Page 22 of Lucky
I draw my gun from the holster at my side—slow, deliberate—and let it hang at my side as I try to quell the quiver in my fingers. No-one thinks I have it in me.
They say that killers are born, they’re not made. They think a woman will never have the stomach to rule with an iron fist the same way that a man will. But they forget one key element as they fight back against my reign – I am the spawn of Silvio Vicci, and I was paying attention during every single one of my father’s lessons.
I lift my gun and point it at the first man, the one who looks like he’s praying silently. His face is pale, his lips trembling, with a film of sweat beading on his forehead. He knows better than to say anything as I press the gun to his forehead. I won’t even afford him the luxury of any last words.
One shot. Clean. No hesitation.
The sound echoes in the chamber, the sharp crack of the gun followed by the sickening thud of his body hitting the floor. His blood runs out all over my beautiful floorboards, and I make a point of stepping in it, as though it is nothing but a minor inconvenience, making it clear that my blood-soaked heels are my seal of command.
The second man barely has time to react. I don’t even look at him as I aim. My eyes skim to the other men, making sure they know who’s holding the gun. Cold. Calculated. One more shot. His body slumps beside his comrade, lifeless.
A muted mewl comes from somewhere among my men, but all heads are lowered as I face them. And for the first time, there’s a flicker of respect, no matter how minute it may be, settling amongst them.
I lower the gun, feeling the weight of their deaths settle in the pit of my stomach, which tries to revolt against me. There’s no time to feel remorse or self-loathing. This is a time for control. It’s time to remind them all why I’m the leader and I’ll be a damn good one. And anyone who tries to wrestle control from me will be met with the same fate.
If it was unclear before, I’ve just made it painstakingly clear for all. They now know what happens to those who disappoint me. They know the price of failure.
“Let this be a lesson to you all,” I say, my voice cold and final. “Loyalty is not just a word. It’s a promise. And I don’t tolerate those who break promises. I’m my father’s daughter, and I will rule this family just as he did. Anyone who thinks they can challenge me will learn the same lesson these two learned.”
I let my gaze sweep over the room, my eyes locking onto each man’s. “And make no mistake. The Vicci family is not involved in the Scarfone-Luciani war. I will not tolerate any dissidence in this family over the fuckwits who betrayed the Gatti family. You either follow my orders, or you become a casualty of my war.”
I take a step forward, letting the silence hang heavy in the room. “You all know the rules. I expect you to follow them.”
I turn to leave the chamber, my heels clicking against the cold, bloody floor. But before I reach the door, I pause, glancing back over my shoulder.
“One last thing,” I say, my voice carrying across the room. “My father didn’t make this family what it is by being kind. And I won’t either. The next time anyone dares to cross me, they’ll get more than a bullet in the head.”
I walk out of the room, leaving my men in stunned silence. They know now. They understand that there will be no mercy. Not from me. Not from the Vicci family.
I’m not just my father’s daughter.
I am the head of this family.
And anyone who thinks they can take me down is about to find out just how far I’ll go to prove them wrong.
Marco handsme my phone as I set the towel down. You’d think he’d be disgusted that I have blood and brain matter sprayed all over my face and hair and clothes, but his eyes are so dilated, I think he’s about to cream his pants. Nothing like a blood-spattered mafia queen to get the juices flowing, I think.
“You really need to get laid,” I say, as I walk past him. He smirks, grabs my arm, and whirls me around until I’m facing him. His fingers around my arm are a bruising reminder of the obsession that refuses to die.
“There’s only one woman for me, and I’m still waiting for her to look my way.”
Marco’s been my closest friend since he came to work for my father when he was seventeen and I was twelve. He always treated me like I was the irritating kid sister that he liked to dote on. It was only after I turned nineteen that his feelings seemed to morph into something more than brotherly love, but for all his trying, I can’t seem to bring myself to see him as anything more than a kind of brother that I grew up with.
I shrug his hand off me and laugh as I enter my walk-in closet to organize a new outfit. It’s not hard, considering the neat rows of black. Black knee length dresses. Black slacks. Black skirt suits. Black turtlenecks and blazers. Everything is black, just like my scorched heart.
The concept of me and Marco linked romantically is as alien to me as the idea of a lion peacefully coexisting with a gazelle—unnatural, impossible, and downright absurd.
“You know, this playing hard to get is getting a little old,” Marco says, as I rummage through my wardrobe. I turn to look at him, throwing him a wink. He’s handsome in that way thatItalian men usually are; waves of dark hair with hauntingly beautiful bedroom eyes and a nose that’s seen one too many fights and is slightly bent out of shape, which only adds character to his features.
“Who says I’m playing?”
“You know we’d make a dynamic team, Jackie. It’s only a matter of time before you understand this.”
“Perhaps,” I muse. “And perhaps I never will. We work well together, Marco. Let’s not ruin what we have here.”
He ignores my reminder about not mixing business with pleasure and leans against the glass case housing my watches as he regards me with inquisitive eyes.
“You didn’t need to stain your hands with those men, you know.”