Lucky Chance

**Lyra**

Enzo drags me down the endless stretch of the corridor, his large hand locked around mine in an iron grip. His knuckles brush against my hip with every long stride he takes. He keeps darting glances over his broad shoulder, his dark eyes snapping to my face every few seconds as if he expects me to vanish into thin air. Behind us, the synchronized thud of the two massive guards echoes against the walls. They stay exactly two paces back. Their heavy footsteps serve as a suffocating reminder of my captive status.

The hallway feels more like a museum exhibit than a residential home. Stately wooden doors break up the pristine white walls, each framed with intricate golden accents that catch the amber glow of the sconces lining the path. Gleaming black and white tiles stretch out beneath my feet, buffed to a mirror shine. My reflection stares back at me, a hostage trapped inside a gilded cage. Breathtaking mosaic artwork spans the wall space between the lights. The vivid colors and meticulous details demand attention, occupying my racing mind and making it difficult to track our exact route through the sprawling estate.

We weave through several more corridors, the layout dizzying and complex. Finally, the narrow hall opens up, spilling us out onto the landing of a grand, sweeping staircase. My breath hitches in my throat. The entry foyer below is monumental. It easily rivals the size of a luxury hotel lobby. High above, suspended from the vaulted ceiling, hangs a grandiose crystal chandelier. Three massive tiers of diamond-cut strings cascade downward like a glowing, frozen waterfall, casting shimmering prisms of light across the cavernous room.

This place is not a home. It is a fortress disguised as a palace. I have never been to Buckingham Palace, but I imagine the sheer scale of the royal residence feels somewhat like this. Just how deep do the pockets of these mafia monsters run?

Enzo pulls me forward. We begin our descent down the stark white marble staircase. An intricate, patterned railing runs along the edge, capped with a thick banister shimmering in pure gold. These men clearly have an obsession with wealth and dominance, painting their world in precious metals. A plush red carpet lines the center of the marble steps, adding a layer of brutal luxury that contrasts sharply against the cold, hard stone.

I risk a brief glance over my shoulder. The two brick-wall guards maintain their exact distance. Their flat, dead eyes remain fixed straight ahead. They refuse to look directly at me, yet their posture screams lethal readiness. Their massive fists remain clenched by their sides, muscles coiled tight. They look like attack dogs straining against an invisible leash, just itching for me to make one wrong move.

I snap my head forward as we near the bottom steps. My eyes lock onto the far end of the grandiose foyer. There it is. A set of massive, white wooden double doors. The front door. The exit.

A sharp, sudden yank on my arm snaps my attention away from the tantalizing exit. Enzo halts on the final step. He stares down at me, one dark eyebrow arched high on his forehead. He does not utter a single word, but the silent threat radiates from his rigid posture. He is daring me to try it. The message is clear. I swallow hard, forcing down the bitter bile rising in the back of my throat, and tear my gaze away from the front doors.

We pivot left, disappearing underneath the sweeping curve of the staircase. Another long corridor stretches ahead of us before finally terminating at a set of towering, double mahogany doors. Enzo pauses. He releases a subtle nod, allowing the two towering guards to step past us. They reach out and push the heavy mahogany doors wide open. Enzo tugs my hand, dragging me across the threshold.

A soft gasp escapes my lips. The dining room defies logic. The eccentric, lavish space could easily swallow an entire football field. A deep, blood-red carpet blankets the floor, muting our footsteps. The eggshell walls boast thick golden fixtures and heavy gold crown molding. Several more crystal and gold chandeliers hang from the sprawling ceiling, illuminating the space with a warm, oppressive glow.

Right in the dead center of the room sits a massive, heavily carved rectangular dining table. Thick, plush golden chairs surround it, each upholstered in a rich gold and red mosaic fabric. The table setting itself belongs in a royal banquet hall. Gorgeous white and gold porcelain china rests in front of every chair, flanked by gleaming gold silverware and fragile Waterford crystal glasses holding various rich liquids. Three pristine crystal vases run down the center of the table, overflowing with fully bloomed, fragrant white roses.

Eight imposing men occupy the space. Some converse in low, dangerous murmurs, while others sit in brooding silence. They all wear immaculate, expensive tailored suits that stretch over dangerous, muscular frames. Sitting at the far head of the long table is Dante. His chair is larger, wider, and far more lavish than the rest—a literal throne for a mafia king. He sits with his head bowed, his intense gaze focused on a stack of thick papers spread out before him. Further down the line, Ro taps away on his phone screen, lifting a delicate porcelain coffee cup to his lips. Gideon sits across from him, leaning over to exchange quiet words with a scarred man to his right.

Two chairs remain empty. One sits at the opposite head of the table, miles away from Dante. The other empty chair rests right between Ro and Gideon.

The moment my flats step onto the red carpet, the low hum of masculine chatter dies a sudden death. Silence suffocates the massive room as eight sets of predatory eyes snap in our direction. Dante looks up. He drops his papers to the table, a dark smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. He pushes his chair back, rises to his towering height, and strides toward us. Enzo and I stop halfway to the table.

Dante opens his arms. Without a second of warning, he closes the distance and engulfs me in a suffocating embrace. His strong, heavy arms wrap around my shoulders, pinning me against his rock-hard chest. I freeze, keeping my arms glued to my sides. I refuse to return the gesture. The intimacy is forced, awkward, and terrifying. Dante pays no mind to my rigid resistance. He dips his head, pressing his nose against my hair, and inhales deeply. He kisses the crown of my head, branding me in front of his audience.

"Good morning, little dove! I trust you slept well," he whispers low in my ear, his breath hot against my skin. He pulls back just enough to look down at me, his voice booming for the rest of the room to hear. "Come, darling. You must be starving!"

He grabs my hand, snatching me away from Enzo, and ushers me toward the dining table. He escorts me straight to the empty seat wedged between Gideon and Ro.

As we approach, Gideon and Ro immediately rise to their feet. The rest of the men follow suit, standing in unison like a well-trained military unit. Dante reaches out and pulls my heavy golden chair back, playing the part of a perfect gentleman. I sink into the plush red and gold fabric. The men retake their seats. I notice Enzo claiming the solitary chair at the far head of the table, while Dante returns to his throne.

"You look beautiful, sweet cheeks," Gideon whispers sweet praise near my ear.

Heat floods my face, rushing up the back of my neck and setting my ears on fire. I hate my body’s traitorous reaction to his gentle tone. I lower my gaze, forcing a shy smile, and murmur a quiet thank you. This domestic charade is unbearable.

A moment later, Dante raises his hand and snaps his fingers twice. A side door swings open. A small army of staff floods the room. Several men dressed in sharp black tuxedos and three older women wearing traditional black and white housekeeper uniforms wheel in multiple gold-embroidered trolleys. The air fills with the heavy scent of roasted meats, fresh pastries, and dark roasted coffee.

The servants move with rapid, silent precision. They circle the massive table, wielding silver trays and silver tongs. They load our porcelain plates with an endless variety of fresh fruits, thick-cut bacon, eggs, warm rolls, and sweet pastries. One of the tuxedo-clad men repours steaming coffee into the men's cups, then steps beside me, filling my crystal glass with chilled apple juice. I do not even like coffee, but the fact that they never bothered to ask my preference reminds me that my voice holds zero weight in this house.

I decide to keep my mouth shut and my head down. I focus intensely on the mountain of fresh fruit and crispy bacon piled on the gold-rimmed plate in front of me. The men resume their low, rumbling conversations. Snippets of brutal business dealings and territorial disputes drift over my head. I tune them out, zeroing in on the sound of my fork scraping porcelain. No one attempts to engage me in conversation anyway, which suits me perfectly.

Just as the plates begin to clear, a sharp, piercing sound shatters the low hum of the room. *Ping.*

A text notification sounds from down the table. The man who goes by Viper pulls his phone from his suit jacket. The room goes dead silent. The shift is instantaneous. The relaxed, domestic atmosphere evaporates, replaced by a suffocating, lethal tension. All eight men stare at Viper, their faces carved from stone.

Viper stares down at the illuminated screen. His sharp facial features twist. He types a rapid sequence of keystrokes, eyes scanning the new lines of text. A dark, ugly contortion of pure frustration and seething rage takes over his expression. He lifts his head and locks eyes with Dante.

Not a single word is spoken. The silence stretches, heavy and electric. It looks like a telepathic conversation passing between monsters. Within a split second, chaos erupts. Dante shoots up from his throne. Chairs scrape loudly against the thick red carpet as every single man surges to his feet. They abandon their coffee, abandon their business talk, and abandon the room. They scramble toward the dining room doors in a unified, aggressive pack, their heads locked together in hushed, angry whispers. Their faces hold a terrifying, bloodthirsty rage, looking ready to wage outright war on whoever dared interrupt their breakfast.

The heavy mahogany doors swing shut behind them.

I blink, staring at the empty chairs. I am sitting alone in the center of a room the size of a football field. I look toward the closed mahogany doors. Nothing. I look toward the side door where the servants vanished. Nothing. No guards standing in the corners. No staff clearing the plates.

What just happened?

The realization crashes into me like a freight train on a hot summer day. This is it. This is my window. The sudden mafia emergency distracted them so thoroughly that they forgot I existed. I have an opening.

I push my chair back, the plush fabric releasing me. I stand up, my heart hammering against my ribs. I creep across the massive red carpet, forcing my feet to remain light and silent. I reach the towering double mahogany doors. I press my palm against the wood, inching one door open just enough to peek through the crack.

I scan the corridor. Left. Right. Empty. Not a single bodyguard. Not a single maid. I slip through the crack, easing the heavy door shut behind me without a sound.

I hustle down the hallway, darting my eyes into every shadow, expecting a massive guard to step out and grab me. Thank God Enzo put me in simple white flats instead of loud, clacking heels. I retrace our earlier path, navigating the labyrinth of golden-accented walls until I finally breach the main entrance.

I step out into the sprawling, magnificent entry foyer. The giant crystal chandelier hangs above, casting its blinding light over the black and white tiles. I press my back against the wall, holding my breath, waiting for an alarm to blare or a shout to echo. Still nothing. The silence is deafening.

Across the vast, empty expanse of the marble floor, the beautiful, giant white front doors beckon me. Tall, floor-to-ceiling windows flank the heavy wood, showcasing a view that makes my mouth water. The bright, warm sun beats down on a sprawling exterior garden. Through the glass, I can even make out the sleek, black fender of a parked luxury car. Freedom is right there. It is mere feet away.

I abandon the wall and walk straight for the door. My trembling fingers reach out and find the heavy brass hardware. Three heavy-duty deadbolts line the edge.

I grip the first heavy lock. I twist it. *Click.*

I move to the middle lock, my hands slick with cold sweat. I twist it. *Click.*

I reach the final deadbolt near the bottom. I turn it. *Click.*

I take a deep, jagged breath, wrapping my fingers around the cold brass doorknob. I turn the metal sphere, holding my breath, praying a silent alarm doesn't trigger. I pull the heavy handle toward my chest. The door gives way.

A crack of brilliant sunlight slices through the opening, cutting across the foyer tiles. A rush of fresh, untainted outside air hits my face, shocking my senses. I pull the door wider. Excitement explodes in my chest, and raw adrenaline begins pumping fiercely through my veins, screaming at my legs to run.

"What do you think you are doing, little dove?"

The deep, booming voice echoes off the marble walls, shattering the silence and freezing the blood in my veins.

I freeze mid-motion. My hand cramps around the brass handle. My racing heart shifts into a frantic, terrifying overdrive, threatening to crack my ribs. I swallow the lump of terror in my throat and slowly pivot on my heels.

He stands dead in the center of the massive room, his hands tucked casually into his tailored suit pockets. Ro. A dark, devilish smile stretches across his handsome, sadistic face. He looks unfazed, watching me like a predator observing a mouse caught in a glue trap.

A sudden, irrational spark of defiance flares in my chest, cutting through the terror.

"Isn't it obvious?" I snap back, my voice dripping with reckless sass. "I'm getting some fresh air. I'll see you on the corner of See You and Never!"

The amusement vanishes from Ro's face, replaced by a dark, lethal promise. He pulls his hands from his pockets, his broad shoulders tensing.

"Don't you dare, Lyra!" Ro barks, his deep voice carrying a terrifying warning. "You won't make it past the gardens, and you won't like it when I catch you!"

The sheer threat in his tone almost glues my feet to the floor. But the open door is right behind me. The warm sun is touching my skin. Before common sense can kick in and force me to chicken out, I spin around. I throw the heavy white door wide open and launch myself forward. I sprint out onto the massive, sun-covered front lawn, my flats pounding against the concrete steps.

Behind me, a deep, evil laugh erupts from the open doorway.

"Run Baby, Run! Daddy is coming for you!"