Page 53 of Lucky

My stomach churns. If he’s deranged enough to believe the throne belongs to him, then he must be capable of anything. And that’s the terrifying part. He would stop at nothing.

“You think he could’ve been responsible for Jack Vicci’s shooting?” I ask, the words almost escaping me before I even realize I’m speaking. My voice is barely above a whisper, but I need the answer—I need to prepare myself for the worst.

Ryder doesn’t hesitate. “Oh, I know he was.” His tone is matter-of-fact, as though he’s known this all along and we’ve just been too blind to see it.

He clicks the screen again, and we’re all staring at footage now. It’s grainy, low-quality, the kind of thing you only get when someone’s camera phone catches a moment no one is supposed to see. But it’s clear enough.

Daniel Russo. Or Morrison. Whatever the hell he’s calling himself now. He’s standing in an alley with Jack Vicci, talking to him, walking beside him like any other man who belongs there. Jack enters a side door, but then Daniel waits, watches. And then, just like that, he opens fire as soon as Jack Vicci walks back out of the building.

It’s over in an instant. Jack’s body hits the ground, and Daniel wipes the gun clean, drops it beside the body, and casually disappears. It’s callous and calculated. No hesitation. No second thought. He just walks away as if he’s done nothing more than run an errand.

“Son of a bitch!” Scar mutters under his breath. His anger fills the room, suffocating everyone in its wake. I can feel the heat rising in my chest, but I don’t let it show. I don’t let myself crack.

Ryder clicks the screen off, his finger sliding across the mouse as he pulls up another file.

"CCTV in that alley was non-existent,” he says, his voice cold, “but I was lucky. Found a chef at the restaurant Jack Vicci frequented who mentioned his wife had placed a spy camera in the alley to spy on him. She’d put it there because she suspected he was cheating on her. When she saw the footage, she showed her husband. He didn’t hesitate to hand it over when I asked for it.

“So, Daniel Morrison, aka Russo, shot Jack Vicci,” Dante says, piecing it all together. “He didn’t expect him to live.”

“No,” Ryder agrees, voice almost a growl. “He didn’t. He probably expected Jacklyn Vicci to lose her mind, go on the run, disappear.”

“And he underestimated her,” The Jekyll adds, his voice smooth, but the edge of something darker runs through it. “Which is why he kidnapped her.”

My fear hangs in the air, unspoken, but we all know it now. We’ve all come to the same conclusion.

Daniel Russo has no intention of letting Jacklyn Vicci go.

I burn with fury.It’s a low, simmering fire at first, curling inside my chest, but soon it’s a full-blown inferno. Until now, I’ve kept it in check—controlled, distant, aloof, especially when it comes to Jacklyn. I’ve built walls around whatever it is that stirs when I think of her, kept my hands clean of any feelings that might trip me up.

But the thought of Daniel hurting her? The idea that he could snuff out the spark in her eyes, erase that fire—something snaps inside me.

My fists tighten, the nails biting into my palms until they sting. The air feels too thick, too close. Every breath tastes like ash. I want to scream, to tear something apart, to make him pay for even thinking of touching her.

I’m not ready for this. I’m not ready to lose her—not when we’ve barely even had a chance to find out what thiscouldbe, what it couldmean. I won’t give it up. Not when it hasn’t even started. Not when there’s so much left unsaid, so much still hanging between us, fragile as glass, but real.

And the thought of letting her go? It’s a weight I can’t bear.

“Well now you know who the fuck he is, give me a name. A number. Anything! Anyone we can use as leverage to get her back!” I scream at the screen, even as I turn and start arming myself.

“Lucky…”

Scar’s voice barely registers, like distant thunder muffled by the roar of my own thoughts. Normally, his words would settle over me, calm and steady, like a blanket on a cold night. But now, the fury inside me is so consuming, I can’t hear anything but the pounding of my own pulse in my ears. My eyes are locked on nothing, my fists clenched tight, every nerve on fire.

I’m not even aware of how much damage I’m doing to the room until it happens.

A heavy pair of arms wraps around me from behind, grounding me in a way nothing else can. My body stiffens at the unexpected contact, and for a moment, I thrash—fighting, too angry to recognize the comfort being offered. It’s only when the warmth of the embrace holds steady, when the pressure of those arms gently pulls me back to earth, that I finally stop, my breath coming in harsh bursts.

I realize, then, how out of control I’ve been. My gaze snaps to the room—papers scattered, a chair overturned—and the realization hits me like a punch to the gut. I’ve been tearing through the place without even realizing it, consumed by a rage that’s threatening to swallow me whole.

And yet, there’s something in the way those arms hold me, solid and unyielding, that makes me pause. It’s not a gesture of power, but one of care. One I didn’t know I needed until now.

“I’m going to put you down. Tell me you’ll behave.”

The Jekyll’s voice cuts through the chaos in my head, smooth and measured, though it feels like it’s coming from miles away. The words slip into the haze, their weight momentarily grounding me.

I don’t speak, but I nod once, my breath slow and deliberate as I try to regain control. The frenzy inside me is wild—sharp, jagged edges tearing at my thoughts. I can feel my pulse in my throat, the sting of adrenaline coursing through me like fire. But I lock my jaw, focusing on the rhythm of my breathing, forcing the storm back into its cage, one breath at a time.

The room is too close, too suffocating, and I need space. But even in the haze of rage and frustration, I can still feel it—the tension in the air, the sharp eyes of the men around me, watching, waiting.

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