37. Lucky
37
LUCKY
A ll I could think as the first bullet rang out in the silence was how I was going to protect Jacklyn. I could make my peace with dying, but I couldn’t live in a world without her. She crept up on me slowly but surely, until she became an addictive drug swimming in my veins.
I push inter her, moving slowly at first, my mouth against hers as we find our rhythm. She winds her long naked legs around me as she lifts to meet my thrusts. I growl, low and unsteady, into her neck, then nip her skin, tasting her, swallowing her. I want to consume every inch of her.
We rock back and forth, and I pull back, watching her through half lidded eyes, revelling in the desire behind every moan that escapes her lips.
“You’re so damn beautiful,” I tell her, even as I nuzzle back into her neck, inhaling her scent. The scent that’s become an addiction for me. Orange blossom and patchouli. Sex and sin. Heart and soul. I can’t stop breathing her in.
She reaches out a hand, runs it through the scruff of my hair until it settles at the nape of my neck. She pulls me closer to her, until our lips are dancing against each other again. Until our bodies are sliding against each other, nothing between us but a fine film of sweat.
Her arm snakes around my waist, her movements deliberate. With a swift push, she shifts us onto our sides. Before I can process the change, she taps me one last time, and I’m on my back, staring up at her. She’s straddling me now, her knees bracketing my hips, and I let it happen. I let her take control, even as the last threads of my restraint unravel, snapping like tensioned wire.
Her body moves with a sensual rhythm, rising and falling in a mesmerizing dance. Each lift sends a wave of heat through me; each grind drives me deeper into her core. Her hands press firmly against my chest, grounding herself as she sets the pace. She leans forward, her breath warm against my skin, and her teeth graze one of my nipples. A sharp nip sends a jolt through me, followed by the soothing stroke of her tongue. She repeats the tease on the other side, drawing out sensations that leave me trembling beneath her.
“So damn beautiful,” I murmur, my voice rough with desire. The words tumble out unbidden, raw and honest. My hands find her waist, my grip firm, almost bruising. I hold her there, staking my claim. Possession thrums in my veins, an undeniable truth: she’s mine. She will always be mine. Nothing—no one—will ever change that.
Her movements quicken, her grinding becoming more frantic, more desperate. She’s chasing her release, her body a symphony of need and determination. “Fuck,” she cries out, the word breaking through the haze as she rocks against me. Her voice is high, almost breathless, and it ignites something feral inside me.
“Ride me, baby,” I grunt, my hips rising to meet hers. Each thrust brings us closer, the intensity building like a dam about to break. Our bodies move in perfect sync, a primal rhythm that drowns out everything else.
Her moan is guttural, raw, as she throws her head back and succumbs to her climax. Her hips stutter, then sway, and her cries fill the air, echoing off the walls. The sight of her, lost in her pleasure, pushes me over the edge. Heat coils and snaps inside me, and I spill into her, the release tearing through me with a force that leaves me breathless.
For a moment, the world narrows to just the two of us, tangled together in the aftermath. Her body softens against mine, her breaths slowing as she collapses onto my chest. My hand moves to the curve of her back, holding her close as my heart pounds against her cheek.
She will always be mine. And mine alone.
We lay together in bed hours later as the sky grows dark and there is only silence all around us. I finger a long strand of her dark hair as she rests on my chest, purring lazily against my skin. I cannot get enough of this woman as she rips into my heart and builds herself a home there.
“What’s going to happen now?” she asks. I know she knows we met earlier about the events today and how to move forward; we’re all still startled at the brazen attack that happened even in the presence of Dante Accardi. Now, he won’t leave until he’s cleaned house and made his mark on the city.
“Today was a blatant declaration of war,” I tell her.
“Daniel Russo?”
“More than that. One of the heads of the five families is backing him; we just have to figure out who.”
She lets out a low whistle, shaking her head slightly. “Damn. Talk about loyalty,” she mutters, her fingers trailing absentmindedly across my chest. The touch is light but grounding, a tether to the present as my mind races through possibilities.
I let out a bitter laugh, the sound rough in the quiet room. “Loyalty?” I repeat. “Sometimes greed consumes people. Taking out Daniel—that’s like stepping on the snake. But if we want this to end, we need to cut off the head. We have to find the source.”
Her movements slow, her fingers now tracing lazy circles, a thoughtful expression settling on her face. The room seems to grow quieter, the weight of my words sinking in. She is processing, as always, piecing things together in that sharp mind of hers.
After a beat, I break the silence. “I may be gone for the next few days,” I tell her, my voice softer now, almost hesitant.
Her hand pauses mid-circle. She lifts her head, her dark eyes locking onto mine, filled with questions she isn’t sure she wants answers to. “Is that what this is?” she asks, her voice quieter but no less intense. “A goodbye?”
I shake my head quickly, leaning forward to cup her cheek. “What? No.”
She studies me for a long moment, her gaze probing, searching. “A few days,” she repeats, her tone measured, careful. “Sounds ominous.”
I run my thumb along her cheekbone, the gesture more for my own reassurance than hers. “It’s not,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “It’s just… necessary.”
Her lips press together, and for a moment, I think she might argue. But then she leans into my touch, her tension easing slightly. “Just come back,” she says, her voice carrying a quiet strength that wraps around my heart like a vice.
I lean forward, pressing my forehead to hers. “Always,” I promise. The word is simple, but it carries every ounce of resolve I have. It’s not enough to banish the worry in her eyes, but it is all I have to give her in this moment. For now, it would have to be enough.
The air in the hotel’s basement feels heavier than usual, charged with an unspoken tension that only deepens as Jacklyn and I step inside. My hand is wrapped firmly around hers, and though I should probably let go, I can’t bring myself to do it. The weight of her palm in mine is grounding, a tether to something solid in the midst of all this chaos. The others notice—of course, they notice. Their eyes drop to where our hands are joined, their expressions ranging from subtle smirks to mild surprise. But it’s not the fact that we’re holding hands that seems to catch them off guard; it’s my unwillingness to let go.
“About fucking time you got your head out of your ass,” Rafi mutters, his gaze sweeping over us with a lazy indifference that’s almost convincing.
“Language around the ladies,” I shoot back, my tone sharper than usual. Jacklyn’s grip tightens briefly, a silent reassurance that she’s unbothered by Rafi’s words. Still, her presence at my side feels like armor I didn’t realize I needed.
After the attack at the chapel, the plan was simple: split up and regroup. The brothers would escort the women home, while Seattle stayed behind to handle cleanup with a few trusted associates. We’d meet at the hotel once the mess was contained. That was the plan, anyway. But plans rarely survive first contact with reality, and by the time Scar called, summoning us to the basement, the weight in his voice told me everything I needed to know. This wasn’t just a cleanup job—it was something bigger.
The basement is more than a basement. Years ago, we transformed it into a command center, a private sanctuary hidden beneath the hotel’s polished facade. Monitors line the walls, their screens lit with live feeds, maps, and scrolling intel. The room buzzes with quiet intensity, voices overlapping in a tense symphony of strategy and urgency. Every move here is deliberate, every glance loaded with unspoken meaning.
Scar stands at the head of the room, his posture rigid, his expression unreadable. His sharp eyes flick to where Jacklyn and I are still holding hands, lingering just long enough to make his point before he nods in acknowledgment. Jacklyn releases my hand as she slides into the chair beside me, her movements fluid, confident. She’s as steady as ever, her gaze sweeping across the room with a calm detachment that belies the chaos we’d left behind only hours ago.
For a moment, my thoughts drift back to those hours—the quiet intensity of being alone with her, the world outside reduced to a distant hum. The press of her body against mine, the way her voice softened when she said my name. But that moment is gone, replaced by the gravity of what’s unfolding here.
Everyone is in attendance. My brothers. Seattle. The Enforcer is a surprise, as he stands quietly by watching the room with an expression devoid of any emotion. I’m surprised also to see Jayson Caluna here-he may be one of our most trusted soldiers, but these meetings are generally reserved only for the inner circle.
I watch Scar move through the room like the space itself knows who’s in charge. It’s not about the way he dresses, or the weight of the weapon tucked under his jacket, or even the money he’s made. It’s about the quiet power he exudes. The way people step aside without being told, the way the room falls silent when he enters, as if the very air holds its breath in anticipation.
He’s not like the others—he doesn’t need to prove anything. His reputation precedes him. There’s no hesitation in his steps, no second-guessing. Scar has made his choices, and he’s owned every one of them. Even the ones that might’ve broken another man.
When he speaks, everyone listens. When he commands, they move. It’s not just about the fear that laces his words; it’s about the certainty behind them. Scar doesn’t just lead with violence or manipulation—he leads with a kind of unshakable resolve that draws people to him. The kind of resolve that makes them want to follow him, not because they have to, but because they believe in him.
Dante leans back, his posture deceptively casual as he sits apart from the table, one knee draped over the other. His fingers tap lightly against the armrest of his chair, but his gaze is fixed on Scar with laser-sharp intensity. Every flicker of Scar's expression, every word that passes his lips, is scrutinized as though Dante is unraveling a puzzle hidden in plain sight.
Scar moves to the head of the table, his presence commanding. His hands grip the edges of the polished surface as he leans forward, his gaze sweeping across the room like a judge weighing each person’s worth. His voice, when it comes, is low but razor-sharp as it cuts through the silence.
“Today’s attack wasn’t just business.” He pauses, letting the words sink in, each syllable deliberate, weighted. “This was personal. And I don’t tolerate personal attacks against my family.”
His declaration echoes in the room, a ripple of raw anger that makes the tension even thicker. Scar lets the moment hang, his eyes moving slowly from face to face.
“The reason you’re all here,” Scar continues, his voice steady but intense, “is because every single one of you brings something to the table. Skills. Knowledge. Strength. Resources. We need all of it—and we need it now.”
He straightens, stepping back from the table and folding his arms over his chest. “Whoever’s behind this attack won’t stop here. They’ll try again. And next time, they’ll come for more than just blood.”
Dante’s lips twitch in the faintest semblance of a smile, though there’s no humor in it. It’s a silent acknowledgment of the truth in Scar’s words. He watches as Scar pivots his focus to Jacklyn, his eyes narrowing slightly.
“This isn’t just about protecting what’s ours,” Scar says, his tone softening just a fraction. “It’s about sending a message. A decisive one. They think they can test us, but they don’t realize we’ve been ready for this. The question is—are you?”
Jacklyn tilts her head slightly, her eyes meeting Scar’s with a steady, almost defiant gaze.
The Enforcer shifts in his chair, the movement barely perceptible but enough to draw attention to his massive presence.
Scar’s gaze lingers for a beat longer before sweeping over the rest of the room. “This isn’t just another job. This is war. And I need every one of you to be prepared.”