Page 77 of Lucky
“Ahandshake in our world is just another way to hide the blade you’re ready to plunge into someone’s back. Which is the reason I don’t shake hands with anyone.”
Salvatore Gatti
Dante’s certainty about Victor Moreno’s betrayal isn’t something he explains—it radiates from him, sharp and unrelenting, as Ryder flips through slide after damning slide. The grainy images of secret meetings tell the story better than words ever could each photo a dagger aimed at the Family’s trust.
Ryder’s presentation is swift and calculated; Dante doesn’t waste time. “Set a family meeting for tomorrow,” he declares, the finality in his tone sending ripples through the room.
I glance toward Jacklyn, who sits rigidly beside me, her arms crossed as her gaze locks onto the screen. The frown etched between her brows deepens with every passing second. Her brother Jack is safe—she made the call herself, her voice trembling only slightly as she asked after him. But the venom in her eyes now is for the man on the screen.
Her other brother.
She doesn’t know. And for now, she doesn’t need to. The truth is that Daniel Russo, her half-brother, tried to kill Jack and had her in his sights too. No good will come of telling her that her own brother wanted them dead. So, I keep it buried, weighing the cost of revelation against the fragile line she’s already walking.
Daniel remains a ghost, no trace of him despite the efforts of our best men. Among them is The Enforcer, whose skill is unmatched. But for now, even his focus has been pulled to the immediate storm brewing. Daniel Russo will have his reckoning, but only after the fires of this betrayal have been extinguished.
Dante moves quickly, as he always does when blood is in the water. He’s already on the phone, his orders precise and unwavering: every Gatti brother is to attend the meeting. The heads of the families are summoned. His lieutenants assemble without question.
By the time the families file into the hired theatre downtown, the tension is thick enough to choke on. Our estate—our sanctuary—is off-limits to something like this. This is not a gathering of allies; it’s a call to account, and Dante wants neutral ground.
The theatre’s amphitheater-style seating wraps in a crescent around the floor in front of a stage. Dante stands, his figure a dark silhouette against the dim light, ready to address the masses. The major heads take their seats at the front to his left, his lieutenants to his right. The smaller families, those who play quieter but essential roles in our world, fill the remaining chairs in front of him. Jacklyn sits among them, her head high and her expression unreadable. This is where Jack would have been if he were here. My gaze sweeps the room, looking for cracks—any flicker of recognition or guilt as she takes her place. Nothing. If anyone looks at her, it’s only with mild curiosity.
Outside, the best of our men secure the perimeter. Inside, armed shadows line the walls. No one breathes easy when Made Men gather like this; the stakes are too high, the risks too many.
Dante steps forward, his shoes striking the floor with sharp, deliberate clicks that echo through the silent hall. His movements are unhurried, but there’s a coiled energy in him, a storm barely restrained.
“I’ll cut to the chase,” he says, his voice carrying through the room like a whip. He removes his sidearm and places it on the table behind him with deliberate slowness, a subtle reminder of the power he wields.
“This city is rotting,” he begins, his tone low but laced with venom. “From the inside out.” His eyes sweep the crowd, lingering just long enough on each face to make everyone squirm.
He lays it out plainly: Jack Vicci’s shooting. The ambush on Jacklyn. The massacre that narrowly missed Brando’s wedding party. His words drip with fury, each sentence a hammer driving home his point.
“I don’t believe for one second that no one in this room knows who’s responsible. And let me be clear: whoever made these moves against my family—against us—will burn. I will watch them burn.”
The theatre trembles under the weight of his voice, and I can feel the ripple of unease rolling through the crowd. Dante isn’t just delivering a warning. He’s delivering a promise.
He paces, his steps measured, his expression unreadable save for the barely concealed rage simmering beneath. “This isn’t just about power or territory,” he continues, his voice rising like thunder. “This is about betrayal. And I will not tolerate betrayal.”
He pauses, letting his words sink in. The silence is deafening, the weight of his presence suffocating. Then, without another word, he turns and steps out of the room.
The tension he leaves behind is unbearable. No one dares to speak, each man too consumed with their own calculations, their own guilt or innocence.
When Dante returns, his movements are slow, deliberate, his gaze cutting through the room like a blade. He lets the silence stretch, his eyes burning into each and every one of us. Then he speaks again, his words drowning out the murmurs that threaten to rise above him.
“I’ve been good to this city,” he says, his voice quieter now but no less commanding. “But some of you have forgotten what that means. So, I’ll remind you. Changes are coming. And what I decide here today will be law.”
The murmurs are hushed amidst an otherwise silent theatre, but there’s no missing the shift in the room, especially at the table where the family heads sit. Dante moves closer to the table, until he is barely a few feet away, within easy reach of each leader. He looks each one in the eye, taking his time, making a show of it, before he reaches for his gun off the side table and holds it up, looking at the instrument lovingly, before he takes a step closer, cocking the hammer as he does so.
“Someone in this room betrayed me. Betrayed this family and everything it stands for.”
Fear, rampant and acrid, permeates the air.
“This is the first and only warning to anyone evenconsideringdisloyalty; if you cannot abide by my rules, then you’d better get the fuck out of my city.”
He points the gun at Scar, and my breath catches, although my brother sits with a confident, detached air about him.
Dante’s hand moves, until the gun faces Rudy Cavallo, whose ever-present smirk speaks volumes.
Maxim Donelli, who doesn’t bat an eyelid.