33. Tayana
33
TAYANA
T he people around me now—they’ve become my family in ways I never imagined possible. In just a few short weeks, they’ve filled a void I didn’t even know existed. They don’t ask questions. They don’t push for answers. Instead, they just opened their arms, welcomed me, and made me feel safe. For the first time in my life, I feel like I belong somewhere. No one here judges me, no one looks at me with suspicion or pity. No one cares about the name I carry, or the darkness attached to it. They’ve seen me as I am. And in return, I’ll do everything I can to protect them. I won’t let them down. Not after all they’ve done for me.
This is where I’m meant to be. I can feel it in my bones. The Gattis have given me the safety I’ve never known, and I’m going to make sure they don’t regret it. If I need to risk everything to keep them safe—no matter the consequences—then that’s what I’ll do.
It’s taken me this long to admit it, but maybe everything I’ve done since I left Russia—every decision, every action, every grudge I’ve held—has been a form of rebellion. A rebellion against the grief that consumed my father, that drove him to push me away. A rebellion against the loss of my mother, the anger that burned in me over her death. A rebellion against being tossed aside like I meant nothing. Like I wasn’t worth fighting for. A rebellion that was supposed to lead me to be here and now in this moment.
There are so many secrets in my family. Too many. And maybe it’s all to protect me. But the more I uncover, the more it feels like I’m flying blind. There’s so much I don’t know. So much I never will.
But right now, I don’t need to know everything. I don’t need the past to define me. Not when I’ve finally found something worth protecting.
I take the gun that Rafi hands me. Gladly.
I check the magazine. It’s loaded.
It feels like a feather in the palm of my hand, even though I know the Beretta is one of the heavier guns.
“Give us a minute,” Rafi says to Scar, as they prepare to enter the crypt. Rafi takes me by the elbow and leads me a few feet away from the group, where he exhales as we stand facing one another.
“I would never make you do anything you don’t want to do, but I have a bad feeling about this, Tayana,” he says, his eyes scanning mine. I don’t know what he’s searching for, but a heavy silence cloaks us as we stand in our own little bubble, oblivious to everything else around us.
“I know that,” I whisper softly. I don’t know what he’s so conflicted about. “What’s wrong, Rafi?”
“I’m just worried about you.” His voice is soft, but there’s an edge to it, like he’s wrestling with the weight of what he wants to say. He steps closer, his fingers brushing a loose strand of hair away from my face. His touch lingers for a heartbeat too long, and his eyes stay locked on mine, dark and unreadable. He’s studying me, like he’s trying to memorize everything—the lines of my face, the curve of my lips, the flicker of determination in my gaze. It’s that look he gets, the one that’s all-consuming. Intense. Unshakable. So impossibly handsome it almost hurts to meet his eyes.
“One last time,” he says, his voice low but firm, each word deliberate. “We can turn around right now. Walk away. Drive out of here. You don’t have to do this.”
I tilt my chin up, meeting his gaze with my own unwavering stare. My heart pounds in my chest, but my voice is steady, resolute. “I don’t have to do anything.” The words come out sharp, cutting through the tension like a blade. “Not a damn thing. It’s what I want to do that you should be worried about.”
The driver lingers in the van, engine idling, and the guards spread out around the crypt’s entrance, weapons ready to prevent anyone escaping. As the rest of us move toward the yawning darkness of the crypt’s entrance, the air grows heavier, thick with anticipation.
Inside, the air is cold, dry, and scented with centuries-old stone and faint traces of decay. The flickering beam of a flashlight plays across the walls, illuminating the engraved names and dates of long-gone Viccis. Jacklyn steps through the doorway first, pausing just inside to bow her head. Her lips move in silent prayer, though I can’t hear the words. Her posture is rigid, but there’s something reverent about her in this moment—a rare glimpse of vulnerability in a woman who rarely shows any. At her heart, I can see that Jacklyn Vicci is more warrior than woman, and she just continues to amaze me with all the struggles she’s had to face to maintain control of her family.
Lucky is right behind her, his hand settling possessively on her waist. His fingers tighten slightly, as though he’s reminding her—and everyone else—that she’s not alone. The way his gaze sweeps the room, sharp and protective, leaves no question in my mind: nothing will touch her as long as he’s by her side.
Mason follows, ducking under the low stone arch, his broad shoulders nearly scraping the walls. His footsteps echo against the crypt floor, heavy and deliberate.
Rafi and I enter behind him, moving slowly, our eyes darting to every shadow and Scar takes the rear, his gaze lingering over every detail of the crypt, his hand resting on the hilt of his weapon. His silence is unnerving, but it’s also comforting; if something were to go wrong, he’d be the first to react.
“How do you think the comms will hold up underground?” Mason asks, his voice low but echoing faintly in the tight space.
Jacklyn doesn’t look back, her hand gliding along the wall as she feels for the latch to the tunnel. “Oh, I don’t know, Mason,” she says finally, her tone clipped. “I’ve never had to communicate from underground before.”
Her fingers find the latch, and she slides the heavy door back with a groan of stone on stone. Beyond it, the darkness of the tunnel yawns, swallowing the weak light spilling in from the crypt. It feels alive yet musty, the air pressing in around us as though the tunnel itself is holding its breath.
We step inside, our movements slow and cautious. The sound of our footsteps is muffled by the narrow walls, and every creak and groan of the ancient structure seems amplified in the silence. Jacklyn leads the way, her flashlight casting long, eerie shadows ahead of us. Lucky stays close at her side, his hand never leaving her waist, while the rest of us form a tight line behind them.
You guys actually used to play down here?” Lucky whispers to Jacklyn, although the sound is amplified in the tight space.
Jacklyn laughs. “Jack and I used to pretend there were ghosts down here. We loved it.”
“Somehow, I can’t imagine that,” he mutters.
We move deeper into the tunnel, which seems to narrow at every turn, dust floating up from the ground with every step we take.
We’re about halfway through the tunnel when the earth starts to shudder beneath our feet, and the distant sound of crumbling stone echoes through the narrow passage. I glance back just in time to see the entrance collapse, a wall of rock and dust sealing off any hope of retreat.
I cough, lifting my shirt to my mouth to fight off the plume of dust that rises in the suffocating air.
“Shit!” Mason swears, his voice bouncing off the walls. He turns back, but it’s no use—the tunnel behind us is gone, hidden behind a wall of rock.
“Don’t,” Jacklyn commands, her voice steady despite the tension in the air. “Or the whole structure could collapse. We move forward; there’s no other way. We need to move quickly.”
She doesn’t say what I think we’re all thinking, that if we don’t move quick enough, there could be another explosion and we may be buried here in this dark tomb.
Tension hangs heavy in the air as we press on, the tunnel narrowing slightly as we go. We walk through the darkness, our only light the scattered lines from flashlights, inhaling the stale air as we make our way closer to the compound. My heart pounds in my chest, each step bringing a growing sense of unease. The further we go, the more the air feels thicker, making it harder to breathe.
Rafi taps his comms to communicate with our men, but I know he doesn’t get a line, because even in my comms, I can only hear the static noise of a distant crackle.
“You think that was a message?” Scar dares to ask the question we’re all wondering.
“They’re expecting us,” Jacklyn says, her voice taut, every word clipped with barely restrained tension. She turns sharply, sweeping the flashlight at waist height—not aimed at anyone in particular, but enough to cast fleeting light across her face. The beam catches the hard set of her jaw and the fierce determination etched into her expression, her anger pressed into a thin, unyielding line.
“I want you all to know,” she says, her voice steady despite the weight of her words, “no matter what happens here tonight, there’s no one else I’d rather stand with—no one else I’d rather face this with, even if it means dying.”
All I can think is; this woman…this unbelievable badass. I want to be just like her when I grow up.
Her eyes swing to Lucky, whose lips are parted, as though to refute her fear that anyone here will die tonight, but no words come out. Her eyes soften, and she tilts her head in adoration, before she addresses him, not giving a damn about her audience. “You are…the single best thing that ever happened to me, Lucky Gatti. I want you to know that.”
He finally finds his voice. “Jacklyn…”
But she turns and surges forward, the final few steps out of the tunnel, even as the faint sound of voices reaches us. There’s no time to think, no time to assess – Jacklyn is fearsome as she crosses the final few feet of the tunnel, and we press on behind her. We all know we’re walking into an ambush; we all know this is probably the end of the line for us, but defeat is not an option. Failure is not an option. And I for one will be damned if I go down not swinging. I intend to take down as many of the bastards as I possibly can, starting with my uncle Igor.