After nine hours in the car, two nights without sleep, and two weeks of functioning mainly on coffee, whiskey, and cigarettes, I’m on my last legs, but I’d run a thousand miles from Chicago to Dallas if Layla waited at the end of the road.
Rookie’s still at the wheel, raring to go and refusing to let me drive. My phone rings every so often all through the night. Blake’s son, Johnny, called twice, reporting a dead body. Ten hours passed since Layla’s admission to the hospital, and already two hitmen had tried their luck in getting to her before me.
I glance at the dashboard, clenching my fists. The fuel gauge slipped into the reserve, and the hospital is still over fifty miles away. I take my cell phone out to call Nate, who sits behind the wheel of the second Charger. “Pull over at the next gas station.”
“Yeah, okay. We’re almost dry too.”
He managed to overtake us a few miles back when Rookie’s girl called, distracting his focus off the road for a few seconds. Nate made it a point of honor not to let Rookie back in the lead. It’s their way of staying entertained and alert, so Rookie let him have a moment of fun. Ten minutes later, we stop at the station, and Rookie jumps out of the car in sync with me to stretch his legs.
“You want anything?” I motion to the shop.
“Chewing gum and water.” He inserts the nozzle into the fuel tank. “Argh, shit, get me a coffee. Large. And sugar. Lots of white sugar.”
Jane forced him on a fancy cleansing diet, and he’s been torturing himself with homemade salads and lemon-infused water for a whole week now. Cai pulls up behind us and kills the engine when the passenger side door opens.
“I love this car, but next time I’m taking my Range Rover,” Jackson groans, stretching out like a cat. “I didn’t realize how uncomfortable these are for longer journeys.”
Cai rolls his eyes, glancing at me. “He’s been whining like this since Arkansas. Can he ride with you now? I can’t promise I won’t kill him before we get there.”
Jackson is ruthless, sometimes even sadistic, but he’s comically delicate too. He could break half the bones in a man’s body with his fist, then walk around with a cold compress for three days, complaining that his hand hurts.
We’re back on the road moments later. As anticipated, the last thirty miles stretch like bubble gum. The closer we get, the more anxious I become, fidgeting in my seat, unsure what the fuck will happen when I see Layla again. I call Johnny ahead of time so he can meet us outside.
He waits by the main entrance to the hospital, a carbon copy of his father, just thinner. “You made a fair amount of time up on the way.” He shakes my hand when I approach with Spades and Nate on my sides, two steps behind. “This is Mark. I thought you ought to know how Layla is.”
Mark moves the weight of his body from one foot to another, staring me in the eye. He’s older than I expected, probably in his fifties. Deep wrinkles surround his eyes as if he smiled too much in his life. “She’s good. Awake, alert.”
“She’s a feisty one,” Johnny adds. “She knocked Mark over his head with a tray last night when he tried to stop her from seeing her cousin.”
I can’t help but smile when my entourage barks out a laugh. “Yeah, nothing new there. She is a handful.” Good job I’ve got two hands. “I assume her cousin was in the car too. Where is she now?”
“Yes. Jean and two guys. They’re waiting for you in the cafeteria. Bugged me all night to let them see Layla, but it’s your call.”
“Maybe later. Layla first, lead the way.”
We walk through the sterile corridors, passing hospital staff on the way to Layla’s room, my body like a time bomb. I’m heavy, anxious, and overwhelmed at the same time. Something inside me pulls taut like a bowstring until I almost can’t breathe around the sudden onset of dread knotting in my stomach when we enter the last corridor. Armed men stand in strategic places by the door, the windows, and the emergency exit.
With every measured, calculated step that brings me closer to Layla, another contradicting emotion resurfaces. Fourteen long, torturous days have passed, each full of attempts to forget, hate, and kickstart my life without her by my side. Who the fuck was I kidding? The day I realized she meant more than anyone else, I crossed a line. A line I’ve been so perfectly fucking balanced on, it felt like a paradigm shift when I put one foot out. Now, there’s no turning back.
The imposing smell of gauze and antiseptic spikes the back of my nose when I grab the door handle and push down, bracing for a harrowing sight. Bruises, cuts, tears.
But the bed is empty, and the heart monitor is flatlining. The sound steals the oxygen out of my lungs. My chest pinches tightly for a split second before adding two and two together. Of course, it’s fucking flatlining. It’s not connected to Layla. Not reading the rhythm of her heartbeats.
The IV stand is by the bed, the bags empty, and a cannula lays on the sheets stained with a few drops of blood. An open travel bag is tucked under a chair by the wall, and a takeout cup of coffee stands on the nightstand. It must’ve been the first thing Layla asked Mark to fetch this morning because there’s no way this girl can start the day without a dose of caffeine, or she unleashes fire and brimstone.
I’m about to turn around to ask Johnny where the fuck she is when the door on my right, partially hidden behind a room divider, swings open. Layla emerges from what must be an ensuite bathroom, stopping in her tracks. Still, so, so still. Frozen in place like a statue. An unbearable ache swells in my heart. God, she’s so fucking beautiful that looking at her feels like a punch to my gut. Wet hair sticks to her neck and shoulders, falling further down her back where it wets the white fabric of the V-neck t-shirt she wears. A single, silent tear rolls down her cheek. She swats it away, doing her utmost to stop the rest as she squirms under my gaze, trembling like a baby deer. She’s thinner than I remember. Cuts and bruises mark every inch of uncovered skin.
Tension leaves my muscles for the first time since Spades told me Delta’s on fire. I twitch to cross the room and touch her, but with the first step forward I take, she jerks back, eyes wide, cheeks scarlet.
“Don’t. Move,” I say, wearing my heart on my fucking sleeve as I pin Layla down with a pointed stare, willing her to stay in place.
There’s nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. Even if she locks herself in the bathroom, I’ll knock the door down two seconds later. I catch her hand and pull her frail frame close. Chest to chest. My heart rate soars, pulse throbs in my throat as I wrap one arm around her back. The world stops fucking spinning. Nothing but her matters when my fingers disappear in her long, damp hair and I cover her lips with mine.
A sort of terrified ecstasy, of being suspended, poised on the edge of a knife, jolts through me, intense and so deliciously sharp it’s almost painful. She parts her lips, making a soft whimpering noise that strips me of my inhibitions.
Just like the first time I kissed her, I sink into the silk of her mouth, devouring her sweetness, hungry for the calmness she evokes, for the feeling of being at home.
Her fingers grasp onto a thick tangle of my hair, and everything stills, blurs, fucking implodes. She chokes back tears, trying not to show weakness, but she can’t fool me. Not in the slightest. I feel her emotions as if they’re my own when her tongue sweeps and tangles with mine, our lips working in a desperate, breathless sync. She instinctively lets go of fear because she knows I’ll take care of it. She knows she’s safe with me. The one thing she clings to is guilt. Every touch of her fingers on my skin, every look, every kiss is designed to prove how much she loves me, so I won’t dare to doubt.
I don’t.
I didn’t.
Not for a moment.
“Don’t ever leave me again,” I whisper, resting my forehead on hers, eyes closed. “Never leave me, baby.”
“I promise.” She steals another kiss.
Her heart pounds against her ribs, my mind nothing but a slave to the erotic anticipation. The kiss turns greedy, urgent. Forceful. Layla knots her hands on my neck as we fight to say with the kiss what neither of us could explain with words. I don’t think there are words in the English language capable of describing the unruliness of my mind.
I grip her waist, standing on the edge, desperate to tear her clothes off and show her who she fucking belongs to. I see it in my head: my hands under her butt, lifting her into my arms, slamming her petite body against the door, so I can impale her on my cock. I see myself driving into her, burying myself up to the hilt. I can almost feel her vibrating, clawing at my back, nipping at my neck as she comes, moaning, crying out my name.
But we’re not alone… we’re surrounded by too many people. We’re out in the open, not safe from an attack. The hunger burning inside my every cell needs to be tamed.
I break away to cup her face, brushing her tears away. “Never leave me.” Her absence is the one thing I can’t handle. The hell I refuse to endure ever again.
“I promise… and I’m sorry.” She bites her lip. Big, bright eyes stare straight into mine.
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.” She tries to take a step back, but I hold her tight, not ready to let go. Daunting atmosphere brews in the room as her eyes drop to stare at the floor. “I’m not apologizing for following Frank’s orders, and I won’t.” She peers back at me with fresh tears dancing in her eyes. “I don’t regret what I did.”
“Then what are you apologizing for?” Now I’m the one to step back, my shoulders bunching, tensing, fucking painful again. She’s not making much sense, but I’m no closer to hating her than I was a minute ago.
She clings to me. Grabs handfuls of my shirt. Her eyes flicker with panic as if she thinks I’ll disappear if she stops touching me. “I’m sorry I doubted you loved me enough to forgive me.” She cups my face with trembling fingers, rising on her toes a little to level with me, which isn’t happening at her miniature height. “I love you,” she whispers, grazing the bridge of her nose along my jaw line. The alluring, sweet scent of her hits me just right. “I hate what I’ve done, but I don’t regret helping Frank. Otherwise, I’d regret meeting you, loving yo—”
I don’t let her finish. I catch her lips in mine again, drinking the confession straight from her mouth so she won’t take it back. The remnants of contradicting emotions fade away, leaving no trace or proof that I ever wondered if she’s worth fighting for. She is. Christ, the gnawing desire to keep her safe, happy, and at ease, comes back in full force, packing a punch straight in my throat.
And she still has the ability to turn the ruthless, filthy, soulless asshole I am into a plush toy. No wonder I fell for her so hard, so fast. Instead of wishing to turn back time, refuse to help Frank, and ensure a death sentence wouldn’t hang over her head, she’s confident I’m worth all Frank threw at her.
“I’m taking you home, Star.” I stamp a kiss on her head. “But first, I want to have a word with your cousin and her friends about what happened last night.”
She nods, pushing a heavy sigh past her mouth. “Morte was here last night. He told me about the hit. Some family I have.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
He’s the last person I would’ve considered as the promotor. The last person who should’ve agreed to actively participate in this charade. He’s Layla’s godfather. Frankie’s brother by choice. My fucking brother by choice too. I hadn’t once considered him to be the promoter. He never had much of a moral compass, but accepting this role should’ve been out of the question if only because he held Layla five minutes after she was born. He watched her being born.
Frankie didn’t make it to the hospital on time, even though he had plenty of time. From the stories he told me, Layla was in no rush to get out into the world. Labor took nineteen hours. Morte was there the whole time, Godfather of the year.
“What’s the plan?” Layla tucks her head under my chin, cheek plastered to my chest. “You can’t possibly think you’ll kill everyone who tries their luck.”
Watch me.
I tighten my hold around her frame. “I’m here now, baby. This is when you stop worrying. I’ll take care of it. No one will touch you.” I’ll crawl out of my skin to make sure she’s safe. I’ll sell my soul to the devil himself.
The intensity of my feelings is as crushing as the magnitude of power she holds over me. This isn’t fucking normal, surely…
She inches away, a weak smile tugging at the corners of her lips—swollen from my kisses. A glint of unease in her eyes is not what I hoped for. She must think her smile looks believable. It sure doesn’t. It doesn’t reach her eyes, so I know it’s forced. She doesn’t believe I’ll close the hit.
Too bad she has no idea what I’m capable of.
Twelve years. Twelve long years, I’ve been involved with Mafia. The list of my sins is ever-growing. I’m not a good or decent person by any definition of the word.
Since day one, I’ve had a substantial advantage over Dino’s people. They were all clever, crafty, and loyal. They followed orders. They respected the hierarchy. All as it should be, but one thing distinguished me from the rest, which allowed me to rise above my so-called colleagues. Something that made me invincible, unstoppable… I had nothing to lose. All Dino’s men were vulnerable to blackmail. They had girlfriends, wives, or kids that could’ve been used against them. They had to err on the side of caution at all times.
I had no one. The only person in my life I cared about to an extent was my mother, but I didn’t think highly of her back then. She wasn’t any better at being a mother than Jess was to Layla. Once my father died, Isla spiraled into grief and depression. She resented my existence because I reminded her of her late husband. She nosedived into work to keep sane, spending as much time away from home and me as possible. She left on tours for weeks on end, and whenever she returned to New York, she spent her time composing, shopping, or meeting her friends.
I had to grow up fast. Not an easy task when you’re a sixteen-year-old spoiled, entitled brat with an ego the size of Illinois. A stereotypical college douchebag—rich, football team captain, fucking around with the whole cheerleading squad. That’s until I left New York for Chicago to move in with my uncle, Carlton’s father. Ruled by hormones, desperate for an outlet for the pent-up rage, I became a lethal weapon in Dino’s hands; greedy, untouchable, careless.
Until Layla.
I was in trouble the moment I saw her. I knew then that I’d happily let her wrap me around her finger. Something I mocked for years hit me harder than a freight train the second she opened her mouth. One sassy comment, one look at those big, gray irises, and feelings knocked my breath out of my chest. A whole magnitude of feelings. Three months down the line, Layla is it for me. The one person that anyone with half a working brain can blackmail me with. The one person for whom I’d give up everything. Back in my bachelor days, I pitied the fools who fell in love, making themselves vulnerable… turns out I was the fool. The kind of vulnerability that comes with love isn’t a flaw. Taking caution with my actions is a strength, not a weakness. I’m wiser now that I have something to lose.
A faint knock on the door makes Layla jump. She wriggles out of my arms, keeping close enough to hold onto the hem of my jacket as if she’s afraid that severing the connection between us means I’ll apparate out of here like a Death Eater.
“Come in.” She drapes her damp hair over one shoulder as a pink glow heats her otherwise pale cheeks.
The door swings open inward slowly. Spades enters, stiff as a board when he stops two steps inside, eyes on Layla. He sizes her up with an unreadable, emotionless expression that has Layla squirming beside me. “Hey, girl.” His scowl morphs into a crooked smile. “Glad to see you’re okay.”
Two wrinkles sprout on her forehead as if she can’t understand why Spades isn’t mad. Where the hell is her confidence? Where is the biting tongue and her godawful attitude? I want it back. Right now.
“Remember what I told you when you ditched classes and I found you in the cafe?” he asks, giving her a second to recall the afternoon.
Shit… that’s my answer. The one I’ve been looking for lately. That very afternoon is when my protectiveness over Layla spiraled out of control. I waited for her outside the college building, leaning against the side of my car as I flicked through my phone to check recent emails. The crowd of students thinned within five minutes. Soon enough, the courtyard was empty. No Layla in sight. I called her once, twice, and a disgraceful number of times after that. No answer. Not a single idea where she could be or what could’ve happened.
Cue the dark scenarios: kidnapped, raped, dead.
My anxiety hit a crowning point, spiking my mind with rage, dread, and fear too intense to express. The tiny possibility of Layla being hurt set a match to my composure, and poof, it went up in fucking flames.
I remember dialing Spades’ number. The tension in my voice, back, and throat. A rope tightened itself around my chest. What a sad state of affairs. The inner turmoil was irrational. I never felt or acted so out of character before. I’d also never felt anything remotely close to what I feel for Layla. The sudden onset of jitters was both justified and infuriating. Absolutely crazy.
“It stands,” Spades continues, watching Layla with a small smirk. “Dante still has hay instead of brains when you’re not around, so be a doll and don’t leave his sorry ass again. Deal?”
As hard as it is to admit to my weaknesses, he’s right. I really can’t deal with reality when Layla isn’t mine. Fourteen days without her were a blur of pain, regret, and self-loathing.
This can’t be normal.
No way people experience this kind of emotional instability. I’m sure it’s just my twisted mind working this way, or else people would fall off the tallest buildings more often than they do now, driven mad by the intensity of their feelings.
Layla bobs her head once, relief flashing across her exhausted, beautiful face. “Deal.”
“Now.” Spades moves his attention to me. I think he’ll ask me to step outside for a second, but he changes his mind. “I sent Nate to find Layla’s cousin. She threatened to claw his eyes out if he won’t let her come over here and refused to talk to anyone who isn’t you.”
“Stay with Layla until I’m back. Get Mark to check her over again. Thoroughly.” I start in the direction of the door but don’t make it far. Layla holds onto my jacket, keeping me in place. I turn back to kiss her head. “Give me fifteen minutes, Star.”
Reluctantly, she opens her fingers, letting me leave. I’ll have to work on her insecurities, whatever they might be, because this version of Layla doesn’t fucking suit her.
Before I follow Nate to the cafeteria where Jean waits, I take the emergency exit, stepping out onto the staircase. Slim chance this will work, but it’s worth a shot. I pull out my phone, scrolling through the contact list to M so I can call the son of a bitch I considered a friend long ago.
For four years, Morte, Frank, and I were Dino’s main entourage. Morte was like Luca—a skilled, merciless killer. We took care of the dirty work together, although the list of my sins is substantially shorter than his. I witnessed him murder at least a hundred people. He was there the night Dino died, too, then went his own way. I had no idea he stayed in touch with Frank all those years.
“Dante Carrow,” he answers so fast I bet he was waiting for my call. “Took you a while to figure it out. Although I guess you didn’t really, did you? You arrived at the hospital half an hour ago, so I bet Layla told you I paid her a visit.”
Son-of-a-bitch. He’s around here somewhere, hidden in the shadows, watching me from a perfect vantage point. He’s probably on his stomach with a sniper rifle to keep him company. Even if I were to send my men out there, they wouldn’t find him. They’d end up dead before they could get near him.
The tone of his voice alone, cheerful and superior, is enough of a clue that this conversation won’t do me any fucking good. It’s pointless. He will not retract the hit.
I’m not surprised. I was perfectly aware of this before I dialed, but… “Ten million. Ten million wired straight to your offshore account inside of an hour if you end this farce.”
“Tempting,” he muses, purring down the line like an obese, lazy cat. “Ten million is a lot of money for one woman. You only met her because Frank wanted your head, heart, and that black soul of yours. What’s so extraordinary about the girl, Dante?” He pauses for a moment, though I doubt he expects me to actually answer the question. I’m not here for his entertainment. “You know you can’t bribe me, my friend. You know that a job is sacred. No one but the principal can retract a hit, but a drowning man clutches a straw, doesn’t he?”
“Frank is gone.” I tighten the hold around my cell. “Layla shouldn’t pay for his obsession.”
“Wrong. She’s not the one who has to pay. You are. She’ll just die while you’ll live knowing she died because of you.” He speaks slowly, no emotion or humanity to his voice or his fucked-up world ruled by a deranged moral hierarchy. “By the way, how could you be so stupid? You’re weak. You’re helpless because of Layla. You can be threatened, blackmailed because you’re in love. I thought I taught you better than this.”
My jaw locks painfully, but a cunning smile is there too, begging to be unleashed. Years ago, days after the love of his life, Sandra, left him without a word, Morte and I talked about sentiments, scruples, and love. None of those belong in our world. A woman always complicates business and brings confusion and chaos into a well-organized world.
I never realized the accuracy of that statement until Layla became my priority. Until she took the shine off what I once considered key: power, respect, and money. All became less relevant when she—without my consent—entered my heart to keep it under lock and key.
“You were an easy target for Frank because you fell for his daughter. You did exactly what he wanted. Exactly what he knew you’d do. You walked right into that one, my friend. Learn from your mistakes because it’s clear that you didn’t learn from mine.”
“Frank commissioned the kill order to get back at me. Why did you agree? What happened to never threaten a man’s family? She’s your goddaughter. You were there when she was born.”
“And now I’ll watch her die,” he clips with maniacal satisfaction. “It’s quite poetic, don’t you think? I watched her take her first breath, and I sure fucking hope I’ll watch her take the last. Don’t take my involvement in this personally. No hard feelings. This is business, Dante.”
He no longer sounds robotic. I could even risk and say he feels sorry for me. Back in the day, we were close-knit, brothers by choice, but in the face of the hit, the past doesn’t matter. He wouldn’t help me even if I were his biological brother. Even if I gave him all I have. There’s no turning back. There’s only a race.
Who’ll die first?
Morte or Layla?
I draw in a harsh breath. “I’ll see you very soon.”
“My death won’t change a thing.”
True, but I’ll kill him anyway, even if just for the sick satisfaction of making him pay for the one mistake he made in his life—threatening my girl. I cut the call, light a cigarette, and lean against the wall, staring at the opposite wall with a menacing scowl. I need a minute to gather my thoughts, clear my head, and refocus because all I want to do now is run out of the building to find the fucker lurking close by, untraceable. The moment doesn’t last long, ending when Nate shoves his head out the door.
“Jean, Tayler, Rick,” he says, pushing the door open further. “She’s a world-class bitch, Rick’s ex-marine, and Tayler’s afraid of his own shadow.”
I drop the cigarette on the tiled floor, butting it with the heel of my leather shoe. “Lead the way.”
Once in the cafeteria, I have no trouble spotting Jean. Long, messy hair, arms crossed over her chest, and an annoyed expression makes her stand out. She sits out of the way with two guys and three disposable cups on the table in front of them. Over the years, I came to realize my presence alone can straighten people’s backs. Literally. It works on Jean and Tayler, who pull themselves up in their seats, sitting taller, but Rick remains unaffected. Nate doesn’t need to tell me which one he is. I can spot a soldier in any room. They carry themselves with respect and a sense of higher purpose, a superiority of sorts. He must’ve seen his share of gruesome reality by now, so he’s not easily intimidated.
“Well, well, well. If it isn’t the infamous Dante. Am I right?” Jean waits for confirmation before unleashing her anger. “How thoughtful of you to finally join us. I’ve gone gray waiting. I want to see Layla, and don’t even try to bullshit me about safety measures. We had her back last night. You can’t forbid me from seeing her!” She blows an unruly lock of red hair from her face, chest heaving.
“Wasn’t my intention.” I sit on the last empty chair, sending Nate away to order coffee. “You can say goodbye in a minute, but first, I want to know what happened last night.”
“Goodbye?” Rick asks, hands crossed over his chest. He scrutinizes me, waiting for one false move the way he was taught in the army. I’m not sure what’s going on in his head, though. Does he really think he can take me down? Doubtful. “What do you mean by goodbye?”
“I’m taking her home.” I keep my tone casual not to enrage either of them any further. They have the information I need. Playing nice is in my best interest. “So? Fill me in.”
