22. Lucky
22
LUCKY
T he call comes like a slap to the face, its urgency echoing in my ears long after I’ve hung up. Rafi’s voice, tight and clipped, is a sharp contrast to the calm demeanor I’ve been clinging to. “Jacklyn Vicci is gone,” he says, and for a moment, everything around me stops. “Kidnapped. Marco’s dead. Several of her men are dead. Ambushed after her meeting with Dante Accardi. You need to get to the estate now. We’re mobilizing.”
The words hit me like a freight train, my world spinning into chaos before I can even catch my breath.
I don’t remember dropping the phone. I don’t remember pacing the floor of my office, my mind in a twisted fog of disbelief, fury, and guilt. All I know is that something inside me cracks open, a raw, jagged ache spreading through my chest. The feeling is suffocating, the kind of guilt that gnaws and twists, an insidious parasite feeding off every damn thought.
I’d barely processed what happened earlier in the day—Jacklyn’s refusal to bow to Dante’s condition for her to marry. It had felt like a win for me, a sigh of relief leaving me when she walked out, Dante’s proposition in the dust. But now… now she’s gone. And the weight of my own selfishness crashes over me, smothering every rational thought.
Would she be here now if I’d just agreed to marry her, to make it easier on everyone? The thought twists like a knife. Could I have done something? Should I have done something?
I may not have wanted to marry—not her, not anyone—but I never wanted this. I never wanted her to be taken.
I slam my fist into the edge of the desk, the sudden pain grounding me for a moment. My breathing is ragged, my thoughts jumbled. I’m trapped in a hurricane of my own making.
And then it hits me—Sophia. The same kind of grief, the same damn gnawing regret. It’s a fresh wound that’s barely started to scab over, and now it feels like it’s been torn open all over again.
I don’t have time to dwell on it, though. Not now. There’s no time to waste.
The moment I gather myself, I’m already walking out of my office, the urgency in my bones pushing me forward. I make my way to the estate. The place is buzzing with movement, the weight of what’s to come settling over everyone like a thick, suffocating fog. The war room is already set up. Men are gearing up, tension heavy in the air. But none of them know what to expect. None of them are prepared for the chaos that’s about to unfold.
I enter the war room, where Scar is already sitting at the head of the table, his eyes dark with a fury that matches mine. Dante stands beside him, his expression like stone, but I know better than to underestimate the storm brewing under his calm exterior. He’s the kind of man who is always three steps ahead of everyone else. Caleph is beside him, his jaw tight with concern, but his eyes, always calculating, are focused on the map spread out before him. There’s no time for sympathy here, not when lives are on the line.
Tension clings to the room like smoke. The walls seem to pulse with it, thick and oppressive. Every breath feels like it’s laced with the weight of our collective rage. I feel it, deep in my gut, a burning rage that grows hotter the longer I stand in this room, waiting for answers. I curse under my breath, the taste of bitterness and frustration filling my mouth, before I slam my fist into the table, the impact rattling the glassware.
“Fucking hell,” Scar mutters, his voice low, but sharp. “A kidnapping.”
The door opens, and The Jekyll enters, his sharp eyes scanning the room before landing on me. He doesn’t flinch at my outburst. Instead, he simply raises an eyebrow and proceeds to flick on the projector.
Images flash up on the screen—gruesome, bloody. The aftermath of the ambush. Bodies sprawled on the ground, lifeless. Jacklyn’s right hand man, Marco, caught in the carnage, his face contorted in shock, a familiar look of defiance even in death. A grainy photo of Jacklyn herself. Her determined gaze, the sharp lines of her jaw, still unmistakable even in the poor-quality image.
“Do we have any idea who’s behind this?” I ask, my voice barely more than a rasp as I try to focus, to make sense of the madness unfolding.
The Jekyll flicks the clicker, and another image appears—Daniel Russo’s face. Dark brown hair neatly combed to the side, almond-shaped eyes, and the kind of face that belongs to a banker, not someone capable of the brutality we’ve seen. The calm in his expression only makes him more dangerous.
“Reports say Russo’s been causing trouble for Jacklyn lately,” The Jekyll says, his voice cool, measured. “One of the survivors swears he recognized the limp of one of the attackers as belonging to someone who defected from the Vicci family and joined up with Russo. That tells us everything we need to know.”
I narrow my eyes at The Jekyll, unable to mask my skepticism. “How the hell do you have all this information so quickly?”
He flashes a sly grin, tipping his head as if to acknowledge the compliment. “Information is my currency,” he says with a shrug, and I hate that I’m impressed. “Most of this I knew before I even set foot in the city.”
I stare at him for a moment, unable to keep the awe from creeping into my expression. The Jekyll isn’t just a part of Seattle’s intelligence network—he is the network. His ability to gather and process information is unparalelled. For a moment, I feel a flicker of something that resembles respect for the man.
“We need to move fast,” Caleph’s voice cuts through the room, sharp and clear. “Our objective is simple: retrieve Jacklyn. Alive. And make sure anyone who thinks they can cross us pays a price they’ll never forget. This city belongs to us, and we’re going to make sure it stays that way.”
His words are simple, but they land with the force of a thunderclap.
Dante, now sitting at the head of the table, glances at Caleph. His eyes are cold, calculating. “I want this operation clean. No mistakes. No room for error. If Jacklyn’s alive, we get her back. If she’s not... then we turn their world upside down.”
I take a steadying breath, the anger bubbling in my chest threatening to spill over. My fists clench, and I force myself to focus on the task at hand. This isn’t about guilt. This isn’t about my own failings. This is about Jacklyn. This is about family.
And whoever took her—whoever thought they could pull off a stunt like this—will regret it. I’ll make sure of it.
The war room hums with tension as the planning begins, the quiet voices of our strategists filling the room with maps, coordinates, and contingencies. But all I can think about is Jacklyn—her face, her defiant refusal to bow to anyone. And how the world just shifted beneath our feet.
The men are masked, a silent swarm closing in. Jacklyn’s convoy is hopelessly outmatched—outgunned, outnumbered—as their SUVs groan to a halt a few blocks from their destination.
We watch the CCTV footage, breaths caught in our throats. Dante stands unmoving, finger pressed to his lips, his gaze a gathering storm. Caleph and The Jekyll are side by side, their eyes flicking to each other in a steady rhythm, exchanging quiet, sharp glances that speak volumes. Rafi is a shadow in the corner, his face unreadable, while Scar’s eyes blaze, restless, like flames searching for something to burn.
The first shots ring out before Jacklyn’s soldiers even have a chance to step out of their vehicles. Those who do manage to escape the metal shells of their SUVs fight valiantly, but it’s no contest. The attackers are armed to the teeth, prepared for this moment.
A surge of emotions churns through the room, but none are as fierce as mine. Anger, pride, fear—my chest tightens as I watch Jacklyn slip from her car. Two guns in hand, she opens fire, her movements fluid, almost graceful. The attackers hesitate, their weapons aimed at her but never pulling the trigger—as if her life holds some unspoken value.
She’s stunning, even in this madness. Fearless. Her eyes burn with resolve as she lifts her arms, not a flicker of hesitation as she fires round after round. She’s not the type to sit in the back and let others fight her battles. She is the battle. And, God, does she give it to them. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pause—just gunfire, steady and relentless. Then, in a split second, something catches her attention and her gaze shifts toward Marco. I see the moment before the world falls apart for her.
Marco, her right-hand man, drops to the ground, a red bloom spreading across his chest. The look on Jacklyn’s face shifts from steely resolve to pure horror as she watches him crumple. She rushes to him, her hands trembling as she cradles his head, brushing his hair back, whispering to him even as the fight rages on around her. She smooths his blood-soaked shirt, her voice a soft murmur, a final goodbye. His life slips away in her arms. I watch in awe as she throws her head back and lets out a thunderous scream. There’s no sound, but the raw intensity of her movement is enough. It slices through the silence, vibrating deep within me. I feel her pain in my bones, a visceral ache that’s all too real, and I can fee her pain, her anguish.
The chaos doesn’t stop and wait for her to grieve. The fight goes on, but Jacklyn’s world is shattered. She’s dragged away, pulled toward a van that screeches to a halt in the middle of the street. She fights, thrashing against her captors, but they’re too many. They force her inside, and as the van jerks away, I catch a glimpse of her determined struggle, her body fighting even as the van swerves and disappears from sight.
"Run us through it," Scar demands, his voice sharp as he turns to Ryder, who’d hacked into the local cameras. We’ve been piecing this together for hours—scrambling for anything solid amidst the fog of unreliable witness accounts.
Ryder’s fingers fly over the keyboard. "Van was found twenty miles out, set on fire. Stolen, obviously. My guess? They swapped vehicles and went in the opposite direction."
I lean in, eyes glued to the frozen frame of Jacklyn being thrown into the van. "Anything else?"
Ryder taps a few more keys, then brings up another screen. A stocky figure in the crowd of attackers. His limp is unmistakable. Ryder zooms in, focusing on the man’s forearm. A tattoo. A Scorpion.
"Morty Lewis," Ryder mutters, voice laced with a touch of distaste. "Recently defected from the Vicci family, went off with Daniel Russo. The limp gave him away, but the tattoo confirmed it. He’s the only lead we’ve got."
"You have a location?" I ask, my voice tight with impatience.
“Sending it to you now.” We all get the alert with the address at the same time, but our eyes are still focused on the screen in front of us.
Ryder taps his screen again, and the image changes. A face fills the screen—cold, calculating, and familiar. Daniel Russo. Hatred flares in my chest. I almost lunge at the screen, ready to tear him apart with my bare hands.
“It’s safe to say Daniel Russo has Jacklyn,” Caleph says, his voice calm but his eyes hard. “He hit her arms deal, and now he’s taken her.”
“But why?" Dante’s voice is laced with confusion. “What he’s done—it’s professional suicide.”
“No,” The Jekyll shakes his head, his tone firm, “he hasn’t planned for that. He’s not stopping at Vicci.”
I can feel the dread creep up my spine. I don’t want to ask, but I have to. “Meaning?”
"Meaning," he says slowly, his voice low but edged with conviction, “Daniel Russo intends to take Seattle.”