27. Lucky
27
LUCKY
T he Jekyll flips the life-size screen on, and we wait in anticipation as Ryder appears on a split screen and focuses another image on the second screen.
"Daniel Russo," Ryder starts, his voice steady but carrying a weight I can’t ignore. He splits the screen, and Daniel’s face is replaced with another image—an older photo of another man, wearing a casual smile that doesn’t belong in this room. A grainy photo of Daniel Russo now accompanies a clear shot of someone else: Daniel Morrison.
The room goes quiet for a split second, like the air has suddenly thickened. The Jekyll, leaning forward with all his weight on his arms against the table, eyes narrowing as he processes the information, already knows something’s coming. Caleph shifts on his feet, his restlessness evident, but he’s still listening, every muscle taut as he waits for the punchline.
“Everything the Viccis had on file for him was wrong,” Ryder adds casually, but I can see it—he’s enjoying the discomfort he’s about to stir. “None of it adds up.”
I can feel the collective tension in the room as the men exchange looks—those looks that say everything without a single word being spoken. They already know where this is heading, and it’s not good for anyone who thought they had this man figured out.
“Give it,” Caleph mutters, shifting again. He’s done with the build-up and wants the facts. The men from Seattle—tired, itching to get back to their families—fidget in their seats. Allegra had suggested bringing their wives for a visit, but they balked at the idea. They’d be damned before dragging their loved ones into this mess.
“Daniel Russo,” Ryder continues, undeterred. “Real name? Daniel Morrison.”
I feel my eyes nearly pop out of their sockets at the revelation, my pulse quickening, but I don’t say a word. I just wait, as we all do, for Ryder to fill in the gaps.
"And who the fuck is Daniel Morrison?" Scar asks, his voice a growl, the question already hanging in the air before he speaks it.
Ryder doesn’t flinch. He leans into the tension like it fuels him. “The result of an affair Silvio Vicci had before he married Edie Marchant.”
A long, heavy silence settles over the room, suffocating the air. You could feel the collective weight of that bombshell drop like a stone into water, ripples of disbelief spreading through each of us.
“Silvio fathered Daniel before he married Edie. All indications are that he never knew about the child.”
It’s Brando who speaks next, his voice sharper than usual. “Yet somehow, Morrison ended up employed at Vicci.”
Ryder lets out a long breath, a quiet sigh. It’s almost like he can’t believe it either, but he’s in too deep now to back down. He leans forward, eyes flashing with certainty.
“Which means,” he continues, “this was a carefully orchestrated attack on the Vicci family, right from the start. Daniel Morrison knew exactly what he was doing. He legally changed his name, made sure he fit in. He knew Silvio would never hire anyone without Italian blood, so he manufactured a whole new identity for himself. He blended right in.”
I feel a cold weight press against my chest. A name, a history, an identity all crafted from the shadows of Silvio’s past. This wasn’t some random vendetta. This was something calculated. Something planned.
“Why?” Dante asks, his voice low, the question cutting through the thick air. “Why would he go to all that trouble?”
Ryder exhales, deep and slow. The kind of exhale you only hear when someone’s holding back something bigger than they’re willing to admit.
“Because,” Ryder says, each word measured, “it gave him an in with the family. It opened the door for him to get close to Silvio, and in his mind? To take his place as the rightful head of the Vicci family.”
The room goes deathly still, like we’re all waiting for the punch to land. And when it does, it’s a blow to the gut.
“How long has he been working for the Viccis?” Brando asks, his voice tight.
“Four years,” Ryder responds, without missing a beat. “At first, it was about getting close to Silvio, learning everything he could. But over time? His plan evolved. He tasted power, and he got hungry for more.”
My stomach churns. If he’s deranged enough to believe the throne belongs to him, then he must be capable of anything. And that’s the terrifying part. He would stop at nothing.
“You think he could’ve been responsible for Jack Vicci’s shooting?” I ask, the words almost escaping me before I even realize I’m speaking. My voice is barely above a whisper, but I need the answer—I need to prepare myself for the worst.
Ryder doesn’t hesitate. “Oh, I know he was.” His tone is matter-of-fact, as though he’s known this all along and we’ve just been too blind to see it.
He clicks the screen again, and we’re all staring at footage now. It’s grainy, low-quality, the kind of thing you only get when someone’s camera phone catches a moment no one is supposed to see. But it’s clear enough.
Daniel Russo. Or Morrison. Whatever the hell he’s calling himself now. He’s standing in an alley with Jack Vicci, talking to him, walking beside him like any other man who belongs there. Jack enters a side door, but then Daniel waits, watches. And then, just like that, he opens fire as soon as Jack Vicci walks back out of the building.
It’s over in an instant. Jack’s body hits the ground, and Daniel wipes the gun clean, drops it beside the body, and casually disappears. It’s callous and calculated. No hesitation. No second thought. He just walks away as if he’s done nothing more than run an errand.
“Son of a bitch!” Scar mutters under his breath. His anger fills the room, suffocating everyone in its wake. I can feel the heat rising in my chest, but I don’t let it show. I don’t let myself crack.
Ryder clicks the screen off, his finger sliding across the mouse as he pulls up another file.
"CCTV in that alley was non-existent,” he says, his voice cold, “but I was lucky. Found a chef at the restaurant Jack Vicci frequented who mentioned his wife had placed a spy camera in the alley to spy on him. She’d put it there because she suspected he was cheating on her. When she saw the footage, she showed her husband. He didn’t hesitate to hand it over when I asked for it.
“So, Daniel Morrison, aka Russo, shot Jack Vicci,” Dante says, piecing it all together. “He didn’t expect him to live.”
“No,” Ryder agrees, voice almost a growl. “He didn’t. He probably expected Jacklyn Vicci to lose her mind, go on the run, disappear.”
“And he underestimated her,” The Jekyll adds, his voice smooth, but the edge of something darker runs through it. “Which is why he kidnapped her.”
My fear hangs in the air, unspoken, but we all know it now. We’ve all come to the same conclusion.
Daniel Russo has no intention of letting Jacklyn Vicci go.
I burn with fury. It’s a low, simmering fire at first, curling inside my chest, but soon it’s a full-blown inferno. Until now, I’ve kept it in check—controlled, distant, aloof, especially when it comes to Jacklyn. I’ve built walls around whatever it is that stirs when I think of her, kept my hands clean of any feelings that might trip me up.
But the thought of Daniel hurting her? The idea that he could snuff out the spark in her eyes, erase that fire—something snaps inside me.
My fists tighten, the nails biting into my palms until they sting. The air feels too thick, too close. Every breath tastes like ash. I want to scream, to tear something apart, to make him pay for even thinking of touching her.
I’m not ready for this. I’m not ready to lose her—not when we’ve barely even had a chance to find out what this could be, what it could mean . I won’t give it up. Not when it hasn’t even started. Not when there’s so much left unsaid, so much still hanging between us, fragile as glass, but real.
And the thought of letting her go? It’s a weight I can’t bear.
“Well now you know who the fuck he is, give me a name. A number. Anything! Anyone we can use as leverage to get her back!” I scream at the screen, even as I turn and start arming myself.
“Lucky…”
Scar’s voice barely registers, like distant thunder muffled by the roar of my own thoughts. Normally, his words would settle over me, calm and steady, like a blanket on a cold night. But now, the fury inside me is so consuming, I can’t hear anything but the pounding of my own pulse in my ears. My eyes are locked on nothing, my fists clenched tight, every nerve on fire.
I’m not even aware of how much damage I’m doing to the room until it happens.
A heavy pair of arms wraps around me from behind, grounding me in a way nothing else can. My body stiffens at the unexpected contact, and for a moment, I thrash—fighting, too angry to recognize the comfort being offered. It’s only when the warmth of the embrace holds steady, when the pressure of those arms gently pulls me back to earth, that I finally stop, my breath coming in harsh bursts.
I realize, then, how out of control I’ve been. My gaze snaps to the room—papers scattered, a chair overturned—and the realization hits me like a punch to the gut. I’ve been tearing through the place without even realizing it, consumed by a rage that’s threatening to swallow me whole.
And yet, there’s something in the way those arms hold me, solid and unyielding, that makes me pause. It’s not a gesture of power, but one of care. One I didn’t know I needed until now.
“I’m going to put you down. Tell me you’ll behave.”
The Jekyll’s voice cuts through the chaos in my head, smooth and measured, though it feels like it’s coming from miles away. The words slip into the haze, their weight momentarily grounding me.
I don’t speak, but I nod once, my breath slow and deliberate as I try to regain control. The frenzy inside me is wild—sharp, jagged edges tearing at my thoughts. I can feel my pulse in my throat, the sting of adrenaline coursing through me like fire. But I lock my jaw, focusing on the rhythm of my breathing, forcing the storm back into its cage, one breath at a time.
The room is too close, too suffocating, and I need space. But even in the haze of rage and frustration, I can still feel it—the tension in the air, the sharp eyes of the men around me, watching, waiting.
I try to clear my mind, but it’s difficult. My fists clench, and I remind myself again to breathe.
Then, as if sensing the remaining tremor in my body, Attila steps forward. His hand lands gently on my shoulder, the weight of it a silent command, steady and unyielding. It’s not forceful, not an attempt to overpower me, but the quiet reassurance of someone who knows exactly what it takes to anchor me in this storm.
His presence is calming, like the eye of a hurricane, but it’s enough. I hold still, feeling the firm pressure of his hand, knowing without words that it’s not just about controlling my body, but my mind too.
The storm within me starts to ebb, the fury slipping away like water draining from a cracked vessel. I take another breath, deeper this time, the wild tremors in my chest slowly quieting. When I finally turn toward the screen, my eyes lock onto Ryder’s with a cool, unyielding focus.
"Get me an address," I say, my voice steady, even. The words are simple, but there's a weight to them, a demand in the calm. This isn’t a request—it’s a necessity.
I hold Ryder’s gaze a second longer, feeling the space between us crackle with unspoken understanding. He doesn’t hesitate, his fingers already moving over the keyboard as the address begins to form on the screen.
I don’t look away. I don’t need to. I know what this means—what this will cost. And I know there’s no turning back from it now.