LOTTERY OF VENGEANCE

Chapter Five – Into the Serpent’s Nest

The morning after the massacre, Westbridge buzzed like a hive kicked open. News anchors shouted about the bloodbath at The Gilded Serpent, splashing images of shattered glass and bloodstained carpets across every screen.

Police promised investigations, but everyone knew they were empty words. The Moretti name was too heavy for justice to touch. For Jackson Carter, now Mr. Black, the night had been a test. And he had passed.

Victor Moretti sat in a leather chair inside his private office, cigar smoke curling lazily above him. His lieutenants stood along the walls, battered and bruised but alive.

Carlo nursed a stitched gash across his temple, glaring daggers at Jackson every chance he got. Victor gestured with his cigar. “The rats thought they could bite the lion. Instead, they bled. And when the dust cleared, one man stood by my side.”

His sharp eyes locked onto Jackson. “This man.”

The room shifted, every gaze turning toward him. Jackson stood tall, expression neutral, the mask of calm hiding the storm in his chest.

Victor rose, clapping a heavy hand on Jackson’s shoulder. “From this day forward, Mr. Black is one of us. His money feeds our empire. His courage protects it. Anyone who questions that, questions me.”

Carlo’s jaw tightened. He muttered something under his breath, but Victor’s glare silenced him.

“Now,” Victor said, pacing the room, “we find out who sent those bastards. Nobody hits me without paying a river of blood in return.”

The lieutenants nodded, murmuring oaths of vengeance, Jackson said nothing. But inside, his mother’s dying voice whispered again: Do not spare anyone of them.

Later, as the others dispersed, Jackson lingered in the office, studying the bookshelves lined with rare cigars and framed photos.

One in particular caught his eye, a photograph of Victor shaking hands with a man Jackson recognized from old family albums. His father. Jackson’s pulse spiked. Victor noticed. “Ah. You admire my collection?”

Jackson forced a calm smile. “Impressive taste.”

Victor smirked. “Taste is what keeps men like us above the gutter. Never forget that.”

Jackson nodded, but inside, questions churned. Why did Victor have a photo with his father? What was the true connection?

That evening, a private dinner was held in Victor’s penthouse to celebrate survival. The city glittered below like spilled jewels. Crystal glasses clinked as laughter filled the room, but Jackson’s eyes drifted often to Elena.

She sat opposite him, draped in silk, her posture perfect, her smile practiced. But every so often, her gaze slipped, and she looked at him, not with gratitude, not with fear, but with suspicion.

During dessert, she leaned toward him slightly, her voice a soft whisper beneath the chatter. “You don’t belong here.”

Jackson froze, the fork halfway to his mouth. “Excuse me?”

Her eyes narrowed, sharp as glass. “Men who fight like you… they don’t just appear out of nowhere with fat wallets and smooth words. I saw what you did last night. That wasn’t luck. That wasn’t some rich coward defending himself. That was training.”

Jackson forced a smirk. “Maybe I’ve had more dangerous investments than stocks.”

Her gaze lingered, searching his face for cracks. “Maybe. Or maybe you’re hiding something.”

Victor’s booming laugh interrupted, drawing attention back to the head of the table. But Elena’s eyes never left Jackson, and he knew then, she was dangerous in her own way.

Hours later, when the guests had gone, Victor called Jackson to the balcony. The city spread out beneath them, glowing, restless.

“You proved yourself last night,” Victor said, sipping whiskey. “But one night doesn’t make a man loyal. You want to be part of my world? Then bleed for it.”

Jackson met his gaze steadily. “Tell me what you need.”

Victor smiled thinly. “Tomorrow, you ride with Carlo. There’s a shipment moving through the docks. Some rats have been skimming from my crates. You’re going to make an example. Show me you’re not just money with a gun.”

Carlo’s sneer returned. “Don’t worry, boss. If he’s a fake, I’ll bury him in the harbor myself.”

Jackson’s jaw clenched, but he nodded. “Then I suppose I’ll see you at the docks.”

Victor clapped his shoulder again, pleased. “Good man. Don’t disappoint me.”

When Jackson finally left the penthouse, the night air felt heavier than ever. He walked alone through the quiet streets, thoughts twisting like knives. He was inside now, closer than he had ever dreamed. But each step forward tightened the noose.

If Carlo suspected him, one wrong move would expose everything. If Elena kept staring through him, she might uncover the truth.

And if Victor ever connected the dots to Jackson Carter, the boy whose family he destroyed, then everything would collapse before it began. Yet as Jackson reached his car, something made him stop cold.

Pinned under his windshield wiper was an envelope. No name. No return address. Heart pounding, he tore it open. Inside was a single photograph. His mother, Bleeding, Dying. And on the back, scrawled in jagged ink: “We know who you are.”

Jackson receives a chilling message, someone has uncovered his true identity, threatening to expose his entire plan before it even begins.