23. Lucky
23
LUCKY
I move quietly, slipping out of the room. The weight of Morty Lewis’s details presses in my pocket—there’s no way I’m sitting on this. Not when the clock is ticking. I shoot off a text to Jayson Caluna then pocket my phone before sliding into my truck.
I drive in silence, the hum of the engine the only sound in the vehicle. The air is heavy, the streets empty, as if the world itself is holding its breath. Morty Lewis—his name burns in my mind like an open wound. A traitor, the very man who defected from the Vicci family to join Russo, now our only lead. He won’t be hiding behind his tattoos and limp for long.
I know where he lives. The house is a small, nondescript place on the edge of town. Quiet. The kind of neighborhood where people mind their own business, keep their heads down. The kind of place where a man like Morty can disappear into the background, unseen and unheard. But not for long. Not now that I’m here.
I pull up outside, the tires crunching softly against the gravel driveway. There’s no sign of life, no movement behind the drawn curtains. I cut the engine, the silence suddenly louder, thicker. I reach for the door handle, the cold metal a familiar weight in my hand.
I’m not here to waste time.
I step up to the door, knocking twice, sharp and deliberate. I hear a shuffle behind it before it creaks open, revealing an elderly man, probably in the vicinity of sixty or so odd years. His hawkish features mirror Morty’s, and I guess this could be the father.
His eyes are wide, startled, clearly not expecting a visit at this hour.
"Who—" he starts, but then he stops, recognizing something in my stance. I’m not the kind of man you ignore.
"Your son," I say, my voice low, tight—like a wire pulled to breaking point. "Tell him to get out here. Now."
The man freezes, his gaze flicking to the door behind him, weighing something—maybe the gun he knows is somewhere close by, maybe the thought of making a run for it. His eyes dart back to mine, calculating. But whatever he sees there makes him hesitate.
He swallows, the sound heavy in the stillness. "Boy ain’t here," he mutters, his hand sliding slowly along the doorframe, preparing to shut it.
I don’t give him the chance. I shove my foot into the gap, slap my palm against the door, and force it back. The wood groans in protest, but it doesn’t stand a chance.
The old man looks at me then, his eyes lazy, dismissive—as if he’s sizing me up, wondering just how far I’ll go. He doesn’t know that I’ve already crossed that line.
“Kid’s been nothing but trouble since he moved in,” he grumbles, his grey eyes cloudy and unfocused, like he’s not even seeing me anymore. He turns without another word, disappearing into the shadows of the house.
I follow him in, my face impassive as my hand goes to the firearm at my side. I lift it, disengage the safety and hold it at my side, preparing myself. We walk down a narrow hall until we reach a living room, where a muted TV sits, casting shadows across the room.
The man sits in a recliner, his eyes fixed on the TV. He reaches out for a lit cigarette that’s been burning in a nearby ashtray and takes a soulful drag, as though this could be his last. It may very well be.
Without warning, he shouts over his shoulder. “Morty, you come out here now and clean up your own mess.”
There’s movement across the room, before Morty Lewis steps through a red and blue PVC strip curtain separating the living room from another room.
His face is a mask, but I can see the tension in his shoulders as he steps into the doorway. He’s not surprised to see me. He’s been expecting this. He knows what happens when you make deals with a man like Russo, when you turn against the family that housed you. He knows there’s no running from the consequences of being a traitor.
He looks at me, then down at the ground, his eyes narrowing slightly. "What are you doing here, Gatti?"
I’m glad he knows who I am. I don’t waste time with pleasantries. “I want Russo.”
Morty doesn’t flinch, but I can see the subtle shift in his posture. It’s a brief moment of doubt, barely noticeable, but I catch it. He knows he’s already walking a razor-thin line. "I don’t know where he is."
I step forward, just a little, and the threat in my movement is enough to make him stiffen. "Don’t lie to me, Morty. I know you were involved in the hijacking of Jacklyn Vicci’s convoy.”
“That wasn’t meant to go down the way it did,” he hisses.
“Then explain to me how it was meant to go down.”
“We were just meant to get the Vicci girl. No one was meant to die. These were men I’ve worked with for years; I didn’t sign up for a killing spree.”
“So, what happened?”
The old man shifts in his chair, moves his eyes away from the TV to watch his son with calculated interest.
“As soon as the convoy stopped, Russo jumped out and started shooting, turning the place into a warzone. I figured the least I could do is get her out before she became another casualty. Obviously, he wanted her alive for a reason.”
“What’s that reason?” I ask him.
He doesn’t speak for a moment, eyes darting toward the street, calculating his options. He turns back to me and shrugs. “I thought he had a vision, man. Sold us some shit about the ship sinking without a male heir, and a few of us, fools that we are, played ‘follow the leader’.
“Where is Jacklyn Vicci?”
He shrugs again, and I have an overwhelming desire to shoot him in the shoulder to prevent him doing it again.
“Where is she?” There’s no mistaking the angry lilt in my voice, but he just continues to stare at me blankly. I lift my gun and point it at his head, my gaze unwavering. I will shoot the dumb fucker if I have to, and I’ll gladly do it in front of his father. The old man doesn’t even twitch. I think I may just be doing him a favor.
“This can go one of two ways, Morty. Either way you’re a dead man.” I pride myself on not lying to people when they’re looking down the barrel of my gun. “I can make your death easy, or I can make it as painful as gravity allows. Now, you choose.”
The seconds stretch long between us, like a wire pulled taut, ready to snap. Morty’s jaw clenches, and for a brief moment, I think he might stand his ground.
“I’m not asking again,” I continue, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Where is Daniel Russo?”
The tension snaps.
“Last I heard, he was at the Vicci house,” he mutters, barely above a whisper.
I freeze. “The Vicci house?” I repeat, disbelief seeping into my voice. “Why would he go there?”
“Jack Vicci,” he says, finally. “He’s looking for Jack Vicci.”
“Why?” I ask, shooting him a look of confusion.
Monty shakes his head, and I realize the shrugs have been replaced by these slow, deliberate motions. He meets my gaze for a long moment, and I see the flicker of fear in his eyes. He knows exactly what I’m capable of. He knows better than to push me. He shuts his eyes slowly, then opens them again, exhaling a deep sigh of relief, as though letting go of a heavy burden.
"I don’t know, man." His voice drops lower, the words dragging like he’s unwilling to speak them, but feels the need to anyway. "Ever since Silvio Vicci passed, Russo’s developed a real obsession with the Vicci twins."
The door slams behind me, and before I even have a chance to settle, Scar’s voice cuts through the air like a blade.
“You shouldn’t have gone off on your own.”
His words land like a punch, the sharp edge of his anger clear in every syllable. I can feel the heat of his gaze from across the room. He’s pacing, his heavy footsteps punctuating his words as he runs a hand through his hair, tugging at the dark strands in frustration. The tension in the air is thick—thicker than the fog I left behind when I walked out of the house earlier.
I brace myself against the wall, arms folded nonchalantly, trying to mask the irritation that’s bubbling up inside me. “I had to do something.” I snap, my voice rough from the hours of adrenaline and frustration that have built up since I left.
Scar stops pacing, turning to face me, his eyes narrowing. “Is there something else going on here? Something I need to know?” When I don’t answer, he continues raging at me. “What the hell were you thinking, going to Morty Lewis’s place alone? You know better than that.”
I bite my tongue, clenching my fists at my sides. I want to defend myself—tell him I didn’t have time to wait for backup, that Russo was spiraling and we needed to stop him, that Morty was the only lead we had—all the things he already knew himself, but I can see in Scar’s face that he’s not interested in excuses. For the most part, he lets me run the business my way, lets me make my own decisions, but even I have to admit it was stupid of me to go off all half crazy to shake Morty Lewis down for information he didn’t even have. We’re still no closer to knowing where Russo is.
He starts pacing again, back and forth, his anger rising with every step. “I get it, Lucky. You’re restless. But we’ve been down this road before. You think you’re invincible, that you can handle everything yourself. But that’s not how this works. You don’t walk into someone else’s den of snakes without backup, not when we’re dealing with someone like Russo.” Scar’s face hardens, his eyes darkening. "How differently this could have turned out had he still been at the compound! I could have lost you today. I could have lost a few good men!” I can hear the thread of control tightening in his voice.
I drop my gaze, not wanting to see the rage building in his features. I know he’s right; maybe my best laid plans aren’t always well thought out.
We were too late when we got to the compound. Jayson and a few others had joined me on a walk through; Russo had torn the place to shreds.
Scar stops pacing abruptly, the muscles in his jaw tightening. He stares at me, his eyes burning with a fury that sends a shiver down my spine. "Russo..." He breathes the name like it’s something toxic. "Is becoming a problem. A big one."
I nod, already feeling the weight of it in my gut. "It’s more than that. Russo’s making a statement. A brutal one. He didn’t stop at looting the vaults or taking weapons—he destroyed everything he could get his hands on in that house; he gutted the place. Which means this is personal for him.”
“Where’s the brother?” he asks me. I shrug in response.
“Everyone who knows is either dead or missing. Jacklyn was apparently very tight lipped about where she sent him.
Scar’s fist slams down on the arm of the chair, his knuckles white. The force of it shakes the room, and I can feel the reverberation in my chest. He stalks toward me, his eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that makes the air between us feel electric.
“You’ve been known to be reckless before,” he simmers. “Don’t ever, ever , go off half-cocked on your own again.”
I swallow, meeting his gaze. If I have nothing, I have the sincerest respect for my older brother. If he tells me to kneel, I will bow down to him and hang my head in shame.
Scar runs his hand over his face, the frustration on his features momentarily giving way to a deep weariness. "Dammit." The word escapes him low, almost as if he’s talking to himself. "We knew Russo was trouble, but this... this is a whole new level." He falls into a chair, his elbows resting on his knees, his fingers laced together as he takes a long, steadying breath.
I shift my weight, watching him. Waiting.
Finally, Scar speaks again, his voice steady, but edged with a hard determination. I can feel the shift in the air. Scar’s not just angry now; he’s planning. He’s ready to burn the city down to smoke out Daniel Russo.
He leans back in his chair, looking up at the ceiling for a moment. When his eyes meet mine again, they’re hard, cold, and filled with a burning resolve. “I mean it when I say no fuck-ups, Lucky. Don’t make me lose my faith in you.”
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat.
He stands, pulling his coat off the back of the chair, his movements swift and purposeful. “I want everyone ready. The minute Ryder gives us a location, we move on Russo. We’re not giving him any more chances to make a mess of this city.”
I follow him to the door, my mind already racing with the plan taking shape in the back of my head. We’ve taken down bigger threats, but something about Russo feels different. He’s dangerous in a way that none of us saw coming—a storm that’s gathering speed, threatening to tear everything down. But if there’s one thing I know about Scar, it’s that he doesn’t ever back down from a fight.
And we’ll be damned if we let Daniel Russo destroy everything we’ve built here.