Page 70 of Lucky

You’d be so damn proud of me now, mama.

I listen to the gunfire as it comes from all directions—more shots from the shadowed rooftops, bursts of automatic fire that rattles the street. These are professionals. Whoever they are, they have a plan. They know exactly how to disorient, how to overwhelm.

The Gattis know how to fight back; they return fire with military-caliber accuracy, each shot deliberate, cutting through the smoke and chaos as they advance on the enemy.

I watch as Rafi shoots from behind a car, his gun steady in his hands as he picks off another figure creeping toward them from an alleyway. The figure collapses in a heap, a spray of red marking his exit from this world. But even that can’t stop the tide of enemies bearing down on them.

I’m never far behind.

I look to the passenger seat, one last glance to make sure I have everything I need. Then I start the car and roll out of the parking spot down the street. There’s only one way to do this, and it needs to be quick, clean. The same way that the attackers took the Gattis by surprise, I need to do the same.

The street is chaos.

Gunfire rakes through the air, deafening and relentless. I roar down the street—my car churning in a deep, guttural way, like a beast waking from a long sleep. My tires screech, rubber burning, as the roar of the engine shatters the air. I suddenly ripthrough the bullets, too fast, too loud, my presence a force all its own. I canfeelthe ping of lead as bullets rip at the body of my baby.

The car's engine howls, a guttural growl that makes the ground tremble. It jerks into a wild spin, the rear tires screaming as the machine tears against the asphalt, sending plumes of smoke and dust skyward. The sound of the engine thunders over the gunfire, drowning out everything else. It’s a blinding cloud of rubber, smoke, and raw power, the car twisting in place, the tires scorching the ground as if trying to burn the world away.

The Mustang hits the fray like a comet.

Then, just when it seems like I’m losing control of the car, the engine roars one last time—a savage screech—and the car comes to a standstill, surrounded by a heavy cloud of smoke.

I fling the door open and step out of the car.

My heavy boots thud against the pavement, quickly drowned out by the blast of my pump-action rifle. They can’t see it, but they can hear it. They can feel it. The same way they can feel my madness as I aim at the attackers and open fire, downing them like toy soldiers.

I have a pump-action shotgun in each hand as I advance on the enemy. My fingers squeeze against the triggers with fluid precision, the shotguns roaring to life with brutal efficiency. I don’t waste a second. A shot cracks through the air, tearing apart a cluster of enemies hidden behind a car. One, two, three. The force of the blast sends their bodies flying like rag dolls. My aim is methodical, ruthless, each shot pounding the air like an execution.

The world seems to stop as I emerge from the smoke, a towering figure in black, the silhouette of a monster framed by the chaos around me. Static pops reach my ears, and I follow the sounds, aim that way, then let rip a spray of gunfire that cuts through the yawning silence.

The enemy’s return fire is futile. They scatter, trying to take cover, but I am faster, smarter, and lethal with every step. I move through the smoke like a force of nature—my boots crushing the dust, my guns pumping a steady rhythm of death. My posture is unwavering as I step forward, cutting through the lines of fire. A man emerges from behind a pillar, gun raised, but I’ve already pivoted, my rifle already locked on the target. One shot, and the man crumples.

Another wave of fire rushes at me, but I don’t flinch. My foot pushes off the pavement, sending me into a sprint that carries me straight through the hailstorm of bullets that avoid me, as though they are too afraid to touch me.

With a savage growl, I turn back to the streets, war and blood raging in my soul.

The smellof gunpowder still lingers in the air—sharp, sporadic whiffs that waft around me. But it's different now, quieter. The chaos has settled, the spray of my bullets sending the attackers into disarray. Some ran, some fell, and the rest? Well, they're still lying in the street, cold as stone, their final resting place.

Dance with the devil, you’re going to get scorched.

I drag a man by the collar, his body yanking over the asphalt with a sickening scrape. His knees buckle under the weight of his own misery as the rough road grinds into his flesh. He’s a piece of human debris—alive, but barely. It doesn’t matter. We need at least one to answer for this carnage. One soul to stand trial for the blood spilled here today.

As I approach the chapel, I glance around, my mind already ahead of the game, tallying up bodies, calculating exits. The tension in the air makes my muscles tighten, but there’s nohesitation in my steps. My eyes don’t flinch as a man steps forward, a gun rising in my direction. His finger is already tight on the trigger, his intent clear.

Scar’s voice cuts through the moment like a razor.

"He's with me," he calls, his tone calm but authoritative, as if there’s no question. Scar flicks his eyes down to the man I’ve dropped at my feet like I’ve tossed down a sack of potatoes. No respect for the dead. Or the dying. Not here.

“How did you know?” Scar asks, his gaze fixed on me, his words almost an afterthought. But I know what he means. How did I know where to be? How did I find them in time?

I’m never far behind.

I give him a brief, cold smile—one that doesn’t show warmth, but isn’t exactly cold either. "I’m never far behind, brother." The words come out easy, like they’ve been sitting on the tip of my tongue, begging for release.

Scar looks at me for a long beat, his expression unreadable. I can see the weight of it in his eyes—the wariness, the respect, the understanding. He nods once, his fist clenching and unclenching as he steps away.

“I need to check on my wife,” he says, his voice low and steady. Without another word, he heads up the stairs toward the chapel, disappearing into the shadow of the building.

Dante Accardi steps forward next. His hands are casually shoved in his pockets, his stance relaxed. There’s not a trace of the adrenaline that should be rushing through his veins after the shootout. Not a twitch of nervous energy. The Don of all Dons. The man who’s seen everything.