Page 36 of Lucky

Which mother does that?

Which mother buys headstones for her sons while they’re still alive?

Benita Gatti, that’s who.

Even now, her name leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. If I could go back, I’d strip her of it—tear it from her evil soul just as she tried to tear us apart. But it’s too late for that. Her flesh and bones are scattered across the rubble of what used to be our childhood home. After Scar plunged a knife into her heart, we set the house ablaze with her inside it. She was so steeped in evil, I doubt even the devil himself would’ve taken her. So, we razed the ruins to the ground and rebuilt—four towering homes in the compound that now stands as the Gatti estate.

It’s ironic, really, that she lies buried beneath our feet. One final “fuck you” to the woman who tried to destroy her own flesh and blood.

When I think of marriage, I think of my parents. I think of how my father suffered in silence, heartbroken not only by theloss of his wife’s loyalty but by the death of his sister—a hit orchestrated by the very woman he shared a bed with. Their marriage wasn’t a partnership; it was a battleground. Pain. Fury. Ruin. When I think of marriage, all I see is misery.

I swore I’d never let that kind of destruction into my life. I’d rather live alone than endure what my father did. I’d rather die childless than risk having children who’d suffer the way we did. Maybe it’s that marriage—their marriage—that broke me. That twisted something inside my head. It’s why I’ve spent my entire life avoiding relationships. From childhood through high school, from college into adulthood, the idea of love—of anything serious—has been a nonstarter. A non-issue. I run from the slightest whiff of attachment. I’ve avoided it at all costs, and for the most part, I’ve been happier that way.

The room is quiet now, everyone else having filed out one by one. It’s just me and Scar. He’s sitting across from me, his large hands clasped in front of him on the table. His dark eyes fix on me, sharp and knowing, cutting through all the walls I’ve spent years building. Scar doesn’t speak right away; he’s always been the kind to let silence work in his favor. And right now, it’s doing a damn good job of making me uncomfortable.

“You’re thinking about her again,” Scar finally says, his voice calm but firm, like a hammer against tempered steel.

I bristle instinctively, leaning back in my chair. “Who?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Lucky. You know who.”

My jaw tightens. I hate how easily he can read me, how he can see through the cracks I try so hard to seal. “She’s dead,” I say flatly. “End of story.”

Scar doesn’t flinch. He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, his gaze unrelenting. “The story doesn’t end just because she’s dead. You know that as well as I do. She’s still in here.” He taps the side of his head. “And in here.” He presses a hand to his chest.

I look away, my fingers drumming against the edge of the table, even though I know he’s right. My mind screams at me; deflect, deflect, deflect. I know that she’s still in my head, confusing the fuck out of me. And she’s still in my heart, the way that a deep wound festers, killing everything good that stands in its way.

“She’s not in my head. Or my heart. She’s in the goddamn dirt where she belongs.”

“You sure about that?” Scar’s voice is quieter now, but it’s no less sharp. “Because from where I’m sitting, she’s still running the show. All this avoiding, all this pushing people away—you think that’s just you? That’s her, Lucky. She’s still got her claws in you.”

His words hit their mark, and for a moment, I can’t breathe. I want to argue, to tell him he’s wrong, but the words won’t come. Because deep down, I know he’s right.

Scar leans back, watching me carefully. “You don’t have to let her win, you know. You don’t have to live like this forever.”

I swallow hard, my throat dry. “And what’s the alternative? Risking another Benita?”

Scar shakes his head, his expression softening just enough to be disarming. “Not everyone’s her, Lucky. Hell, most people aren’t. You’ve got a shot at something better. Don’t let her take that from you.”

The room feels stifling, the weight of his words pressing down on me. I don’t respond. I can’t. Instead, I push back from the table and stand, my movements abrupt, my chair scraping against the tiles

“You’re saying this because you think me marrying Jacklyn Vicci would be a good move,” I say, my voice tight.

“Regardless of what I think about that. Be it her or anyone else, it’s time for you to open yourself to the possibility of finally living, Lucky.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I tell him, as I head for the door.

Scar doesn’t try to stop me. He just nods, his gaze heavy on my back as I leave the room. But his words follow me, echoing in the corners of my mind.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe I’ve been living in her shadow for too long, holding on to the memory of a past that will only drag me down. Maybe it is time to finally step out into the light.

19

JACKLYN

The air in the room is stifling. My throat feels as though it’s filled with a toxic smoke I just can’t expel as I walk down the narrow aisle, as though walking to my execution. Men line either side, looking at me as though I’m a circus curiosity, but I don’t flinch. I don’t flicker; instead, I hold my head up high and approach the Don of dons himself.

I know why I’m here; I know why he’s called this meeting. He doesn’t want to hear from me—he wants to dictate his terms. And the irony is that whatever Seattle decides is the decision I must abide by. We live in our own little murderous bubble here, but ultimately, the final word remains with the head family in Seattle – the Accardis. Run by none other than the man standing before me.