Page 71 of Lucky
I’m not surprised to see him here—though part of me can’t help but feel a little humbled by his presence. Dante Accardi is the stuff legends are made of. And here he is, standing in front of me, like we’re two old friends who just happened to survive a bloodbath together.
His eyes lock onto mine, sharp and measuring, as if he’s weighing the very marrow of my bones. He has the eyes of a sinner. The eyes of a saint. His gaze is intense, unflinching— the kind of gaze you’d expect from a man who’s seen both salvation and damnation. The eyes of someone who’s walked the razor-thin line between good and evil, a line so thin it’s hard to know where one ends and the other begins.
I can’t look away. It’s as if the sheer weight of what he’s been and what he is now holds me in place, like gravity pulling at my chest. Once, he’d stood at the altar, a man of God, his prayers a shield against the world’s filth. Now, here he stands, a Don—a man who deals in shadows, in deals, in blood.
The contrast is staggering. He’s both the saint and the sinner, the one who preached forgiveness and the one who executes vengeance without a second thought. The transformation is so complete, so seamless, it almost doesn’t seem possible. But it is. And I’m left staring, caught between awe and horror, mesmerized by the fact that this man has lived both lives so fully, without apology.
And then he asks, casual as ever: “That car yours?”
I look at my Mustang then nod once.
Dante studies me for a moment longer, then shifts his weight, his lips curling into the smallest of smiles. “I’ve come across your type before. But you... I like you.” He steps back, as if the conversation is over.
I don’t respond. I just watch him, feel the weight of his gaze for a few more seconds, and let the silence stretch between us as I study him closely.
The don’s two extremes are not just imbalanced; they areunsettling. It’s as if he has mastered the art of being both absolved and damned in a single breath. And I can't shake the feeling that there's somethingdangerousabout how effortlessly he shifts between them. One moment, he could be offering ablessing; the next, pulling the trigger without blinking. And in that eerie stillness, as he stares me down, the realization dawns on me; Dante Accardi knows exactly what he’s doing.
36
JACKLYN
Mia’s laughter bubbles through the room, a jagged edge to its melody that doesn’t quite match the chaos we’ve just endured. You’d think she would be falling apart at the seams after her wedding was ruined by an impromptu shootout. Yet here she was, perched in her ruined dress, the hem darkened with grime, strands of her golden hair slipping from their intricate updo, laughing like someone who’s finally embraced insanity.
“Well,” she says, her eyes glinting as though she’s just heard the joke of the century, “I guess you could always say my wedding was unforgettable.” Her voice quivers, betraying a tension she can’t quite suppress.
“I’m just glad that I decided to keep baby Scarlett here with the sitter,” Allegra sighs, as Juliana sets down steaming cups of coffee. We’re sitting at the small dining table in the kitchen, where Allegra assures us it’s the only place men have no business being.
All this for a little privacy. She wants to get as far away from the men as possible while she collects her thoughts. She’s flipping mad that someone tried to kill members of her family,and after the initial episode of shaking hands, where she ranted and raged about Scarlett being left an orphan, she straightened, tipped her chin upward and looked me square in the eyes. It was horrifying. Allegra is light and breezy and fun, but when she’s angry? She’s a demon.
“You need to teach me to shoot a gun the way you do,” she says, wrapping her hands around mine, a silent plea.
Juliana clicks her tongue as she turns to leave, only to stop mid-step when Allegra’s voice pins her in place. “Not a word to Scar,” she snaps. The threat hangs heavy in the air, unspoken but palpable.
Allegra knows how to use a gun; she just wants to learn to do it and look kickass while she’s doing it. She watched me use one hand to shoot a man who had his gun trained on Dante Accardi and hasn’t shut up about it since.
Mia watches the exchange, her wide eyes darting between us like a spectator at a tennis match.
The delicate beading of her dress catches the light, glittering in defiance of its tattered state. She shifts, pulling a torn piece of fabric across her lap as if it might somehow restore its former glory.
“Shouldn’t you change?” I ask, nodding at the mess of silk and lace.
Her smile is faint, almost wistful, as she shakes her head. “Not yet.” The determination in her voice leaves no room for argument. Whatever she’s waiting for, it won’t be found in a fresh change of clothes.
I can’t help but feel a pang of protectiveness for her. Mia, older than me but burdened with a lifetime of scars, sits there holding onto the remnants of her dream day as if letting go would mean admitting defeat. Her hands tremble as they rest on her lap, her laughter from earlier now replaced by a quiet resolve that is as fragile as it is fierce.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” Allegra whispers, her tone softening as she addresses her sister-in-law. The words carry a weight that stills the room. We all remembered the moment Brando had shoved Mia to the ground, the bullet slicing through the air where she’d stood just seconds earlier. He had saved her life, and the gravity of that truth lingers heavily between us.
Mia’s fingers brush over the sullied fabric of her dress once more before she lets out a resigned sigh. “Shit happens,” she says, her voice carrying a brittle strength. “I’m used to it by now.”
Allegra leans forward, determination tightening her features. “Scar says you and Brando need to go on your honeymoon, and I agree. You need to get out of the city.”
Mia’s gaze snaps to Allegra, her blue eyes sharpening into shards of ice. “Brando won’t leave his brothers when they need him. He’s not like that. And I wouldn’t want him to be.”
“Mia…”
Mia’s hand shoots up, silencing Allegra mid-word. She closes her eyes, drawing in a slow, steadying breath before fixing us with a glare that burns hotter than the coffee in front of us.
“This won’t be over until every last threat to the Gatti family is gone,” she says, her voice low, vibrating with conviction. The room falls silence, the enormity of her words settling over us like a suffocating weight.