Page 72 of Lucky
For a moment, none of us move. Then Allegra reaches for her cup, her hands no longer trembling. Mia sits back, her ruined wedding dress pooling around her like the aftermath of a storm. And I can’t shake the feeling that the storm is far from over.
“So, will you?” Allegra starts up again, breaking into my thoughts.
I turn lazy eyes toward her.
“No one willingly goes into this life, Allegra.”
“But we find ourselves in this life. What good are we if we can’t protect ourselves. Can’t protect our children… when we need to?”
“I don’t think you’re likely to ever find yourself in this situation again,” I argue.
“But I was today!” she points out. She’s right, but I think Scar will probably skin me alive if I put another gun in his wife’s hands.
“Allegra…” I sigh.
“I saw what you did when you got to the chapel,” she hisses. “Don’t think I don’t know you saved Don Accardi’s life. How empowering was that? If I’d held that gun, I probably would have shot myself in the foot. I need your composure.”
I can’t help the tiny laugh that bubbles and escapes me at the image of Allegra holding a gun. But my laugh gets caught in my throat when the tinkle of Mia’s small throat fills the room.
“Ishot a man,” Mia says. “Right here.” She points a finger at her temple. She sounds quite proud of herself.
I watch her silently. Allegra blanches. We both know that she shot Frank Falcone after torturing him nearly to death, but we’ve never spoken about it. It’s not our story to tell, and not our wound to open.
“Uncle Mason taught me to shoot when I was five,” she says, looking away wistfully, as though her mind has carried her away to a far away place. “I never thought I’d actually kill someone, though.” She nods her head thoughtfully, as though agreeing with someone. “Itisempowering.”
Allegra swings her eyes in my direction, her eyebrows hitting her hairline. She stops short of saying “I told you so.”
“You know what I don’t understand,” I start. “You were born to this life. How is it your father never taught you to shoot?”
Allegra rolls her eyes and shakes her head in distaste as she settles in, as though about to tell us a long-held secret.
“You see how protective Scar is of me? My father was 10x, if not more. I’m sure he believed the gunpowder residue would permanently stain my hands. Or scorch my skin. Or something. It didn’t stop me doing some recreational shooting at the range, but that’s nothing to write home about.’
I laugh again at the mental image that Allegra paints us, stopping only when someone clears their throat. All heads turn to the kitchen doorway, where Lucky stands, his jaw set in a firm line as he looks at us. His eyes settle on me, before he tips his head, asking me silently to follow him.
“Is everything okay?” Allegra says, addressing him before he turns away.
“Dandy,” he replies, his voice monotone, before he leads me away from the kitchen.
The tension radiatesoff him in waves, his shoulders drawn tight, every line of his body brimming with unspoken emotion. The afternoon air feels heavier as I step outside, the faint hum of crickets and the rustling of leaves doing little to soften the electric charge that clings to the silence between us. Lucky’s strides are long and purposeful, each step eating up the distance across the open field that separates the brothers’ homes.
I fall in step behind him, my own steps faltering for a moment before I press on, unable to do anything but follow. The rapidly fading light spills across the land, casting silvery highlights against his figure, the broad set of his back a silhouette that draws me in. There’s a magnetic pull in his movements, something that makes my breath hitch, as though the air between us has shifted, drawing me inexorably toward him.
“What are we doing here?” I ask, my voice barely louder than the soft crunch of gravel beneath our feet as we approach his porch. He doesn’t answer. The creak of the wooden boards beneath our weight echoes in the silence.
He pushes open the door, a quiet invitation, and waits. The gesture feels heavy, deliberate. I step inside, the cool air carrying a faint scent of pine and something distinctly his. He closes the door with a soft click, sealing us into the quiet sanctuary of his home.
My gaze flits around the room we’ve entered—a foyer stripped of anything personal or welcoming. A solitary console table stands sentinel by the wall, its surface home to nothing but the clink of his keys as he tosses them down. The emptiness feels stark, almost too raw, but before I can linger on it, his fingers find mine.
He doesn’t speak as he leads me down a wide hallway, the soles of our shoes whispering against the hardwood floor. The walls seem to close in, bare and unadorned, amplifying the silence that stretches taut between us. When we finally stop, we’re standing in a living room. The space is as unadorned as the rest of the house, its sparseness punctuated by a single couch and a window framed by heavy curtains that swallow the last of the afternoon light.
Lucky’s hand slips away from mine, the loss of contact sudden and jarring. He spins to face me, his expression a storm of emotions he can’t seem to contain. The angles of his jaw are tight, his lips pressed into a line that trembles at the edges. The flickering light from a distant lamp catches in his eyes, highlighting the turmoil swirling within them.
“I respect my brother too much to do this under his roof,” he says at last, his voice rough, scraping against the oppressive silence of the too-quiet house. The weight of his words hits likea physical thing, and before I can respond, his hands are on my face, warm and steady, grounding me in the moment.
His thumbs trace gentle arcs against my skin, their touch igniting a fire that starts deep in my chest and spreads outward. He leans closer, his breath mingling with mine, the air between us charged and electric. Then, without warning, his lips crash against mine in a kiss that speaks of desperation, of longing held back for far too long.
The room fades, its starkness forgotten, as I lose myself in the intensity of him. Every hesitation, every unspoken word, dissolves in the way he holds me, his touch telling a story more vivid than any words could convey.