Page 39 of Lucky

I’m exhausted beyond measure when I slip into the back of the waiting car and slide against the cool leather seat. I catch Marco’s eyes in the rearview mirror, the clench of his jaw telling me he’s still fuming after I told him I wished to see Don Accardi on my own. He doesn’t ask me how the meeting went, instead choosing to ignore me as he turns to look out a side window.

My hands clench the leather armrest of the car’s backseat, my knuckles white against the dim overhead lights. Dante Accardi’s words linger in my mind, his tone level yet confident as he outlined his “proposal.” Marriage to one of his handpicked lackeys? The very suggestion burns like acid in my veins. How dare he try to dictate my life, my empire?

Marco’s voice severs the silence simmering between us. “You want to tell me what happened?”

I snap my gaze to him, the intensity of my frustration leaking through. “Just drive, Marco.”

I lean my head against the cool window, exhaling sharply. The meeting had been in the heart of neutral territory—a calculated risk I had agreed to. But I hadn’t anticipated leavingwith this much fury coursing through my veins. I barely register the shadowy outskirts of the city slipping by as we drive through the city, my usual sharp eye for detail dulled by my turbulent emotions.

The convoy is smaller tonight: three cars, eight men, including Marco. It’s supposed to be a routine drive back to my estate. But as we turn onto a narrower, poorly lit road, the lead car suddenly jerks to a halt, tires screeching against the road.

“What the hell?” Marco mutters, hitting the brakes. Our car skids to a stop just behind the lead car.

The sharp crack of gunfire splits the silence. My heart lurches as bullets rain down on the convoy. The sound is deafening, punctuated by the panicked shouts of my men as they return fire. My pulse surges, adrenaline flooding my system. I reach instinctively for the pistol I keep beneath the seat.

“Stay down!” Marco yells, pulling out his own weapon. He fires through the windshield, shattering it into a spiderweb of glass.

I crouch low as the car’s metal frame absorbs the assault. The door beside me buckles under the impact of gunfire. I peek through the window, catching a glimpse of the attackers: men in black balaclavas, their movements precise and coordinated. These are no ordinary street thugs; they’re mercenaries sent in on a mission to create maximum damage.

“Marco,” I hiss, my voice tight.

“Keep your head down!” he commands, as he focuses on returning fire. But I don’t listen to him. I keep my head elevated, barely above the window frame, watching in horror as two of my men stagger out of the third car, their bodies riddled with bullets. One of the men goes down immediately, a spray of crimson painting the asphalt. The other topples to his knees, holding out his arms in surrender, before bullets hit him from every angle until he drops forward in a pool of his own blood.

I don’t have a weak stomach. Not much can shock me, but watching the sheer violence against my men has me mewling in pain, a sob threatening to cut through the night.

Too late, I realize they’re shooting everywhere but at my vehicle. They’ve attacked every single car but spared mine, as though they know which car I’m in and they’re saving the best for last. My brother Jack’s face floats before me. His beautiful, broken soul is the only thing that’s kept me alive these past few months. He’s the only thing in my life that matters, the only reason I’ve fought so hard to hold on. But what good is a fallen queen without a kingdom? Everything I’ve done has been for him, to secure his safety. To ensure that he has a future, no matter how limited. He’s in a safe place now, and I’ve taken the necessary measures to ensure that he’s taken care of for the rest of his life. He has a trust, and round the clock care; he may not have me, but he’ll have enough.

I should have taken Dante Accardi’s offer. I should have listened to him and put my pride aside. I’m not invincible. I’m not without my flaws. I should have considered what he was saying and bowed to his offer – an offer that now seems like the most generous I’ve ever received. Would ever receive.

“Dammit!” I growl, my fury reigniting. I grab a second gun from the centre console, shove open my door and fire blindly at the shadows. The cacophony of gunfire swallows my shouts.

“Jackie, get back in the car!” Marco shouts, but it’s too late. I’m already exposed, my sharp eyes scanning for a break in the ambush. Another of my men falls, clutching his chest as he crumples to the ground.

A flicker of movement to my left yanks my attention from the chaos surrounding me. One of the masked attackers breaks through the haze, a rifle poised against his shoulder, advancing with deadly precision. My instincts take over before my mindfully registers the threat. I raise my gun, aim for his center, and squeeze the trigger.

The shot cracks like thunder, and I see the bullet find its mark—square in his chest. He staggers back, his body twisting under the force, the rifle slipping from his grasp before clattering to the ground. He doesn’t go down immediately, though; he crumples slowly, clutching at the wound with one hand while his other gropes for his fallen weapon.

“Fall back!” Marco’s voice cuts through the cacophony, panic lacing his usually steady tone. It’s not a suggestion—it’s a command.

I turn to locate him, but then it happens.

A sound—a sickening, wet thud—makes my blood freeze. My gaze snaps to Marco just in time to see him falter. His body jerks violently, and a dark bloom spreads across his chest like ink spreading on paper. He gasps, a raw, guttural sound, and stumbles to his knees. For a moment, our eyes meet. They’re wide, filled with shock and something I can’t quite place—pain, regret, fear?

Time seems to slow, the chaos around us dimming into an eerie silence. I see the way his lips part, as if he’s about to speak, but no words come. And then he falls. Completely. His body collapses to the ground, limp and lifeless, as if the thread of his existence has been severed in an instant.

“Marco!” I’m running toward him before I realize my feet are moving. But I know—I know before I reach him, before my knees hit the blood-soaked ground beside his body—that it’s too late. His chest is still, his eyes are unseeing. The air feels heavy, suffocating, as if the universe itself is mourning his loss.

I press trembling fingers to his neck, searching for a pulse I already know isn’t there. Nothing. Just the cold, indifferent silence of death. A lump rises in my throat, and my vision blurs.Marco—my right hand, my shadow, my most loyal soldier—gone.

A flash of anger surges through the numbness, hot and blinding. My head snaps up, and I see them—the remaining attackers. They’re closing in, emboldened by their kill, their movements sharp and purposeful.

“You bastards!” The words tear from my throat like a battle cry. I grab Marco’s weapon, my grip firm despite the tremor in my hands, and rise to my feet. The air around me feels electric, charged with fury and grief.

The first attacker barely has time to react before I take aim and fire. The bullet catches him in the thigh, and he collapses with a scream, clutching at the wound. Another one lunges at me from the side, a knife glinting in his hand. I pivot sharply, swinging the butt of the rifle into his face with all the force I can muster. The crunch of bone reverberates through the air as he drops, blood pouring from his shattered nose.

Another attacker—bigger, more composed—charges me head-on. I brace myself, but before I can react, his shoulder slams into mine, knocking me off balance. The rifle slips from my hands as I hit the ground hard, the impact jarring every bone in my body.

He’s on me in an instant, his hands wrapping around my throat. I claw at his grip, my vision tunneling as oxygen becomes a precious commodity. Panic claws at the edges of my mind, but I force it down, focusing on the knife still strapped to my thigh. My fingers fumble for the handle, desperation lending me strength.