Page 76 of Lucky

I glance up at him, heart racing. “He spoke to me in Ukrainian, but his accent... it’s unmistakably Russian.”

“What did he say?” Rafi asks, leaning in, curiosity flickering in his eyes.

I shake my head, the words dying in my throat. I can’t—won’t—repeat them. They were venomous, harsh, and filled with hatred. I’m the only woman here, and I won’t be the one to voice the words that linger like a dark cloud in the air.

“You speak Russian?” Lucky asks, his confusion evident as he looks at me. It reminds me how little we know each other. I shake my head again.

“My mother was Ukrainian,” I say, the words coming out flat. “She made sure we learned the language.”

“So, what’s the significance of a Russian speaking to you in your mother tongue?” The big man’s deep voice rumbles in the silence, his gaze unwavering. I feel my chest tighten further as fear coils in my gut.

I glance around the room, my eyes locking with each man’s gaze in turn, before they settle on the big man. The grip on my throat tightens, suffocating me as the truth begins to settle over me. My mind flashes to my brother, still in Ukraine.

“It can only mean one thing,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “They know where my brother Jack is.”

Dante rises from his seat, shaking his head as he approaches me. “No one stages an assault like the one today unless they’re aiming big,” he says, his tone dark and controlled. “The attack wasn’t for your benefit, Jacklyn.”

A shift ripples through the room, a collective understanding. Scar’s gaze shifts to Dante, concern flickering in his eyes. The hit wasn’t meant to target me—it was meant to cripple the most powerful families in the country.

“Your family…” Scar warns, the words trailing off, filled with unspoken fears.

Dante smiles grimly, a cold reassurance in his voice. “They’re safe. We account for every measure before we leave them.” He gestures toward the men who traveled with him, and Attila pulls out his phone, checking in to confirm that everything is secure back home.

Rafi glances around the room, his voice tinged with concern as he calculates the stakes. “So, who stands to benefit most from wiping out... one, two, three families?”

“Four families,” Caleph corrects him, his voice firm. “Don Marone was at that wedding. That makes four families wiped out in one blow.”

Rafi emits a low whistle as the sheer magnitude of the damage that could have been caused hits home.

Attila nods, joining the group. “Which means a free-for-all.” His gaze flickers toward the men around him. “Our queens are fine,” he says, his tone steady as he relays the information.

The Jekyll speaks up, his voice sharp as he moves toward a screen where Daniel Russo’s face is displayed in profile. “I can’t shake the feeling that this all ties back to Daniel Russo. Someone offered him a seat at the table for his help. But who?” He squints at the screen, his brow furrowed as he tries to piece the puzzle together.

“Occam’s Razor,” a voice interrupts, cold and steady.

The big manin black steps forward from his post by the door, his eyes scanning the room with detached interest.

“The simplest solution is usually the correct one,” Dante murmurs, glancing toward the man.

The big man steps closer, his hand lifting as he begins counting off the details.

“Whoever it is knows you have Jacklyn Vicci, because they’re in contact with Russo, who would’ve told them he’s lost the girl,” he begins, his voice steady, each fact falling from his lips like a well-rehearsed script. “They know you want her back and they know you’ll protect her.”

He raises another finger, his eyes calculating. “No one else can orchestrate such a large-scale attack. It has to be one or more of the five families. My guess? Only one, because if it were more, they wouldn’t have been able to keep a lid on it.”

Another finger rises. “Only three of the five families weren’t at that wedding—Cavallo, Moreno, Donelli.”

The fourth finger lifts. “Cavallo hates the Russians. Would never work with them. I can guarantee you that.”

The fifth finger rises, but Dante interrupts, his voice cold as ice.

“Moreno,” he hisses, fury flickering in his gaze.

As the weight of Dante’s words hangs in the air, a chill settles over the room, and for the first time, I wonder if we’re already too late to save what’s left of us.

39

LUCKY