32. Rafi
32
RAFI
T hings go from bad to worse, or maybe they fall into place the way they’re meant to. Lucky passes his phone to Scar, who stares down at the screen, his expression darkening with each second that ticks by. Across the room, Jacklyn Vicci leans against the wall, her arms crossed tightly, her stance more armor than comfort.
Scar breaks the silence, his voice rough like gravel. “Jacklyn,” he says, lifting his gaze to her. “You’re sure about this?”
Her eyes narrow, flashing with defiance. “I don’t guess, Scar. If Russo and Igor are anywhere, it’s on my property.” Her words are clipped, the bitterness in her tone unmistakable. “I don’t know how the fucker has the nerve, but the security logs don’t lie.”
Jacklyn’s compound, once a symbol of her power and authority, has been abandoned for months. It had been her fortress, her sanctuary. But after Daniel Russo’s vicious attack left the property in ruins, she’d had no choice but to move in with Lucky at the Gatti estate. It hadn’t been an easy decision. Jacklyn had fought it, clinging to the pride the compound represented. Lucky, ever the smooth talker, had convinced her it was the only way. He’d made promises: they would rebuild the compound, restore it to its former glory, and bring back her loyal men once Daniel Russo was found and dealt with. In his absence, it was not safe to make a move. Most importantly, he had vowed to bring her brother, Jack, back from Ukraine, where she had sent him for his own safety, believing that her own life was nearing its end.
Now, the once-grand estate stood silent, a wounded ghost of its former self. The irony is not lost on any of us that the place Jacklyn abandoned to protect herself has become Russo’s stronghold. And, we believe, also the new home of Igor Aslanov. Twisted poetry, fitting for the lives we lead.
Scar exhales and leans back in his chair, his expression a mix of curiosity and irritation. “How the hell did he get in without anyone noticing? We pulled your men off, sure, but zero activity?”
Jacklyn straightens, her voice steady. “There’s an underground tunnel that leads from the crypt to the main house.”
Scar’s brows knit as he nods, understanding dawning. The old families had a penchant for building tunnels, originally used during Prohibition to move liquor and later for less savory enterprises. Most have fallen into disuse, but some, like the one at Jacklyn’s compound, remain functional. The estate backs onto a cemetery where her ancestors are buried—a detail Russo clearly exploited.
“So Daniel knows about the tunnel?” I ask, the thought gnawing at me.
“Of course he does,” Jacklyn replies, her tone bitter. “He spent four years in that house. There’s no way he wouldn’t have discovered it.”
Lucky chimes in, his voice edged with anger. “He must’ve planned for this from the start. He would’ve learned every inch of that property in preparation for his eventual attack.”
“Four years,” Jacklyn repeats, her voice laced with disdain. “Plenty of time to map it out.”
I glance at her. “But how did he think he’d get away with this? There are cameras everywhere.”
Jacklyn’s expression darkens. “He destroyed the cameras during the attack, knowing it would leave me blind if I ever went back. But he didn’t know about the crevice cameras.”
Scar tilts his head. “Crevice cameras?”
Jacklyn nods. “Tiny cameras installed in the walls after the attack on Jack. I suspected someone close to us was involved, so I took precautions. They’re practically invisible.”
Lucky cuts in. “She forgot about them until this morning. That’s when she logged in and saw...” He gestures at the phone.
I glance at Tayana, standing in the corner. Her face has gone pale at the mention of Igor. Her hands are clenched so tightly that her knuckles gleam white. When she catches me looking, she forces her lips into a thin, determined line. She won’t let the fear show, not outwardly.
“What about Maxine?” I ask, forcing my focus back to the immediate threat.
Jacklyn sighs. “The compound is massive. We’ve only just started reviewing the footage, but she has to be there. It’s the safest place for them to keep her without risking detection.”
Scar nods grimly. “Which means they know exactly where you are, Jacklyn, if you’re not there. They must. They’re betting you’ll come back.”
“Or they’re trying to smoke you out,” Lucky adds. His voice is low, his jaw tight. “It’s a trap.”
Scar’s tone leaves no room for argument. “Trap or not, we’re going in. Nightfall. This shitstorm ends tonight.”
Lucky smirks, shaking his head as he looks down at the phone. “Daniel should’ve stuck to sipping cocktails in Monaco. Instead, he’s just signed his own death warrant.”
The van's engine purrs steadily, carrying us through shadowed, tree-lined roads that twist and wind like arteries. Outside, darkness drapes the world in secrecy, but inside, the air is thick—buzzing with the kind of tension that knots your chest, a suffocating prelude to battle. Jacklyn sits rigid in the front seat, her shoulders squared, her profile etched in sharp relief against the faint glow of the dashboard. Her silence says everything. This return to her childhood home is a toll she’s paying in pieces, even if she won’t admit it.
Our convoy glides into the cemetery under cover of night, the vans moving in a smooth procession. A perfect shroud for the chaos we’re about to unleash. The plan is simple—hit the compound hard and fast, attacking from two angles. Some of us will infiltrate through the tunnel in the crypt, a relic of the Vicci family’s storied past, while the rest will storm the gates like uninvited guests.
In the back of our van, Scar and Mason pore over a makeshift map, heads bowed in hushed deliberation. Scar’s cigarette dangles from his lips, its faint cherry glow catching in the dim light. He doesn’t smoke, not usually, but for him, this is a kind of ritual. A celebration of destruction.
I’m wedged into the corner, the cold metal of a weapons crate pressing into my ribs with every bump in the road. Tayana sits beside me, arms crossed, her eyes fixed on the blur of trees streaking past the window. The weight of the guns around us is an unspoken reminder of what lies ahead.
“You didn’t have to come,” I murmur, leaning closer so only she can hear me. The words taste bitter on my tongue. She shouldn’t be here—not for this.
Her gaze snaps to mine, and for a moment, I catch a flicker of something in her eyes—fear, determination, maybe even resignation. “If Maxine is in there, Rafi, she’s going to need me.”
“If Maxine is there, we’ll bring her home,” I say firmly, trying to keep my voice calm, controlled. “You can help her just as much afterward—somewhere safe.”
But I know the real reason Tayana insisted on coming. It’s not just Maxine. It’s her uncle, her past, her need to prove something—to herself, to us, maybe even to the ghosts she carries. Scar had backed her up when I protested, pointing out that Mia had proven herself when she snuck into our convoy during the Falcone mission. She wasn’t just capable; she was a wildcard, unpredictable but valuable. But she had helped us rescue a container load of human cargo.
It didn’t make me hate Tayana being in the line of fire any less, but I understood where he was coming from. And her reluctance to back down and stay behind only made it that much harder to ignore her protestations.
“I have to be here,” she says now, her voice steady, but I catch the tremor she tries to hide.
My jaw tightens. Stubborn. Too stubborn. “Stay close to me, then,” I warn, my voice low and edgy. “Don’t try to be a hero. I can’t protect my men while I watch you throw yourself into the fire.”
Her lips twitch like she’s about to argue, but instead, she lifts her chin, defiant. “I’ll be careful,” she promises, but we both know careful might not be enough.
I study her face, memorizing the sharp line of her jaw, the determination in her eyes. “Can you shoot?” I ask abruptly.
She doesn’t flinch, just nods once. I pull my father’s old Beretta 92 from my ankle holster, holding it out to her. It’s heavier than most, but in her small hands, she handles it with ease. She’s used a gun before; that much is clear.
“Only if you have to,” I say, locking eyes with her. “And only if there’s no other choice.”
The van jolts as we hit a rough patch in the road, the crate shifting against my side. Mason curses from where he sits, snapping the tension. “We’re close,” he calls back, his voice tight. “Gear up.”
Scar folds the map, tossing it onto the floor, and turns to Jacklyn. “You know the compound better than anyone. If there’s anything you’ve held back, now’s the time.”
Jacklyn’s icy glare could freeze fire. “I’ve told you everything. If they’ve fortified since then, we’ll have to adapt.”
We test our comms as the van slows to a halt behind the tree line, engines cutting out. The sudden silence feels louder than the hum of the motor, broken only by the faint rustle of leaves in the cold night breeze. Jacklyn twists in her seat to address us. “The crypt is half a mile up. No cameras, no lights. Once inside, it’s a twenty-minute steady pace to the house. Stick together, keep your comms on, and don’t deviate.”
Scar adds, “If you lose contact, fall back. Don’t play the hero.”
We step out into the night, boots crunching softly on the gravel. The faint scent of damp earth mingles with the metallic tang of weaponry. I glance at Tayana, her knuckles white around the Beretta at her side, her jaw set. “Ready?” I ask.
Her eyes meet mine, that fire back in full force. “I don’t know that we’ll ever be ready. Let’s do this.”