Page 44 of Lucky
“No,” The Jekyll shakes his head, his tone firm, “he hasn’t planned for that. He’s not stopping at Vicci.”
I can feel the dread creep up my spine. I don’t want to ask, but I have to. “Meaning?”
"Meaning," he says slowly, his voice low but edged with conviction, “Daniel Russo intends to take Seattle.”
23
LUCKY
Imove quietly, slipping out of the room. The weight of Morty Lewis’s details presses in my pocket—there’s no way I’m sitting on this. Not when the clock is ticking. I shoot off a text to Jayson Caluna then pocket my phone before sliding into my truck.
I drive in silence, the hum of the engine the only sound in the vehicle. The air is heavy, the streets empty, as if the world itself is holding its breath. Morty Lewis—his name burns in my mind like an open wound. A traitor, the very man who defected from the Vicci family to join Russo, now our only lead. He won’t be hiding behind his tattoos and limp for long.
I know where he lives. The house is a small, nondescript place on the edge of town. Quiet. The kind of neighborhood where people mind their own business, keep their heads down. The kind of place where a man like Morty can disappear into the background, unseen and unheard. But not for long. Not now that I’m here.
I pull up outside, the tires crunching softly against the gravel driveway. There’s no sign of life, no movement behind the drawn curtains. I cut the engine, the silence suddenly louder, thicker. Ireach for the door handle, the cold metal a familiar weight in my hand.
I’m not here to waste time.
I step up to the door, knocking twice, sharp and deliberate. I hear a shuffle behind it before it creaks open, revealing an elderly man, probably in the vicinity of sixty or so odd years. His hawkish features mirror Morty’s, and I guess this could be the father.
His eyes are wide, startled, clearly not expecting a visit at this hour.
"Who—" he starts, but then he stops, recognizing something in my stance. I’m not the kind of man you ignore.
"Your son," I say, my voice low, tight—like a wire pulled to breaking point. "Tell him to get out here. Now."
The man freezes, his gaze flicking to the door behind him, weighing something—maybe the gun he knows is somewhere close by, maybe the thought of making a run for it. His eyes dart back to mine, calculating. But whatever he sees there makes him hesitate.
He swallows, the sound heavy in the stillness. "Boy ain’t here," he mutters, his hand sliding slowly along the doorframe, preparing to shut it.
I don’t give him the chance. I shove my foot into the gap, slap my palm against the door, and force it back. The wood groans in protest, but it doesn’t stand a chance.
The old man looks at me then, his eyes lazy, dismissive—as if he’s sizing me up, wondering just how far I’ll go. He doesn’t know that I’ve already crossed that line.
“Kid’s been nothing but trouble since he moved in,” he grumbles, his grey eyes cloudy and unfocused, like he’s not even seeing me anymore. He turns without another word, disappearing into the shadows of the house.
I follow him in, my face impassive as my hand goes to the firearm at my side. I lift it, disengage the safety and hold it at my side, preparing myself. We walk down a narrow hall until we reach a living room, where a muted TV sits, casting shadows across the room.
The man sits in a recliner, his eyes fixed on the TV. He reaches out for a lit cigarette that’s been burning in a nearby ashtray and takes a soulful drag, as though this could be his last. It may very well be.
Without warning, he shouts over his shoulder. “Morty, you come out here now and clean up your own mess.”
There’s movement across the room, before Morty Lewis steps through a red and blue PVC strip curtain separating the living room from another room.
His face is a mask, but I can see the tension in his shoulders as he steps into the doorway. He’s not surprised to see me. He’s been expecting this. He knows what happens when you make deals with a man like Russo, when you turn against the family that housed you. He knows there’s no running from the consequences of being a traitor.
He looks at me, then down at the ground, his eyes narrowing slightly. "What are you doing here, Gatti?"
I’m glad he knows who I am. I don’t waste time with pleasantries. “I want Russo.”
Morty doesn’t flinch, but I can see the subtle shift in his posture. It’s a brief moment of doubt, barely noticeable, but I catch it. He knows he’s already walking a razor-thin line. "I don’t know where he is."
I step forward, just a little, and the threat in my movement is enough to make him stiffen. "Don’t lie to me, Morty. I know you were involved in the hijacking of Jacklyn Vicci’s convoy.”
“That wasn’t meant to go down the way it did,” he hisses.
“Then explain to me how it was meant to go down.”