Page 75 of Lucky
Our world is harsher than most, unforgiving in ways few can understand. It’s brutal, relentless. You don’t survive in it unless you’re willing to break bones, spill blood, and sacrifice the last remnants of your humanity. I know this as well as anyone, having been born into it. But even with all that, there are still things I've been sheltered from. Despite the events that have clung to me like a bad smell for the past month, despite the steadiness of my hands when I pulled the trigger on my own men, there’s one thing this life doesn’t prepare you for: pure, unadulterated fear. The kind that grips me now as we step into the boiler room, deep in the hotel’s underbelly. The heat slams into me like a fist. The hiss of steam bounces off the walls, curling around us as we move through the maze of rusted pipes and flickering lights. Each breath I take is thick with the metallic sting of oil and the damp bite of iron.
The day’s events swirl in my head, a dizzying blur—first, the wedding, a white gown and whispered vows; then, the ambush, chaos erupting without warning, shouts and gunfire ringing in my ears; and finally, the declaration of peace in Lucky’s arms, as though all the bloodshed could simply be undone in a singlebreath. The pieces don’t fit, but somehow, they do. And they fit in a way that’s surreal at best.
We reach a room at the far end of the boiler room, the heat pervasive as we move into the airless vacuum where a man sits tied to a chair.
His head hangs low, blood dripping steadily from a gash above his brow. His shirt is a ragged mess, soaked through with crimson, and his breathing comes in shallow, labored rasps. I take a step closer, the soles of the boots I’ve borrowed from Mia scuffing against the cold concrete floor. The air reeks of sweat and iron, a nauseating cocktail that clings to the back of my throat.
The man, beaten nearly to death, was caught during the gunfight. Now he sits tied to a chair, ropes biting into his wrists and ankles, every one of his cells screaming in defiance at his capture. The man in black looms over him, stepping behind the chair with a silent authority. His presence fills the room, heavy and suffocating, matching the oppressive flicker of the dim light above.
They’ve brought me here to try to identify him after his silence clung to him like a second skin. Everyone else was dead or unreachable, and this is the best chance they have of identifying who was responsible for today’s hit. I advance carefully, each step deliberate as I study him. His face is a grotesque mask of swelling and bruises, rendering him unrecognizable.
“I don’t know who this is,” I mutter under my breath, my voice low but steady. The words hang in the air, unanswered, as I crouch in front of him. I remove the scarf that’s wound around my neck, the fabric soft against my fingers. The man’s shoulders stiffen, his body instinctively recoiling before he forces himself still.
I press the cloth to his face, wiping gently but firmly, each swipe revealing more of the stranger beneath. The flesh beneath the blood is pallid, bruised, yet something about his features tugs at the edges of my memory. I tilt his head up, forcing him to meet my gaze. His eyes are small, dark, and sharp—like shards of broken glass reflecting malicious intent. They hold no fear, only cold calculation.
“Anything?” Lucky’s voice cuts through the tense silence. He steps into the faint light, his expression as unreadable as ever.
I shake my head slowly, my frown deepening. The man’s face, despite its battered state, doesn’t match anyone I’ve employed. He’s not one of mine. And yet... something lingers. A ghost of recognition, just out of reach.
“He’s not one of mine,” I say firmly, breaking the stare first. The man’s lips curl ever so slightly, a ghost of a smirk that vanishes as quickly as it appeared. He’s testing me, pushing boundaries even from his vulnerable position.
“Make sure,” Lucky says, his tone carrying a weight that’s impossible to ignore.
I grit my teeth, the command settling uncomfortably in my chest. I can’t force something that’s not there, but I take a moment to study the man again, searching for something—anything—that might betray his identity. His eyes remain locked on mine, unflinching and unyielding. They’re the eyes of a predator, and certainly not someone under my employ.
“I’m sure,” I say, my voice edged with finality. Yet doubt needles at the back of my mind, an unwelcome intruder I can’t shake. Who is this man, and why does he feel so familiar?
The man leans back as much as his restraints allow, his silence louder than any protest, his presence unnerving.
For now, he remains a stranger—an enigma shrouded in secrets, until his chest rises sharply, and his cheeks puff out as he draws in a deep breath. Then, with deliberate disdain, hepulls back and launches a thick glob of spit that splatters onto the ground near my feet.
“Zradnyts'ka poviya,” he hisses, hurling the obscenity at me. I bristle. The venom in his tone clings to the words, wrapping them in a malice that feels personal.
My skin prickles as if the insult has physically struck me. I steady myself, but my balance wavers, not from the slur itself but from the weight of the language he uses. It is not just any curse—it is the language of my brother’s world, the mother tongue of the land in which he now resides. The sound of it stirs something deep and unbidden in me, a mixture of unease and painful recognition.
The words hang in the air, oppressive and heavy, as though daring me to react. I suppress the instinct to lash out, forcing my breathing to steady. Instead, I lock my gaze onto his, searching his eyes for some clue, some reason why he’d wield this weapon of words so precisely. They’re empty of remorse, filled only with cold satisfaction. This is a man who knows exactly what he’s doing, even now, tied and bleeding in a chair.
“What was that?” Rafi’s voice breaks the tension, his question sharp as he steps forward. His eyes dart between me and the man in the chair, searching for context. The room’s focus sharpens, every set of eyes fixed on me. They’re waiting for my reaction, gauging my response to the insult that’s unsettled the air.
Only one man seems untouched by the ripple of confusion: the giant in black standing behind the prisoner. His gaze doesn’t shift; it bores into me with an intensity that makes my skin crawl. I see it then—that spark of recognition. He knows what the words mean. He speaks the language.
Traitorous whore.
The translation lingers in my mind, heavy and accusatory, its weight far more significant than its brevity. I clench my fists, thetension radiating through my body, but I keep my composure. There’s more here than an insult. There’s intent, and I’m not about to let him see just how much he’s affected me.
My chest is tight,every breath shallow and quick, as if my body’s forgotten how to breathe properly. My heart beats so fast it feels like it might explode. An invisible grip tightens around my throat, the pressure threatening to choke me, cutting off my air. I struggle to swallow, fighting the rising panic.
Lucky’s voice slices through the suffocating silence as we step out of the room, its sharp edge wrapping around me like an accusation. “Care to explain what that was?”
I turn toward him, my breath hitching in my throat. The fire in his eyes mirrors the heat that’s building in my chest, my pulse pounding in my ears. I open my mouth to respond, but the words die on my tongue, caught in the swirl of emotions battering against me. How do you explain the weight of a phrase that’s more than just an insult? It’s a calculated strike, designed to destabilize me, to tear away whatever sense of control I have left. That man knew who I was.
“Nothing,” I finally say, my voice sharper than I intend. The words feel like a half-truth, but it’s all I can manage. Lucky raises an eyebrow, his gaze sharpening, but he doesn’t press—not yet. I’m grateful for the brief reprieve as I hurry through the boiler room, the heat suffocating me, my breaths still coming in ragged bursts.
“Well?” Scar’s voice pulls me back to the moment as we re-enter the basement. Rafi and Lucky follow closely behind, the big man in black trailing last, his imposing figure looming bythe door. His arms are folded, his eyes fixed on me with a quiet, unsettling expectation.
“Russian,” I gasp, sucking in another desperate breath of air. “He’s Russian.”
Caleph lifts his head, his interest piqued. He steps around the table, his gaze locking with mine. “And how do you know that?”