CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER EIGHT

In a warehouse on the outskirts of Hong Kong, Lucky stood, fearless, unapologetic and ready for war.

She’d risen too fast. One of the first women invited to officially join, she’d turned them down. “You work for me,” she’d famously said. And she was right. Her shadow made her untouchable. She could say no. She could argue with the Father and the Uncles, as the various leaders of this secret society that ruled Hong Kong and much of mainland China were called.

She could do what she wanted. Ignore tradition and duty. Sit first, sip tea first, stand to leave first. Walk out the door when she wanted. No one, not even the most vicious, the most powerful, could even think of challenging her.

Yet some did.

Years ago an example was made. An example of what could happen if you dared strike Lucky or scream at Lucky or treat Lucky like any other worthless woman. An example that, in hindsight, terrified Lucky herself. One so ominous that it sent a chill down her spine that lingered for years.

Around a table at the back of a restaurant, they sat. Business had been discussed. Apologies for minor infractions offered and accepted. Money exchanged and blessings for good health and much continued success bestowed. The meeting was over and, eager for sleep, Lucky had stood to go.

First.

Not from Hong Kong, it’s possible the stranger didn’t know who she was. New to Mong Kok, it’s understandable he was more than likely unaware of what could and could not be done with Lucky. But, no doubt fortified by the kind of courage found at the bottom of an expensive bottle, he’d stood and screamed and lunged, grabbing her by the shoulder and forcing her to sit. To show respect.

Then he’d slapped her, once, across the face, and laughed.

The room had fallen silent.

It’s said he was lifted into the air, his arms held out, his legs forced apart, his head jerked back. It’s said he wept and begged and demanded to be let down, to be let go. He was a man, didn’t she see?

Though stories varied, it’s agreed that the stupid man who’d had too much to drink died the most horrible of deaths. An end so vicious and brutal, the restaurant could never be clean enough to be opened again. They say his skin was stripped by unseen hands and the muscle sliced to dangle like bloodied butterfly wings. Men who had slaughtered for decades stumbled for the doors before violently splashing the sidewalk with sick. Men who believed they’d seen it all found themselves weeping in shock, the brutality of this unforgettable night wounding their souls and chasing them into their dreams.

It was said there were those who were so scarred by the savagery of this night that they never slept again.

And all agreed that as her shadow slayed and flayed and butchered, Lucky stood calm and quiet as the blood rained down. And when it was done, when there was nothing left of the drunken fool but strands of ligament and fragments of bone, it is said she walked to the door without a word.

After that, she’d been obeyed. Allowed to do as she pleased when she pleased, she rose through the ranks, yet stayed separate, never answering to anyone but herself. A slip of paper with a name, perhaps a photograph, and the largest of sums deposited into a secret account by Father himself, for only he’d been given that information, and the problem would be dealt with. Always with a knife. Always in public. Always fast. So fast, it’s said throats had been slashed by an unseen hand while the victim was in mid-conversation, the wounded only knowing of their approaching death when the blood spilled down their chests.

Having lived a life without consequence, Lucky believed herself invincible.

As she stood in the warehouse facing Father, having not caught the scent of sacred incense in the air or seen the incantations on the floor beneath her feet, she’d yet to realize how very wrong she was.