... everything. But in his death, I’ve had to learn to become someone else. The weight of my family is mine now, and I know Marco would want me to carry it. To keep it intact, no matter the cost.
As the priest continues to speak, his words become a blur, and I feel something strange settle in my chest. Not anxiety. Not fear. But a strange, hollow sense of inevitability. Everything has led to this moment. Every choice, every deal, every death, has funneled into this one irrevocable act.
I’m about to bind myself to this man—Lucky Gatti. The man who’s as much a part of this world as I am, even if we both pretend we aren’t. The man I’m supposed to trust, even though trust has no place in this world. The man I’ll marry not because I want to, but because I have no other choice. He is my salvation.
The vows come. The priest’s words tumble out in a steady stream, each one heavy with finality. My throat tightens, and I force myself to focus. Focus on the couple standing at the altar. Focus on the future that’s already been written for me.
The sky is a muted shade of purple as Brando and Mia step out onto the steps of the chapel. The first few notes of the wedding march echo from inside, signaling the end of the ceremony—and the beginning of something darker.
Mia's arm is tucked firmly into Brando's, her wedding gown a billowy cloud of French lace and lace, her smile bright and full of expectation. Brando’s jaw is clenched, his smile tight as his eyes scan the surroundings.
They walk down the stairs, the sound of clinking heels on the stone steps followed by the shuffle of well-dressed guests as they step out from the church. A quiet tension hums in the air. The Gatti family is surrounded by their closest allies, and the only thing that seems out of place is the too-perfect silence that lingers, as if the world itself is holding its breath in anticipation of what’s to come next.
Brando’s eyes flick left to right, his trained instincts picking up on every shift in the crowd. The tension in his shoulders is barely perceptible, but Mia, her head tilted toward him, notices it immediately.
It all happens so quickly.
Brando’s gaze meets hers, and for a brief second, his mask cracks, just enough for her to catch the regret that surges through him before she goes tumbling to the ground.
The first shot rings out.
It comes from somewhere in the distance, far enough to be a warning shot. But that is all it takes.
Everything erupts in an instant.
Screams cut through the air, the high-pitched shrieks of women mixing with the low growls of men reaching for their weapons. The familiar yet acrid scent of gunpowder fills the air.
I watch in stunned silence as bedlam breaks out. Before Scar can even react, Allegra is yanked into the protection of his body, his arms around her like a vice, her back pressed against his chest as he hurries her back into the church, even as he raises his gun from his side.
A second shot cracks through the air, followed by several more, and I go flying into the garden bed as something heavy lands on my back. My pulse hammers in my throat, panic rising in my chest as I try to lift myself off the ground.
“Stay down,” Lucky growls, even as I struggle.
The distinct pop of automatic fire echoes through the still air surrounding the chapel as the Gattis return fire on their invisible enemy.
I lift my eyes, scanning the street. Through the chaos, I see the figures—shadowed, standing so clearly on the surrounding rooftops. They’re too far to see clearly, but the glint of rifles and the flash of muzzle fire is unmistakable.
“Lucky, I need a gun,” I murmur, as I wiggle away from him.
“Stay down, Jackie.”
I clench my teeth and shoot him a glare that sears through him.
“Are you fucking kidding me right now? You can’t fight them off and protect us.”
He takes one look at my angry face, weighing up if the argument is worth the effort. Obviously not, when looking down the barrel of a gun. He pulls out a firearm from a strap around his ankle and hands it to me.
“The tabernacle,” he says, lifting his eyes toward the chapel quickly. “It’s an armory. Get inside and lock the women in.”
It disturbs me that he wants me inside the safety of the church instead of fighting by his side, but it’s the only thing that makes sense right now. And what disturbs me more is that there’s a stash of weapons at the altar.
“Go!” he hisses, and I start to crawl across the grass toward the chapel door.
I stop when a flash of white lace catches my eye, laying perfectly still on the grass just beyond the stairs. I redirect and crawl toward Mia, who’s lying face down in the dirt.
“Mia,” I rasp. She stirs slowly, and I sigh internally as I turn her over and don’t see any blood on her dress.
The sound of bullets ricochetting reminds me of the urgency of the situation, and I drag Mia behind a bush where I hope she’ll be safe from stray gunfire. There’s no way I can carry her up the stairs without getting one of both of us killed.
“I need you to stay here, do you hear me?” I sit her upright against the church wall, undercover of the bush, then squeeze her hand. “Don’t try to come out until I come back for you.”
She nods her understanding, her glassy eyes resigned to the violence that has hijacked her wedding. Poor woman’s been through so much, this has become just another day in her life.
I move away from her, dropping to my stomach as I move toward the church stairs. I slip my heels off and throw them to the ground.
I see Dante as he crouches behind a nearby car, his gun raised as he assesses the area, his sharp eyes trained on the movement across the street. He raises a hand, uncurling his fingers one by one in a secret language shared only by these men with their own unique language. He lifts one finger, then the second, then a third, before our men all stand in unison and take aim, firing indiscriminately at the rooftops.
It's my opening and I make a run for the church door, under cover of the return assault. I push it, and the heavy wood door creaks open. A sharp crack echoes as a bullet slams into the side of a parked car, sending a spray of glass into the air. I realise it’s the car where Dante was standing earlier. He’s still there, standing a few feet away, shoulder to shoulder with his men as they exchange fire with the enemy.
It's then that I see it. A little flickering red light against Dante’s back. Like a laser pointer. The men are surging forward, but they have no idea what’s behind them. I look in the direction of the laser, and there, crossing the expanse of the garden is a man in fatigues, walking slowly, his gun aimed at Dante’s back.
I stand frozen to the ground, my voice catching in my throat, but it’s only momentary. I lift the gun, almost lazy in my movements, and fire, hitting the man in the chest. I watch as he falls to the ground, certain that if there’s one of him, there’ll be more to come.
The church pews blur past as I charge down the aisle, Allegra close behind, her heels clapping against the floor. I skid to a stop in front of the tabernacle, scanning the dimly lit space for the opening.
“What is it?” she asks, breathless, coming to a halt beside me.
I glance at her, my pulse hammering. “Do you know how to handle a gun?”
Her chin lifts defiantly. “I’m a good aim.”
“Good.” I pull a pistol from the tabernacle and thrust it into her hands. “Get all the women into one of the back rooms. Lock the door. After that, I need you up front—inside the chapel. If anyone comes through that door who doesn’t belong, you shoot. No hesitation. You hear me?”
Her eyes widen for a fraction of a second before they harden. With a curt nod, she grips the weapon, her knuckles white.
“And you?”
I’m already loading a clip into my own weapon. “Out the back,” I tell her. “There are men cutting through the field beyond the cemetery. Someone has to hold them off.”
Allegra doesn’t argue. Instead, her gaze flicks down to the weapons in front of us. “Take that,” she says, tipping her chin toward an assault rifle.
She grabs one for herself, checking the magazine with a calm efficiency that would put most soldiers to shame. Slinging it over her shoulder, she meets my eyes with a steady look that makes my chest tighten.
“Stay safe, Allegra. For Scar. For Scarlett.” My voice echoes off the vaulted ceiling, heavier than I intend.
A grin tugs at her lips—a fearless, reckless smile. “Don’t worry about me.” She shoulders the rifle and flashes a smirk that’s pure determination. “I’ll see you in a bit.”
For a moment, I hesitate, memorizing her face, the fire in her eyes, the way she moves like nothing can touch her. Then I turn toward the back door, gripping my weapon tight.
Neither of us plans to die today. And God help the men who try to take that away from us.