36. Jacklyn
36
JACKLYN
M ia’s laughter bubbles through the room, a jagged edge to its melody that doesn’t quite match the chaos we’ve just endured. You’d think she would be falling apart at the seams after her wedding was ruined by an impromptu shootout. Yet here she was, perched in her ruined dress, the hem darkened with grime, strands of her golden hair slipping from their intricate updo, laughing like someone who’s finally embraced insanity.
“Well,” she says, her eyes glinting as though she’s just heard the joke of the century, “I guess you could always say my wedding was unforgettable.” Her voice quivers, betraying a tension she can’t quite suppress.
“I’m just glad that I decided to keep baby Scarlett here with the sitter,” Allegra sighs, as Juliana sets down steaming cups of coffee. We’re sitting at the small dining table in the kitchen, where Allegra assures us it’s the only place men have no business being.
All this for a little privacy. She wants to get as far away from the men as possible while she collects her thoughts. She’s flipping mad that someone tried to kill members of her family, and after the initial episode of shaking hands, where she ranted and raged about Scarlett being left an orphan, she straightened, tipped her chin upward and looked me square in the eyes. It was horrifying. Allegra is light and breezy and fun, but when she’s angry? She’s a demon.
“You need to teach me to shoot a gun the way you do,” she says, wrapping her hands around mine, a silent plea.
Juliana clicks her tongue as she turns to leave, only to stop mid-step when Allegra’s voice pins her in place. “Not a word to Scar,” she snaps. The threat hangs heavy in the air, unspoken but palpable.
Allegra knows how to use a gun; she just wants to learn to do it and look kickass while she’s doing it. She watched me use one hand to shoot a man who had his gun trained on Dante Accardi and hasn’t shut up about it since.
Mia watches the exchange, her wide eyes darting between us like a spectator at a tennis match.
The delicate beading of her dress catches the light, glittering in defiance of its tattered state. She shifts, pulling a torn piece of fabric across her lap as if it might somehow restore its former glory.
“Shouldn’t you change?” I ask, nodding at the mess of silk and lace.
Her smile is faint, almost wistful, as she shakes her head. “Not yet.” The determination in her voice leaves no room for argument. Whatever she’s waiting for, it won’t be found in a fresh change of clothes.
I can’t help but feel a pang of protectiveness for her. Mia, older than me but burdened with a lifetime of scars, sits there holding onto the remnants of her dream day as if letting go would mean admitting defeat. Her hands tremble as they rest on her lap, her laughter from earlier now replaced by a quiet resolve that is as fragile as it is fierce.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” Allegra whispers, her tone softening as she addresses her sister-in-law. The words carry a weight that stills the room. We all remembered the moment Brando had shoved Mia to the ground, the bullet slicing through the air where she’d stood just seconds earlier. He had saved her life, and the gravity of that truth lingers heavily between us.
Mia’s fingers brush over the sullied fabric of her dress once more before she lets out a resigned sigh. “Shit happens,” she says, her voice carrying a brittle strength. “I’m used to it by now.”
Allegra leans forward, determination tightening her features. “Scar says you and Brando need to go on your honeymoon, and I agree. You need to get out of the city.”
Mia’s gaze snaps to Allegra, her blue eyes sharpening into shards of ice. “Brando won’t leave his brothers when they need him. He’s not like that. And I wouldn’t want him to be.”
“Mia…”
Mia’s hand shoots up, silencing Allegra mid-word. She closes her eyes, drawing in a slow, steadying breath before fixing us with a glare that burns hotter than the coffee in front of us.
“This won’t be over until every last threat to the Gatti family is gone,” she says, her voice low, vibrating with conviction. The room falls silence, the enormity of her words settling over us like a suffocating weight.
For a moment, none of us move. Then Allegra reaches for her cup, her hands no longer trembling. Mia sits back, her ruined wedding dress pooling around her like the aftermath of a storm. And I can’t shake the feeling that the storm is far from over.
“So, will you?” Allegra starts up again, breaking into my thoughts.
I turn lazy eyes toward her.
“No one willingly goes into this life, Allegra.”
“But we find ourselves in this life. What good are we if we can’t protect ourselves. Can’t protect our children… when we need to?”
“I don’t think you’re likely to ever find yourself in this situation again,” I argue.
“But I was today!” she points out. She’s right, but I think Scar will probably skin me alive if I put another gun in his wife’s hands.
“Allegra…” I sigh.
“I saw what you did when you got to the chapel,” she hisses. “Don’t think I don’t know you saved Don Accardi’s life. How empowering was that? If I’d held that gun, I probably would have shot myself in the foot. I need your composure.”
I can’t help the tiny laugh that bubbles and escapes me at the image of Allegra holding a gun. But my laugh gets caught in my throat when the tinkle of Mia’s small throat fills the room.
“ I shot a man,” Mia says. “Right here.” She points a finger at her temple. She sounds quite proud of herself.
I watch her silently. Allegra blanches. We both know that she shot Frank Falcone after torturing him nearly to death, but we’ve never spoken about it. It’s not our story to tell, and not our wound to open.
“Uncle Mason taught me to shoot when I was five,” she says, looking away wistfully, as though her mind has carried her away to a far away place. “I never thought I’d actually kill someone, though.” She nods her head thoughtfully, as though agreeing with someone. “It is empowering.”
Allegra swings her eyes in my direction, her eyebrows hitting her hairline. She stops short of saying “I told you so.”
“You know what I don’t understand,” I start. “You were born to this life. How is it your father never taught you to shoot?”
Allegra rolls her eyes and shakes her head in distaste as she settles in, as though about to tell us a long-held secret.
“You see how protective Scar is of me? My father was 10x, if not more. I’m sure he believed the gunpowder residue would permanently stain my hands. Or scorch my skin. Or something. It didn’t stop me doing some recreational shooting at the range, but that’s nothing to write home about.’
I laugh again at the mental image that Allegra paints us, stopping only when someone clears their throat. All heads turn to the kitchen doorway, where Lucky stands, his jaw set in a firm line as he looks at us. His eyes settle on me, before he tips his head, asking me silently to follow him.
“Is everything okay?” Allegra says, addressing him before he turns away.
“Dandy,” he replies, his voice monotone, before he leads me away from the kitchen.
The tension radiates off him in waves, his shoulders drawn tight, every line of his body brimming with unspoken emotion. The afternoon air feels heavier as I step outside, the faint hum of crickets and the rustling of leaves doing little to soften the electric charge that clings to the silence between us. Lucky’s strides are long and purposeful, each step eating up the distance across the open field that separates the brothers’ homes.
I fall in step behind him, my own steps faltering for a moment before I press on, unable to do anything but follow. The rapidly fading light spills across the land, casting silvery highlights against his figure, the broad set of his back a silhouette that draws me in. There’s a magnetic pull in his movements, something that makes my breath hitch, as though the air between us has shifted, drawing me inexorably toward him.
“What are we doing here?” I ask, my voice barely louder than the soft crunch of gravel beneath our feet as we approach his porch. He doesn’t answer. The creak of the wooden boards beneath our weight echoes in the silence.
He pushes open the door, a quiet invitation, and waits. The gesture feels heavy, deliberate. I step inside, the cool air carrying a faint scent of pine and something distinctly his. He closes the door with a soft click, sealing us into the quiet sanctuary of his home.
My gaze flits around the room we’ve entered—a foyer stripped of anything personal or welcoming. A solitary console table stands sentinel by the wall, its surface home to nothing but the clink of his keys as he tosses them down. The emptiness feels stark, almost too raw, but before I can linger on it, his fingers find mine.
He doesn’t speak as he leads me down a wide hallway, the soles of our shoes whispering against the hardwood floor. The walls seem to close in, bare and unadorned, amplifying the silence that stretches taut between us. When we finally stop, we’re standing in a living room. The space is as unadorned as the rest of the house, its sparseness punctuated by a single couch and a window framed by heavy curtains that swallow the last of the afternoon light.
Lucky’s hand slips away from mine, the loss of contact sudden and jarring. He spins to face me, his expression a storm of emotions he can’t seem to contain. The angles of his jaw are tight, his lips pressed into a line that trembles at the edges. The flickering light from a distant lamp catches in his eyes, highlighting the turmoil swirling within them.
“I respect my brother too much to do this under his roof,” he says at last, his voice rough, scraping against the oppressive silence of the too-quiet house. The weight of his words hits like a physical thing, and before I can respond, his hands are on my face, warm and steady, grounding me in the moment.
His thumbs trace gentle arcs against my skin, their touch igniting a fire that starts deep in my chest and spreads outward. He leans closer, his breath mingling with mine, the air between us charged and electric. Then, without warning, his lips crash against mine in a kiss that speaks of desperation, of longing held back for far too long.
The room fades, its starkness forgotten, as I lose myself in the intensity of him. Every hesitation, every unspoken word, dissolves in the way he holds me, his touch telling a story more vivid than any words could convey.
His hands slide from my face, trailing down my arms, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. His fingers find the curve of my waist, pulling me closer until the distance between us closes. I feel the solid warmth of his chest, the steady rhythm of his heart pounding in sync with my own. His lips move against mine with a fervor that leaves no room for doubt, no space for second thoughts.
The kiss deepens, his mouth claiming mine as though he’s afraid to let go. His hands grip my hips, grounding me as the world tilts beneath my feet. He pulls back just enough to search my eyes, his breath ragged. “Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse, laced with a vulnerability that steals my breath. But I don’t. Instead, I slide my hands up his chest, feeling the tension in his muscles, the restrained strength barely held in check.
“Don’t stop,” I whisper, the words a plea, a confession.
Something shifts in him then, his resolve breaking like a dam giving way to the flood. He lifts me effortlessly, his hands firm and sure as he carries me to the couch. The room grows smaller, the air heavier, as he lowers me onto the cushions, his body a comforting weight above me.
His kisses trail from my lips to my jaw, down the curve of my neck, each touch igniting a fire that burns brighter, hotter, with every passing second. My fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, needing more of him, all of him. His name escapes my lips in a breathless whisper, a prayer and a surrender all at once.
The world outside ceases to exist, the quiet house cocooning us in its stillness. It’s just us now, lost in a moment that feels endless, as if time itself has bent to the intensity of what we’ve found here. His touch, his kisses, his whispered promises weave together, pulling me deeper into the essence of him. And for once, I’m not afraid to be consumed by the unknown.