11. Jacklyn
11
JACKLYN
I was twelve and had just finished watching my father run through one of his usual meetings—his men lined up in his study, their heads bowed, eyes flicking to the floor in respect, in fear. I’d watched him sit at the head of the long table, his presence looming like a dark cloud, while he spoke in that calm, commanding voice. I was barely a teenager, but I had heard enough to understand the game. That night, something had happened which had driven my father to rage. One of his men had failed him, and when the man stepped forward to offer his apology, I watched my father—my father—take the man’s hand and kiss it, just like he always did with those who were loyal, before he pulled out his gun, pulled the trigger and blew his brains out.
It happened so quickly. One second, there was respect, and the next, nothing but blood, splattered all over the polished wood floor.
I stood frozen in the doorway, my hands gripping the frame so hard I thought I’d break the wood. And then my father turned to look at me, as though he knew I’d been standing there the whole time. It didn’t even cross his mind to spare me the horror of his actions. His gaze was steady, unwavering, the look of a man who had just executed one of his closest men, yet there was no remorse, no hesitation in his eyes.
"You see, Jackie?" he said, his voice so cold it could’ve frozen hell. "In this family, respect is earned. Loyalty is earned. And if someone can’t follow that simple rule, there’s only one thing left to do. Capiche?”
I nodded, swallowing the fear rising in my throat. I wasn’t sure if I was afraid of him, or afraid of becoming him. But I knew, deep down, that the moment I entered his world, there was no turning back. This life, this family, was all I would ever know.
There’s a lot to be said for being a female running a mafia family.
It’s a rare thing. There’s no manual, no training you can undertake, no school for wayward mafia daughters where they can learn the ropes.
In a world dominated by men, where power is taken with fists, with blood, with the willingness to betray anyone standing in the way, being a woman at the top means constantly having to prove yourself. Every single moment of every single day.
I grew up in this life, the daughter of Silvio Vicci, the feared and respected don of our family. I learned early on that you don’t get to the top by being soft, by caring too much, or by showing weakness. No good will come from avoiding the darkness.
I was raised by a father who taught me that family was everything—above all else. To him, loyalty was everything. And if you weren’t loyal to him, you weren’t just out of the family—you were a threat. And threats, well, they had to be eliminated.
I learnt early on that weakness is a death sentence. A faltering moment, a glance too long, or a second’s hesitation—and it’s lights out. In this world, mistakes aren’t lessons; they’re epitaphs. A single misstep, and you’re nothing more than a fleeting memory in someone’s mind.
The same rules apply to enemies. When a threat arises, we don’t hesitate. There’s no room for second thoughts or misplaced mercy. We act swiftly, decisively, and without remorse. Because in this world, there are no do-overs. You strike first, you strike hard, and you make damn sure they don’t get back up. Otherwise, you won’t live to see the consequences of your hesitation.
Now, as I stand in the cold, dimly lit hallway of my own mansion, preparing to enter the chamber where my men are waiting, I can’t help but think back on that moment. How my father’s lessons have shaped every decision I’ve made in the past few months. How I’m standing here, at the apex of the Vicci family, the very thing he built.
I know I have to be ruthless. It’s been three months…three long months since I stepped up and took over operations from my brother. And in those three months, I haven’t achieved much. I haven’t been able to prove myself, especially when no-one is taking my reign very seriously. Even my own men, loyal to the family for years, have no faith in me. Contrary, it seems like I’m met with roadblocks at every turn. Yet I understand that my father’s iron fist is my inheritance, and I intend to wield it with the same unwavering control he did. Otherwise, I know that Jack and I will end up buried alongside our father long before we’re ready to leave this world.
The heavy oak door swings back slowly, and I step into the room. Silence greets me, thick and heavy. The only sound is the clack of my heels as they tap against the floorboards. One thing I will not compromise on is style – I refuse to do business unless I’m in my Louboutins, because they remind me how kickass I am. If people can’t learn to take me seriously, they can at least appreciate good taste when they see it.
My men are gathered - around twenty of them, lined up in neat rows, their faces impassive. I can confidently say that two key elements are missing from their faces; respect and fear.
They don’t think I have it in me to rule.
But that’s about to change.
After today, everything will change. It’s all or nothing now; I’m going for broke, and if I fail at this, I fail at everything else.
In the center of the room are the two men responsible for the shooting of a Gatti soldier. There’s a cunning in their faces, but also the faintest flicker of nervous tension as they shift on their feet, looking everywhere but at me. They know the rules. They’ve broken them. And now, they’re about to pay.
Without saying a word, I walk to the center of the room. The fate of my family, my rule, my own brother who sits incapacitated in a wheelchair , hang in the balance. I’ve never had to do this, never had to stain my hands with the blood of another. But it’s time that everyone knew who the leader of the Vicci family is. I can’t keep delaying the inevitable; can’t keep thinking that things will miraculously fall into place. They won’t. I have to make things happen.
My teeth clench as I stop in front of the two men, feeling the weight of the moment settle on my shoulders as my eyes dart between them. There’s no need for theatrics. No need for a speech. The most effective punishment is the one that is swift, final. And that is what I know I must do.
They failed me, and they will die for it.
I draw my gun from the holster at my side—slow, deliberate—and let it hang at my side as I try to quell the quiver in my fingers. No-one thinks I have it in me.
They say that killers are born, they’re not made. They think a woman will never have the stomach to rule with an iron fist the same way that a man will. But they forget one key element as they fight back against my reign – I am the spawn of Silvio Vicci, and I was paying attention during every single one of my father’s lessons.
I lift my gun and point it at the first man, the one who looks like he’s praying silently. His face is pale, his lips trembling, with a film of sweat beading on his forehead. He knows better than to say anything as I press the gun to his forehead. I won’t even afford him the luxury of any last words.
One shot. Clean. No hesitation.
The sound echoes in the chamber, the sharp crack of the gun followed by the sickening thud of his body hitting the floor. His blood runs out all over my beautiful floorboards, and I make a point of stepping in it, as though it is nothing but a minor inconvenience, making it clear that my blood-soaked heels are my seal of command.
The second man barely has time to react. I don’t even look at him as I aim. My eyes skim to the other men, making sure they know who’s holding the gun. Cold. Calculated. One more shot. His body slumps beside his comrade, lifeless.
A muted mewl comes from somewhere among my men, but all heads are lowered as I face them. And for the first time, there’s a flicker of respect, no matter how minute it may be, settling amongst them.
I lower the gun, feeling the weight of their deaths settle in the pit of my stomach, which tries to revolt against me. There’s no time to feel remorse or self-loathing. This is a time for control. It’s time to remind them all why I’m the leader and I’ll be a damn good one. And anyone who tries to wrestle control from me will be met with the same fate.
If it was unclear before, I’ve just made it painstakingly clear for all. They now know what happens to those who disappoint me. They know the price of failure.
“Let this be a lesson to you all,” I say, my voice cold and final. “Loyalty is not just a word. It’s a promise. And I don’t tolerate those who break promises. I’m my father’s daughter, and I will rule this family just as he did. Anyone who thinks they can challenge me will learn the same lesson these two learned.”
I let my gaze sweep over the room, my eyes locking onto each man’s. “And make no mistake. The Vicci family is not involved in the Scarfone-Luciani war. I will not tolerate any dissidence in this family over the fuckwits who betrayed the Gatti family. You either follow my orders, or you become a casualty of my war.”
I take a step forward, letting the silence hang heavy in the room. “You all know the rules. I expect you to follow them.”
I turn to leave the chamber, my heels clicking against the cold, bloody floor. But before I reach the door, I pause, glancing back over my shoulder.
“One last thing,” I say, my voice carrying across the room. “My father didn’t make this family what it is by being kind. And I won’t either. The next time anyone dares to cross me, they’ll get more than a bullet in the head.”
I walk out of the room, leaving my men in stunned silence. They know now. They understand that there will be no mercy. Not from me. Not from the Vicci family.
I’m not just my father’s daughter.
I am the head of this family.
And anyone who thinks they can take me down is about to find out just how far I’ll go to prove them wrong.
Marco hands me my phone as I set the towel down. You’d think he’d be disgusted that I have blood and brain matter sprayed all over my face and hair and clothes, but his eyes are so dilated, I think he’s about to cream his pants. Nothing like a blood-spattered mafia queen to get the juices flowing, I think.
“You really need to get laid,” I say, as I walk past him. He smirks, grabs my arm, and whirls me around until I’m facing him. His fingers around my arm are a bruising reminder of the obsession that refuses to die.
“There’s only one woman for me, and I’m still waiting for her to look my way.”
Marco’s been my closest friend since he came to work for my father when he was seventeen and I was twelve. He always treated me like I was the irritating kid sister that he liked to dote on. It was only after I turned nineteen that his feelings seemed to morph into something more than brotherly love, but for all his trying, I can’t seem to bring myself to see him as anything more than a kind of brother that I grew up with.
I shrug his hand off me and laugh as I enter my walk-in closet to organize a new outfit. It’s not hard, considering the neat rows of black. Black knee length dresses. Black slacks. Black skirt suits. Black turtlenecks and blazers. Everything is black, just like my scorched heart.
The concept of me and Marco linked romantically is as alien to me as the idea of a lion peacefully coexisting with a gazelle—unnatural, impossible, and downright absurd.
“You know, this playing hard to get is getting a little old,” Marco says, as I rummage through my wardrobe. I turn to look at him, throwing him a wink. He’s handsome in that way that Italian men usually are; waves of dark hair with hauntingly beautiful bedroom eyes and a nose that’s seen one too many fights and is slightly bent out of shape, which only adds character to his features.
“Who says I’m playing?”
“You know we’d make a dynamic team, Jackie. It’s only a matter of time before you understand this.”
“Perhaps,” I muse. “And perhaps I never will. We work well together, Marco. Let’s not ruin what we have here.”
He ignores my reminder about not mixing business with pleasure and leans against the glass case housing my watches as he regards me with inquisitive eyes.
“You didn’t need to stain your hands with those men, you know.”
Another thing he doesn’t need to point out to me.
“It’s business,” I remind him. “My men needed to be reminded who’s in charge and that I won’t tolerate betrayal.”
“They didn’t betray you directly.”
“When they attack someone for their own foolish reasons-an act which could result in a turf war I don’t want, then that’s betrayal. No-one remembers that Michael Caluzzo pulled the trigger, but they’ll always remember that it was a Vicci hit. One I didn’t sanction, by the way. I don’t want my family name on the Gatti radar, Marco. That’s non-negotiable.”
He shifts, stands to his full height and squares his shoulders, his jaw ticking back and forth. He watches me for the longest time before he speaks again.
“You seem to be mighty intent on making an impression on the Gattis.”
His words drip with accusation. Marco’s not a stupid man; I know he understands the dangers of picking a fight with the Gattis. But for some reason I can’t quite grasp, perhaps his lingering jealousy over me, he can’t seem to understand why I’m so hesitant to provoke the most powerful family in the city.
“And for some reason, you seem intent on going to war with them. We will never win a war against the Gattis, Marco. Even you can see that. I may be ambitious, but I’m not suicidal.”