Page 1 of Lucky

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LUCKY

It was ultimately Mia’s decision to end Frank Falcone’s life. We couldn’t take that luxury from her when her sister’s life hung by a thread that only he had access to. Even as mercy skittered through our bloodstreams, despite everything that the man had done to our lives.

I sigh as I walk down the narrow corridor of the former shopping mall, my ears tuning in to the sound of Frank whimpering like the dog that he is.

Something in Brando’s eyes flickers as I step into the room. He’s leaning against a wall, arms crossed, watching Mia in all her glory as she gets creative with her methods of torture. Damn bastard; his eyes are dilated as he watches her, lust thrumming through his devilish veins.

“Aren’t you in the least bit worried about her?” I ask, as I take in the crazed look on Mia’s face. Today, she has her knitting needles out; I wince and look away as she drives one all the way through his thigh.

“Nope.” He lets the word pop as he says it, then turns to me with a grin. I’m sure the psychopath has met his match in Mia.

Brando seems to think this is the closure that Mia needs. He’s willing to give her anything she wants, anything she needs, although I can’t say I’m not concerned about her mental health. This weight is too much for anyone to carry, but he comes with her, day in and day out, standing by like a quiet sentinel as she wreaks her havoc on a tied up and helpless Frank Falcone.

Don’t get me wrong; I don’t feel sorry for the man. But that’s a lot of torture to deal with when you already have one foot in the grave. I would much rather just put a bullet in his head and be over with it. Obviously, Mia feels differently.

So far, the man hasn’t talked. I guess that’s why we’ve kept him alive so long. But he never tells us a thing about Maxine’s whereabouts. Which tells me he never will; if daily rituals where his body is mutilated aren’t enough incentive, nothing ever will be.

I sidle up to the wall beside Brando and mirror his stance, never taking my eyes off him. I’ll look anywhere but at Mia as she prolongs her madness against the man who killed her sister.

The wallflower had us all fooled. She has that sweet, angelic look—the kind good girls wear like a mask. But when she’s pissed? She’s a goddamn hurricane. A firestorm about to turn the earth to ash. I’m sure if we left her here, alone with her captive, she’d tear him apart. Rip him to pieces, chew him up, and spit him out like the worthless bug he is—because the world doesn’t give a damn about him, and she’s more than willing to rid the earth of his brand of garbage.

She smiles sweetly when she looks up and sees me, and it’s almost disarming the way her lips turn up knowingly. She skips lightly over to us, until she’s standing a few feet away. Crazy, I tell you.

“Anything?” she asks.

“I’m working on it.” I don’t want to be the bearer of bad news, don’t want to tell her that there isn’t a single lead regardingMaxine. Truth of the matter is, we have no idea where her sister is; she could be halfway around the world by now, but for all our efforts, we haven’t been able to find anything. I’ve enlisted the help of my good friend Ryder, and Rafi has his own contacts working the circuit for any scrap of information we can get our hands on.

“You know,” she says, turning back to look at Frank with a distant look in her face. “The fun has sort of worn off my shiny new toy. I’m getting a little bored,” she sighs.

Not so shiny. Not so new. You’ve only been fucking with him for two weeks. You gouged his eye out with the heel of your shoe. You used a curling iron to brand your family name across his chest. You tied a bow around his testicles then pulled. Real tight.

I think all these things but I don’t say them. All I can remember from that last incident is Brando being furious that Mia had touched Frank down there.

To me, it looks like Mia has touched the edge of insanity, but the last time I mentioned this in front of Brando, he damn near hit me, so I think I’ll just let it be. Mason Ironside – hernotuncle – isn’t much help either. He seems to think it’s healthy for Mia to let out her frustrations on the man who came back to the city with the express intention of destroying her family.

“What do you want to do, baby?” Brando asks, as she steps into him. His hands find her waist, and he holds her there, his possessive hold bruising as his nails dig into her sides.

“End him,” she whispers.

I roll my eyes. It’s about fucking time. Man’s not going to talk and he’s seriously getting on my last nerve the way he whines and snivels with each new punishment she inflicts upon him. I also need Brando’s help with something else that’s been brewing; the time and energy he’s spent holed up in this condemned building waiting for Frank Falcone to spill his gutsis time he’s spent away from other pressing matters which need attention.

“He’s your bridge, Mia.” Brando reminds her that in the absence of any solid lead, Frank is the only hope we have of finding Maxine, but she just shakes her head, looking at him sadly. As though she’s coming down from a sugar rush; she was spritely just a moment ago, but now she just looks defeated.

“He’s not going to tell us where she is,” she points out, looking back at Frank as he writhes against his makeshift concrete bed. His groans are low, pitiful. “He’s going to drag it out to his last breath, and still he won’t tell us where she is. He’ll stick it to me with one last fuck you before he exhales one last time.”

I watch their interaction with interest as Brando considers her words carefully. His eyes say so much more than his tongue ever could. He adores her, reveres her. I know all about their childhood, the way they parted then and the way they found each other again now. It’s mesmerizing to think that so much time could pass, that they could walk in different directions, yet still end up in the same place again. The place they were always meant to be.

I lean against my car,tapping my fingers rhythmically on the door. The cool night air presses in, but it does nothing to settle the storm inside me. I’ve been sitting here for what feels like hours, staring out into the darkness, but my mind refuses to quiet. My thoughts replay over and over the image of Sophia Andrade collapsing to the ground, her blood mixing with the rain like some kind of final, sickening punctuation to the nightmare she’d been living.

Close.

I was so close to saving her. I had her in my sights, had a chance to pull her out of the hell Frank had sentenced her to. But it wasn’t enough. It was never enough. Sophia didn’t deserve to die. She didn’t deserve to be caught in the mess that bastard Frank Falcone had made of her life. She wasn’t some junkie looking to get high, some lost soul in search of oblivion. No, Sophia had been poisoned, tortured, all because of him. A final fuck you to Mia. I can almost hear her voice, a ghost in my head, cursing him, wanting nothing more than to end him with her own hands. If she could have tortured him forever, I have no doubt she would have.

The darkness presses in on me like an avalanche, seeping into every corner of my thoughts. Sophia didn’t choose this. Her death was no accident—it was murder, and I don’t have a shred of mercy for her killer. If Frank was still breathing, I’d put a bullet in his skull myself. No hesitation. No second thoughts.

That honor went to Mia, who stained her hands with his blood after she all but gave up on the notion that he would somehow spill his long-held secrets. Instead, she pressed the gun to his skull, her face blank as she stared down at his pleading eyes and pulled the trigger.