Page 42 of Lucky

“You’re eager. I’ll give you that,” he says, rolling his shoulders as he tosses the knife aside. “But if you’re going to fight me, you’re going to do it properly.”

I don’t wait for him to dictate the terms. I throw myself at him, my fists flying. He blocks my strikes effortlessly, his movements smooth and calculated. His size and strength dwarf mine, but I’ve never let that stop me before. I aim for his ribs,his jaw, anywhere I can land a hit, and when he grabs my arm to twist me off balance, I slam my knee into his side.

The impact earns me a grunt, but it only seems to fuel him. He retaliates with a brutal shove, sending me sprawling to the ground. I barely have time to recover before he’s on me, his weight pinning me down. My hands claw at his arms, my nails digging into his skin as I twist and writhe beneath him, refusing to go down quietly.

Daniel grins, his face inches from mine. “You’re feisty. I like that. It makes for deliciously wicked games.”

“Go to hell,” I snap, my voice a growl. I twist my hips and manage to throw him off just enough to scramble to my feet. Blood pounds in my ears, adrenaline coursing through me like wildfire. He’s stronger, but I’m faster. And right now, speed is my only weapon.

We circle each other, the tension thick in the air. I dart forward, landing a punch to his gut, but he grabs my wrist before I can pull back. His grip is like iron as he yanks me forward, throwing me off balance again. His fist connects with my side, and pain explodes through my ribs, stealing my breath.

But I don’t stop. Ican’tstop. I lash out with everything I have, my fists, my elbows, even a headbutt that leaves us both momentarily dazed. For every hit I land, he gives twice as hard, and soon I’m tasting blood, the metallic tang sharp on my tongue.

“Had enough yet?” he taunts, his voice crazy calm despite the cuts and bruises blooming across his face.

“Not even close,” I rasp, my chest heaving. I charge at him, aiming low, and manage to knock him off his feet. We hit the ground hard, a tangle of limbs and fury. My fists hammer against him, but he catches both my wrists, forcing them down as he flips us over.

This time, when he pins me, it’s final. His weight crushes me against the ground, his hands trapping mine above my head. I thrash, but it’s no use. His face hovers above mine, his breath hot against my skin.

“Enough,” he growls, his voice low and dangerous. “We’re done. You lost.”

I glare up at him, defiant even in defeat. My body aches, every muscle screaming in protest, but I refuse to look away. “Kill me, then,” I spit. “Get it over with.”

For a moment, he says nothing. His eyes bore into mine, and I see something flicker there—something raw, almost human. Then he leans in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper.

“Oh, Jackie girl,” he murmurs, his tone laced with dark amusement. “Killing you would be so much fun. But I’d rather watch you burn.”

22

LUCKY

The call comes like a slap to the face, its urgency echoing in my ears long after I’ve hung up. Rafi’s voice, tight and clipped, is a sharp contrast to the calm demeanor I’ve been clinging to. “Jacklyn Vicci is gone,” he says, and for a moment, everything around me stops. “Kidnapped. Marco’s dead. Several of her men are dead. Ambushed after her meeting with Dante Accardi. You need to get to the estate now. We’re mobilizing.”

The words hit me like a freight train, my world spinning into chaos before I can even catch my breath.

I don’t remember dropping the phone. I don’t remember pacing the floor of my office, my mind in a twisted fog of disbelief, fury, and guilt. All I know is that something inside me cracks open, a raw, jagged ache spreading through my chest. The feeling is suffocating, the kind of guilt that gnaws and twists, an insidious parasite feeding off every damn thought.

I’d barely processed what happened earlier in the day—Jacklyn’s refusal to bow to Dante’s condition for her to marry. It had felt like a win for me, a sigh of relief leaving me when she walked out, Dante’s proposition in the dust. But now… now she’sgone. And the weight of my own selfishness crashes over me, smothering every rational thought.

Would she be here now if I’d just agreed to marry her, to make it easier on everyone? The thought twists like a knife. Could I have done something? Should I have done something?

I may not have wanted to marry—not her, not anyone—but I never wanted this. I never wanted her to be taken.

I slam my fist into the edge of the desk, the sudden pain grounding me for a moment. My breathing is ragged, my thoughts jumbled. I’m trapped in a hurricane of my own making.

And then it hits me—Sophia. The same kind of grief, the same damn gnawing regret. It’s a fresh wound that’s barely started to scab over, and now it feels like it’s been torn open all over again.

I don’t have time to dwell on it, though. Not now. There’s no time to waste.

The moment I gather myself, I’m already walking out of my office, the urgency in my bones pushing me forward. I make my way to the estate. The place is buzzing with movement, the weight of what’s to come settling over everyone like a thick, suffocating fog. The war room is already set up. Men are gearing up, tension heavy in the air. But none of them know what to expect. None of them are prepared for the chaos that’s about to unfold.

I enter the war room, where Scar is already sitting at the head of the table, his eyes dark with a fury that matches mine. Dante stands beside him, his expression like stone, but I know better than to underestimate the storm brewing under his calm exterior. He’s the kind of man who is always three steps ahead of everyone else. Caleph is beside him, his jaw tight with concern, but his eyes, always calculating, are focused on the map spread out before him. There’s no time for sympathy here, not when lives are on the line.

Tension clings to the room like smoke. The walls seem to pulse with it, thick and oppressive. Every breath feels like it’s laced with the weight of our collective rage. I feel it, deep in my gut, a burning rage that grows hotter the longer I stand in this room, waiting for answers. I curse under my breath, the taste of bitterness and frustration filling my mouth, before I slam my fist into the table, the impact rattling the glassware.

“Fucking hell,” Scar mutters, his voice low, but sharp. “A kidnapping.”

The door opens, and The Jekyll enters, his sharp eyes scanning the room before landing on me. He doesn’t flinch at my outburst. Instead, he simply raises an eyebrow and proceeds to flick on the projector.