Grace lost her job the next morning. The minute I woke up from a dreamless sleep, her stunt replayed in my head. I jumped out of bed with a skull-piercing headache that threatened to bring me to my knees. As expected, I found Grace in the kitchen, preparing breakfast. Thirty seconds later, silent tears streamed down her young face.
I gave her all she could ask for: work with great pay, a rent-free, all-expenses-paid apartment, and kindergarten for Dalton. Today, I took it away.
She should’ve thought twice before trying to fuck with me. Pun intended. Had she not heard that you don’t bite the hand that feeds you?
By the time I finish with Grace, locate a stash of painkillers, and freshen up, it’s already past noon. With a cup of black coffee, I sit in the living room, ready for whatever this day brings. I grab my phone to call Jackson but stop short of dialing his number. Thirty-six missed calls, a dozen voicemails, and a few text messages wait on the screen. All from Anatolij.
Bile rises in my throat first before muscles turn to fucking steel. My hands no longer shake from the lack of electrolytes in my system as I dial his number.
“Finally,” he answers, his tone relieved. Not a hint of unease. That’s half the battle won. “Is everything okay? I’ve been trying to reach you all day.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing. I mean, something, but Layla’s okay.”
“What. Happened?” I repeat, throwing myself against the couch. “Your definition of okay may be much different to mine, Anatolij.”
“She’s not hurt. Safe and sound as promised, but… I think you should come over” He exhales down the phone, an incensed puff of air. “She found her mother’s portrait in my office last night. I think it’s a good time for explanations. It’d be better if you were here for this conversation. I’m sure it won’t be an easy conversation.”
No, it won’t. It may be the most challenging conversation he’ll ever hold. There’s also a fifty percent chance his truth will be the most devastating news Layla ever hears. I’m still unsure what goes inside her head where her parents are concerned. She hardly ever talks about them.
“Are you going to tell her the truth?” I ask.
“Of course. I’ve been waiting for an opportunity for a long time. I just hoped to wait until after you closed the hit. You should be here for her, Dante. This is a delicate matter. From what I gathered so far, Layla’s quite temperamental.”
“Quite?” I chuckle. Not the best idea considering it worsens my headache. “That’s a polite understatement. Layla’s a stick of small dynamite, short fuse, loud bang, but that’s about it. She’s stronger than you give her credit for, cut from a different cloth than all of us.”
“Strong only on the outside. She’ll need you here.”
“You want me to come over and hold her hand while she screams your castle down, or are you hoping I’ll take your side and calm her down? Layla has the right to know. She also has the right to hate you for keeping this a secret so long.”
Hate is too big of a word. Layla’s not capable of hatred. She couldn’t even hate Frank, and he deserved it like no other.
“I know it’s too late for such declarations, but if I knew what her life would—”
“You’re right. It’s too late for if only I knew.” I rub my face, glancing at the suitcase I failed to unpack after arriving from Vegas. “I have a few things to take care of before I can come over. Can you hold off the conversation for another day?”
“Yes. I think I can avoid her until you fly over.”
Anatolij Aristow. The biggest fish in Russia. The man behind the biggest scams in Europe. The man who commands an entire goddamn army, dictates the rules, and deals exclusively with Russian Oligarchs.
And he’s afraid of a nineteen-year-old girl.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say and cut the call when the sound of a large engine revving outside floods the house. The car that can only be a Dodge stops on the gravel. No more than ten seconds later, the door bursts open.
“I’ve got her!” Jackson booms, running inside with Rookie close behind. “I’ve got Sandra.” He snaps a handful of pictures on the coffee table. “And it gets better.”
I glance at the polaroids, feeling a huge weight fall off my shoulders to hit the floor with a loud thud.
“When were those taken?” I stare at a photo of Sandra by the trunk of a white SUV with a boy. A child. A six or seven-year-old child with black hair and a face that leaves no doubt as to who his father is.
“Today. They’re in Ohio.”
I drop onto the couch, squeezing the back of my neck. Jesus fucking Christ. What the hell happened to my moral compass? The one that guided me in the right direction throughout the years. No more than six months ago, the prospect of kidnapping a child would’ve made me sick.
Now?
Now there’s no mercy left in my fucked-up mind.
***
The journey to Ohio took four hours. The true optimist I became not long ago, I booked a flight to Moscow for six a.m. tomorrow morning, expecting no problems on the road to successfully blackmailing Morte into calling off the hit.
“Is this it?” Nate leans out of the back seat, looking closer at the farmhouse Spades pulled up in front of.
It’s not much—an ugly white house with wooden shutters on the windows and a messy front garden overgrown with weeds. A large barn stands to the left, and the same SUV I saw in the pictures Jackson brought is parked out of the way by an old but still operational well. The neighbor’s house is about a mile away, hidden behind a small hill, so only a part of the roof is visible in the distance.
“C’mon, let’s get this over with.” Spades heads out of the car with a frown on his forehead.
He’s not overly happy about the whole kidnapping a child idea. Neither am I, but it’s a means to an end. It’s not like we’ll hurt the kid. We’ll keep him entertained until his Daddy starts playing ball. Spades doesn’t accept my reasoning, though. His niece is Morte’s son’s age, making the job that much harder for him to stomach.
“Took you long enough.”
We hear, and all three of us turn to find Sandra in the barn doorway, a riding crop in one hand and a black helmet in the other.
“I expected you here weeks ago.” She admits, starting toward us, seemingly unfazed by our arrival. “Forgot about my existence, didn’t you?” Her eyes lock on me as she strolls across the gravel in a casual step.
“I thought you left Morte to stay away from the Mafia, but it looks like you’re still in the know,” I say, holding my hand out, letting Spades and Nate know not to reach for their guns yet. If there’s a chance we can settle this peacefully, I’ll take it.
“Once you enter that life, you’re bound to it forever, Dante. I keep tabs on Morte because I don’t want him near my son. When he ordered the kill on Frankie’s girl, I knew I’d have to face my past.”
“She’s my girl. Not Frankie’s. I’ll grant your wish. Give Morte a reason to follow my orders, and I’ll make sure you and your son won’t ever have to worry about him showing here.”
She stops a few feet away, with no fear in her brown eyes. “Do you know why I left him? I didn’t want to risk my son’s safety by staying. Morte would never opt-in for a normal, peaceful life. Right now, you know best what lines your kind is willing to cross to get what you want. You’re here to take Aiden and blackmail Morte into cooperating.”
“Desperate times. If you hope you can appeal to my humanity, don’t hold your breath, Sandra. There’s no humanity left in me, but… you already knew that, right?”
For a moment, I was sure she wanted to cooperate. She should. There’d be no need to take the kid or hear a mother cry, but Sandra made a mistake trying to pull the wool over my eyes. She got in too deep with her lies.
“Yes,” she admits, folding her arms over her chest. “And do you know Morte is very much aware of Aiden’s existence yet wants nothing to do with him?”
Another mistake. Another lie. If that was true, she wouldn’t keep tabs on his whereabouts.
“You had a choice.” I trade glances with Spades, who immediately aims his gun at her head. “You could’ve helped me out of your own good will, or you could’ve lied, hoping I’d change my mind, and leave empty-handed.” Spades flips the safety. The sound turns Sandra’s face chalk white. “You chose wrong,” I continue. “I’ll give you a chance to redeem yourself. I strongly believe that a child should have a mother, so you get to choose again.”
“I’ll do it,” she clips, not a moment of hesitation, her voice defeated. Maybe she’s not as dumb as I have her pegged for. “You want me to tell Morte about Aiden, right?”
“Nate, find the kid,” I say over my shoulder. Sandra’s face falls a little bit more. “Tell him we’re going for a ride.”
“Don’t touch him!” She steps forward, but the gun aimed at her head changes her mind. “Please, don’t hurt him.”
The scared, pleading note in her voice is all I wanted to hear. She needs to sound genuinely distressed, or Morte won’t take this seriously. I pull my phone out, watching Sandra’s wide eyes dart between me and the house behind my back.
“Dante Carrow,” he answers with the same mocking tone he did last time. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“How could you be so stupid?” I fire the words he spoke to me right back at him. “You can be threatened and blackmailed because you were once in love.”
A ringing silence lasts a couple of seconds. He needs time to process my words, but I doubt he finds much sense in them yet. “If you think I’ll call off the hit to keep her safe, you’re delusional.” Uncertainty rings in his voice as if he knows I’m not that stupid. “You can kill her. I don’t fucking care, Dante.”
I chuckle, drunk on the power associated with being the one in control. Morte is at my mercy. Unknowingly to him, but he is. He will do as I say. I’ve dreamt of this moment since Julij told me there’s a bounty on Layla’s head. I didn’t know who played the role of the promoter at that point, but I wanted to hear him beg.
“Did you ever wonder why Sandra left?”
Back when they were together, Morte was as smitten as I am now. He was ready to throw the world at her feet.
“I know why she left. She didn’t want to be with a mafia man. She’s a heartless bitch, Dante. I don’t give a flying fuck what happens to her now. Put one bullet through her heart for me while you’re at it.”
“You really should’ve dug a little deeper.” I turn to face the house. Nate emerges outside with Aiden by his side and a small suitcase in hand. “He looks just like you.”
I pass the phone to Sandra, who strains her neck, looking over Spades’ shoulder. There really isn’t much humanity left in my black heart, and whatever’s there is reserved for Layla.
Sandra’s tearful gaze follows Nate’s every move as she presses the phone to her ear. “Hello?”
Spades is rooted to the ground, a gun aimed between Sandra’s eyes. He’s perfectly still like a wax figure, refusing to make a move or glance behind him. Today marks the second time since we started working together when he’s fulfilling my orders against his will. I can see he’s struggling to keep his opinions unvoiced. Normally, he wouldn’t hold back. He has no problem speaking his mind or calling me out when he thinks I’m going too far, but this time Layla’s at the heart of this charade, and he knows there’s no force on earth able to stop me from keeping her safe.
“You’ve got a son,” Sandra squeals into the phone as silent tears escape her glossy eyes to trail down her pale cheeks. “His name is Aiden. He’s six. Dante…” her voice breaks, the dam bursts, and a high-pitched wail cuts the air. “Whatever he wants, just do it, okay? Please, he—”
Nate starts the engine, and I think Sandra understands she’s not going for a ride with us. I pull out a small syringe from my jacket pocket, stab her in the neck and fill her bloodstream with a powerful sedative courtesy of Dr. Carlton Carrow. It’s supposed to knock her out for an hour to let us drive away in peace. Her body turns limp within a few seconds. I snake an arm around her back, holding her flush to my side, and retrieve the phone from her weakening grasp
“Sandra!” Morte yells in my ear. The sheer panic in his voice is music to my ears.
“She can’t hear you. She’s unconscious and will be for an hour or so. Before you start wondering if I’m lying…” I send him one of the snapshots Jackson showed me earlier. “Here’s your proof. You know what to do. Once you’re done, you’ll find me in Moscow.”
“Fuck!” He screams down the line. “He’s, my son! You don’t touch a man’s family, Dante! This is way out of line!”
“I seem to remember you recently disregarded that rule. Did you honestly expect me to play fair? No holds barred, Morte. Be glad I’m letting his mother live. You wouldn’t want such trauma for your son, would you?”
“Fine! Alright, I’m calling off the hit, but if anything happens to my son, I swear to—”
“You’re in no position to make threats. Get. To. Work.”
It’s official.
To the long list of sins, I can boldly add kidnapping.
