Page 54 of Lucky
I try to clear my mind, but it’s difficult. My fists clench, and I remind myself again tobreathe.
Then, as if sensing the remaining tremor in my body, Attila steps forward. His hand lands gently on my shoulder, the weight of it a silent command, steady and unyielding. It’s not forceful, not an attempt to overpower me, but the quiet reassurance of someone who knows exactly what it takes to anchor me in this storm.
His presence is calming, like the eye of a hurricane, but it’s enough. I hold still, feeling the firm pressure of his hand, knowing without words that it’s not just about controlling my body, but my mind too.
The storm within me starts to ebb, the fury slipping away like water draining from a cracked vessel. I take another breath, deeper this time, the wild tremors in my chest slowly quieting. When I finally turn toward the screen, my eyes lock onto Ryder’s with a cool, unyielding focus.
"Get me an address," I say, my voice steady, even. The words are simple, but there's a weight to them, a demand in the calm. This isn’t a request—it’s a necessity.
I hold Ryder’s gaze a second longer, feeling the space between us crackle with unspoken understanding. He doesn’thesitate, his fingers already moving over the keyboard as the address begins to form on the screen.
I don’t look away. I don’t need to. I know what this means—what this will cost. And I know there’s no turning back from it now.
28
JACKIE
The grief is there, gnawing at me, relentless in its hunger. It’s not just the loss of Marco—it’s the weight of everything. The responsibility of a family that’s fractured. The rising tide of war. The constant threat of betrayal. I can’t seem to breathe through it. But even through all of that, there’s a fury that burns beneath it all—a seething rage that threatens to consume me.
I don’t know how long I’ve been here. The minutes feel like hours, and the hours stretch into a blur of silent pain and crushing grief. The room I’m in is suffocating, a claustrophobic reminder of how quickly everything changes. I can still feel Marco’s presence in my bones, like a weight that presses down on me, choking me. His laughter, his fierce loyalty, his unwavering commitment to keeping me safe—all of it gone, stolen by a chaos I have no control over.
His blood is on my hands, his death my burden to carry for what remains of my life. The grief and despair is overwhelming, and I can’t stop the tears that continue to fall, the overwhelming sense of loss. How many people do I have to lose before I expire under the crushing weight of my own futile pain?
The door creaks open, and two men come into the room. One stays by the door, his hand on the frame, as the other walks towards me, tips my head, and shoves a bottle in my mouth. I revolt against the abrupt action, thrashing my head to release the bottle. But the man, who can’t be more than his mid-20’s, grabs my cheeks and sticks the bottle in my mouth again.
“It’s water,” he says. “It’s the only mercy you’ll get before bossman gets back, so take it.”
He tips the bottle again, and I feel like my mouth is being waterboarded as the liquid slices down my parched throat like a gushing river. It flows faster than I can swallow, and I end up spitting out the majority before I choke on it. The man jumps out of the way to avoid the spray of water that leaps across the room.
“Come on Rio,” the man at the door complains. “Don’t be a dick.”
“Shut up, squirt. I’m trying to be nice here.”
“Being a monster when doing something nice cancels out your good deed, cuzzy,” the boy at the door says. I focus on him, the young, gangly boy with pockmarks on his face, in preppy clothes which make him look as out of place here as a fish out of water.
“She awake?” A third man sneers, as he walks into the room. He’s a stocky guy, built like a brick wall, but there’s no intelligence behind his eyes. Just greed and impatience. He seems to be older than the other two, his leering gaze flickering over me with interest. “Finally!” he hisses.
“We’re not supposed to hurt her,” the boy at the door reminds them, looking between the two men with concern.
“Who says anything about hurting her?” the newcomer smiles wickedly at him. “Showing her a good time is not hurting her.”
Load the gun and kill me now. I don’t want this crude animal slobbering all over me. I’d rather die first.
“Boss said to make her comfortable,” the man whose name is Rio says, chuckling. “We’re showing her our hospitality.”
“I’m sure that’s not what he meant.” I find myself wondering how a young, well-spoken man like Preppy got involved with these two.
“What's the plan now?” I ask, my voice colder than I feel. It’s the only way I can keep some semblance of control. If I show them weakness, they’ll start to believe they have the upper hand. Which they do, because I’m the one that’s tied to a chair, but I don’t need to harp on that.
The newcomer and Rio exchange glances, and I see the wheels turning in their small minds. They’ve obviously been tossing up some ideas.
The newcomer looks at me, his eyes narrowing. “I’d like to know what makes you so valuable to bossman?”
Rio and the newcomer heap all their attention on me as they wait expectantly for my answer. Preppy’s hands grip the door frame tighter until his knuckles are white but says nothing.
“Bossman as in Daniel Russo?” I ask. “Well, you’d have to ask him that, because last I heard, he was onmypayroll, and now he’s decided to kidnap me.” There’s no harm in showing them who the real boss is here.
“So, he’s hoping to make a pretty penny off his own boss?” The newcomer raises his brows in surprise, and I can see the wheels turning in his mind again. What’s a good ransom story without a good double cross?