Page 74 of Lucky

Her hand pauses mid-circle. She lifts her head, her dark eyes locking onto mine, filled with questions she isn’t sure she wants answers to. “Is that what this is?” she asks, her voice quieter but no less intense. “A goodbye?”

I shake my head quickly, leaning forward to cup her cheek. “What? No.”

She studies me for a long moment, her gaze probing, searching. “A few days,” she repeats, her tone measured, careful. “Sounds ominous.”

I run my thumb along her cheekbone, the gesture more for my own reassurance than hers. “It’s not,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “It’s just… necessary.”

Her lips press together, and for a moment, I think she might argue. But then she leans into my touch, her tension easing slightly. “Just come back,” she says, her voice carrying a quiet strength that wraps around my heart like a vice.

I lean forward, pressing my forehead to hers. “Always,” I promise. The word is simple, but it carries every ounce of resolve I have. It’s not enough to banish the worry in her eyes, but it is all I have to give her in this moment. For now, it would have to be enough.

The airin the hotel’s basement feels heavier than usual, charged with an unspoken tension that only deepens as Jacklyn and I step inside. My hand is wrapped firmly around hers, and though I should probably let go, I can’t bring myself to do it. The weight of her palm in mine is grounding, a tether to something solid in the midst of all this chaos. The others notice—of course, they notice. Their eyes drop to where our hands are joined, their expressions ranging from subtle smirks to mild surprise. But it’s not the fact that we’re holding hands that seems to catch them off guard; it’s my unwillingness to let go.

“About fucking time you got your head out of your ass,” Rafi mutters, his gaze sweeping over us with a lazy indifference that’s almost convincing.

“Language around the ladies,” I shoot back, my tone sharper than usual. Jacklyn’s grip tightens briefly, a silent reassurance that she’s unbothered by Rafi’s words. Still, her presence at my side feels like armor I didn’t realize I needed.

After the attack at the chapel, the plan was simple: split up and regroup. The brothers would escort the women home, while Seattle stayed behind to handle cleanup with a few trusted associates. We’d meet at the hotel once the mess was contained. That was the plan, anyway. But plans rarely survive first contact with reality, and by the time Scar called, summoning us to thebasement, the weight in his voice told me everything I needed to know. This wasn’t just a cleanup job—it was something bigger.

The basement is more than a basement. Years ago, we transformed it into a command center, a private sanctuary hidden beneath the hotel’s polished facade. Monitors line the walls, their screens lit with live feeds, maps, and scrolling intel. The room buzzes with quiet intensity, voices overlapping in a tense symphony of strategy and urgency. Every move here is deliberate, every glance loaded with unspoken meaning.

Scar stands at the head of the room, his posture rigid, his expression unreadable. His sharp eyes flick to where Jacklyn and I are still holding hands, lingering just long enough to make his point before he nods in acknowledgment. Jacklyn releases my hand as she slides into the chair beside me, her movements fluid, confident. She’s as steady as ever, her gaze sweeping across the room with a calm detachment that belies the chaos we’d left behind only hours ago.

For a moment, my thoughts drift back to those hours—the quiet intensity of being alone with her, the world outside reduced to a distant hum. The press of her body against mine, the way her voice softened when she said my name. But that moment is gone, replaced by the gravity of what’s unfolding here.

Everyone is in attendance. My brothers. Seattle. The Enforcer is a surprise, as he stands quietly by watching the room with an expression devoid of any emotion. I’m surprised also to see Jayson Caluna here-he may be one of our most trusted soldiers, but these meetings are generally reserved only for the inner circle.

I watch Scar move through the room like the space itself knows who’s in charge. It’s not about the way he dresses, or the weight of the weapon tucked under his jacket, or even the money he’s made. It’s about the quiet power he exudes. The way peoplestep aside without being told, the way the room falls silent when he enters, as if the very air holds its breath in anticipation.

He’s not like the others—he doesn’t need to prove anything. His reputation precedes him. There’s no hesitation in his steps, no second-guessing. Scar has made his choices, and he’s owned every one of them. Even the ones that might’ve broken another man.

When he speaks, everyone listens. When he commands, they move. It’s not just about the fear that laces his words; it’s about the certainty behind them. Scar doesn’t just lead with violence or manipulation—he leads with a kind of unshakable resolve that draws people to him. The kind of resolve that makes them want to follow him, not because they have to, but because they believe in him.

Dante leans back, his posture deceptively casual as he sits apart from the table, one knee draped over the other. His fingers tap lightly against the armrest of his chair, but his gaze is fixed on Scar with laser-sharp intensity. Every flicker of Scar's expression, every word that passes his lips, is scrutinized as though Dante is unraveling a puzzle hidden in plain sight.

Scar moves to the head of the table, his presence commanding. His hands grip the edges of the polished surface as he leans forward, his gaze sweeping across the room like a judge weighing each person’s worth. His voice, when it comes, is low but razor-sharp as it cuts through the silence.

“Today’s attack wasn’t just business.” He pauses, letting the words sink in, each syllable deliberate, weighted. “This was personal. And I don’t tolerate personal attacks against my family.”

His declaration echoes in the room, a ripple of raw anger that makes the tension even thicker. Scar lets the moment hang, his eyes moving slowly from face to face.

“The reason you’re all here,” Scar continues, his voice steady but intense, “is because every single one of you brings something to the table. Skills. Knowledge. Strength. Resources. We need all of it—and we need it now.”

He straightens, stepping back from the table and folding his arms over his chest. “Whoever’s behind this attack won’t stop here. They’ll try again. And next time, they’ll come for more than just blood.”

Dante’s lips twitch in the faintest semblance of a smile, though there’s no humor in it. It’s a silent acknowledgment of the truth in Scar’s words. He watches as Scar pivots his focus to Jacklyn, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“This isn’t just about protecting what’s ours,” Scar says, his tone softening just a fraction. “It’s about sending a message. A decisive one. They think they can test us, but they don’t realize we’ve been ready for this. The question is—are you?”

Jacklyn tilts her head slightly, her eyes meeting Scar’s with a steady, almost defiant gaze.

The Enforcer shifts in his chair, the movement barely perceptible but enough to draw attention to his massive presence.

Scar’s gaze lingers for a beat longer before sweeping over the rest of the room. “This isn’t just another job. This is war. And I need every one of you to be prepared.”

38

JACKLYN