I sit in the office at the club, a bottle of whiskey keeping me company. Twenty monitors covering the wall usually display the feed from cameras all around Delta but now stream a clip of Layla and me at the bar two weeks ago.
How did I get so fucking hooked on this girl after spending two evenings with her? How’s that possible?
Well, I’m a living example that it’s very much possible.
My laptop’s speakers repeatedly blast one song—“One Way Or Another.” Layla’s favorite. I’ve listened to it non-stop for two weeks; ninety percent of my time is spent thinking about her smiles, kisses, and how crazy she makes me. Thinking of ways to convince her to give us a try. Ten percent is spent convincing myself I should let her be.
Spades enters the office with Nate around midnight.
“We’ve got a problem.” Nate plops down on the sofa.
As if I don’t have enough fucking problems.
“What is it this time?”
“FBI busted three of our guys in a raid.” He rubs his face, exchanging a knowing look with Spades. “They hit our warehouse and confiscated two containers.”
Spades rests his elbows on his knees. “They knew the container numbers, Dante. They knew where to go, and they knew what the fuck to look for.”
“If they knew, someone must’ve tipped them off.” I light a cigarette, turning around to dim the monitors. “Any suspicions?” They shake their heads. “Who did the FBI take?”
“Gareth, Newton, and Phil. They’re in temporary arrest for now, but Jackson called our lawyer, so—”
“Get rid of them.”
“All three? Dante, Gareth knew the risks. He won’t talk. You’re paying him too fucking much.”
“Call Howard,” I emphasize. “You can spare Gareth at your own risk, but an obituary is all that’s to be left after Monday for Newton and Phil.”
Howard is one of our many acquaintances. His men are scattered around major prisons throughout America, ready to kill anyone for the right money. I’ve used his services more than once in the past. He’s not cheap, but neither is freedom. My freedom is priceless, just like the freedom of Spades, Nate, and all my most trusted men.
Nate glances at Spades, probably looking for support, but Spades knows there’s no arguing with me. He motions his chin, urging Nate to make the call.
“Aren’t you overreacting?” he asks once Nate leaves the room. My distracted mind is the only reason he dares to question my choices.
“They’ll get a minimum of ten years. At some point, they’ll start talking. You’re going down first when they do, and then it’s Nate.”
I won’t risk it. Nate and Spades are like my brothers. We started this together, and we’ll retire together.
My phone’s ringtone stops our conversation. I smile when Star flashes on the screen. “You missed me?”
The hastened clicking of heels and Layla’s uneven breaths are the only answer. I think her phone pocket-dialed my number, but uncharacteristic worry blooms in my mind, and my muscles tense like a guitar string. I call her back only to reach the answering machine. I jump to my feet, dialing over again, my mind like a nest of pissed-off rattlesnakes. I don’t have the slightest idea where she might be, but I’ve got a plan at the ready regardless.
I don’t know what is wrong, but something is definitely fucking wrong. I can feel it in my bones.
“Hey,” Layla answers, halting me halfway to the door. She sounds upset, frightened, fucking tearful, and that distressed quality to her voice flips my stomach.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing now,” she whimpers, sucking in a sharp breath. “I’m sorry I called, but Adam wasn’t answering, and neither was Frank, and I don’t have Burly’s number, and…” She exhales again as if trying not to cry. “I ran into two junkies on Riverdale.”
I squeeze my neck with a trembling hand.
Anxiety rages inside my overworked, tired mind filling up with an array of dark scenarios. “Tell me you’re okay, baby.”
“I’m okay,” she utters unconvinced, close to tears again. “Luca was in the right place at the right time.”
I let out a shaky breath, a touch calmer that one of my men is looking over her. “Let me talk to him.”
“She’s fine,” Luca says, infuriatingly casual. “Shaken up, a touch battered, but—”
“What the fuck does a touch battered mean?”
“Nothing serious. A few cuts on her face and a few bruises at most. They just scared her senseless.”
Just? His just is more than I can handle. “Get her over to Delta. Meet me at the underground parking lot.”
“Yeah, whatever,” he heaves, annoyed with my curt, commanding tone. “We’ll be there in ten.”
I can hardly keep myself from hurling my phone at the wall when he cuts the call. Instead of a dramatic response, I down the last of my whiskey and light another cigarette. The last time I felt so out of place was six years ago when I restrained Dino minutes before Frank, Morte, and I threw him into Lake Michigan.
“Is everything alright?” Spades asks, every word worth its weight in gold with how slowly he speaks, aware of my short-temper and a shitty attitude. “You look like you’re about to fuck someone up.”
“Layla got cornered by two junkies on Riverdale.”
“Someone’s definitely getting fucked…” he murmurs under his breath. “Should I call Cai, Luca, and Jackson?”
“Luca’s with her.” Thank fuck for that, or I’d be climbing the walls right about now. It’s crazy how protective I am toward her. “And I’ll take care of the fuckers myself.”
I grip my leather jacket, then take the lift to the underground parking lot, lighting one cigarette after another, waiting for Luca to arrive.
His Dodge RAM pulls up beside my Charger ten long, torturous minutes later. I yank the passenger side door open to check on my Star. Something fucking snaps inside me at the sight of mascara smudged under her red, puffy eyes. Blood is smeared across two cuts on her cheek, and a green bruise starts showing on the side of her neck. Her knee is scraped, and more blood is smeared down her leg.
My jaw locks painfully.
“Don’t look at me like that. I’m okay.” She sounds better than over the phone, but a glimmer of fear flashes in her eyes, pushing me that much closer to madness.
“Always call me first, Layla. Always.” I help her out to drape my jacket over her shoulders, acting against instinct when I don’t lock her frail frame in my arms.
She didn’t call to see me. She called because no one else bothered to answer their fucking phone. Maybe she does trust me a little bit.
“Get in.” I open the back door, then take her place at the front. Luca starts the engine, reversing out of the parking space. I stay quiet for a few minutes, trying to calm down, but every time I blink, the bruise on her neck flashes before my eyes, demolishing my composure. “What the hell were you thinking?!” I boom, my hands shaking. “A walk across Riverdale in the middle of the night? How the fuck did you end up there?!”
Layla curls into a ball, hiding her face behind a veil of dark, curly hair. She looks like a hooker in a tiny black number that accentuates her boobs and barely covers her ass.
“I had a date,” she utters, picking her nails.
“Say what? A date?” Jealousy makes an appearance, kicking worry to the background for a brief moment. “And Romeo didn’t fucking think to order you a cab home?”
I couldn’t cope for two weeks because of her, and she went out with some fucker? Just like that? What kind of an asshole lets a girl like Layla walk home alone at night? When I see him, and I sure will now that he failed to keep Layla safe, I’ll teach him some fucking manners.
Layla stares at her hands, chin trembling, lips sealed. I wish I could give her a few moments to calm down, but I’ll burst into flames if she doesn’t tell me what exactly happened.
I reach behind me, resting my hand on her thigh. “Baby… where’s your security? Why were you alone tonight?” I fucking hate myself as I stroke her skin with my thumb. I’m manipulating her, knowing damn well how much she craves my touch and that it’ll untie her tongue.
Her big, beautiful eyes pool with fresh tears as she shakes her head, swallowing hard. I’m this close to losing my shit. I swear, nothing has ever caused me more physical pain than seeing Layla in tears. I gesture for Luca to stop the car, resting my head on the headrest, and light up the sixth Marlboro in the last fifteen minutes.
“Start talking, Layla.” I adjust the rear-view mirror to watch as she swats her tears away.
Fuck, I want to wrap her in my arms and hold her until she calms down.
“Take me home. Please, I—”
“We’re going nowhere until you explain where Burly is, why Romeo didn’t take you home, and how you found yourself on Riverdale.”
The fear in her eyes fizzles out, morphing into a raging fire when she assumes an aggressive pose, crossing her arms, head up high.
“Frank gave Burly a night off. Allie set me up with her personal trainer for a double date. We had dinner and then moved to Copacabana.” She hurls the words at me at the speed of light. If she had something heavy to hand, it’d bounce off my head. “I had fun, but Allie didn’t feel well, so Adam took her home. That’s where my security went. Aaron took me back to his place…” She stops, avoiding my eyes, staring at her hands and swollen wrists. “He scared me a little. I ran, which is why I ended up in Riverdale. I was walking back home.”
I turn back around. “What did he do?” Unconsciously, she’s massaging her sore, swollen wrists and I can’t fucking take any more. Wrath sweeps over me like some biblical hurricane. “He forced himself on you?!”
“I don’t know the first thing about it… maybe I misunderstood him, maybe—”
I jump outside, slamming the door hard enough that the widows shake before she has a chance to finish the sentence. I’ve never felt so unhinged. I don’t know whether to walk, sit or stand. Twice in one night someone tried to hurt her. Twice.
I swear under my breath, yanking the back door open. “Name and address. Right now,” I seethe, and the tone of my voice must tell her not to fucking argue.
“Aaron Jones. He lives on South Evans Avenue.”
Luca knows where to go when I take the passenger seat again. I make a mental list of things I’ll do to the motherfucker who touched Layla before shoving him in the trunk. Romeo’s heading for a sad, imminent end.
Fifteen minutes later, we arrive at the dumpy street. Houses with lawns the size of my ensuite bathroom stand close together. Shitty old cars are parked in the driveways, and most street lamps don’t work.
“Which house?” I ask. After a moment of silence, I find Layla curled in her seat once more, holding herself in a tight hug. Those should be my arms around her. “Which house?”
She bites her cheek, stalling. “It’s nice that you care, but I’m not sure if he wanted to…” Her cheeks burn scarlet. “I panicked. Maybe a blatant no would’ve stopped him.”
“Are you this naïve, or are you lying because you’re scared I’ll break his legs?” and hands, and jaw. And turn his spine into a fucking jigsaw. “Neither your wrists nor your neck would look like this if he wasn’t trying to hurt you. Tell me which house, or I’ll wake the whole goddamn street.”
Layla sits up, flips the light, and looks into the rear-view mirror, the tips of her fingers ghosting the bruise across her neck. She tilts her head, examining two cuts on her cheek, the white of her skin a dramatic contrast to the dried blood.
She falls back, eyes wide. I think she’s ready to throw up. “It’s that one there.” She points at the third house down the short road.
“Stay,” I tell Luca when he unbuckles his seatbelt, ready to serve the fucker some justice. “He’s mine. Make sure she stays inside. Don’t let her out of the car.”
The lock clicks when I close the door behind me, strolling up the short driveway. My muscles tense with every step. The ability to retaliate for Layla keeps me in a relatively rational mindset. Otherwise, I would’ve emptied the clip of my gun into the night sky by now.
I kick the door down fireman style. A narrow staircase opposite the entrance takes me upstairs, where I break down another door. Torn out of sleep, Romeo switches the night lamp on, illuminating the tiny bedroom.
“Good evening.” I fist his t-shirt and hurl him at the wall as if he weighs no more than a bag of sugar.
He might be brawny, but he doesn’t stand a chance with the pure fury coursing through my veins.
“What the hell?” He scrambles back to his feet, lips parted, eyes narrowed. “Who the hell are you? What’s going on?!”
“Dante Carrow.” I send my right hook sailing through the air to land on his jaw. “You touched my girl.”
Romeo covers his nose to stop the bleeding. “I haven’t touched anyone! I swear, I—”
Another blast, and the first bone cracks under my knuckles. Many more will break before I’m done. His neck will be last. I grip him by the collar of his t-shirt and send him tumbling down the stairs. His ribs crack, the sound bringing a sick smile to my lips.
“So, you’re saying Layla bruised herself? You’re saying you didn’t try to fuck her?”
Romeo lands face first on the cream carpet downstairs, whimpering. He holds onto the wall for support, shaking like a leaf as he tries to haul himself back up. “I didn’t know she’s yours!” he cries, bloodshot eyes looking everywhere except my face. “Please, just—”
Another blast cuts him off mid-sentence. What the fuck does it matter whose she is? Even if she were single, drunk, or clingy, it wouldn’t justify rape. Nothing does.
“Please.” He clutches his ribs. “I didn’t… she ran!”
I grip Romeo’s neck when he takes a chance at fleeing. I cut his legs out from under him, so he lands back on the ground. His head bounces off the concrete one step outside the door, and he briefly loses consciousness.
I crouch beside him, yanking him by his short hair. “You should thank God Layla’s in the car, or you’d be pumped full of lead by now. But she’s watching, and seeing her scared drives me fucking insane, so call it your lucky day. You get to pray in the trunk for a little while longer.”
The Beretta 92 in my holster is fully loaded and ready to go. Fifteen rounds of ammunition, all destined for Romeo’s head.
I drag him to the car, deaf to his pleas. Luca steps outside, opens the trunk, and helps me haul Romeo in.
Layla chooses that moment to jump out of the car. “Leave him alone!” Her tiny fists connect with my shoulder. “He’s had enough! Let him go!”
“Don’t get in the middle,” I hiss, keeping Romeo in place while he’s tossing and swearing, punching the air. I land one more blast on his head to knock him out. It works a treat. I shut the trunk, all the while doused with a series of Layla’s half-ass punches.
“He learned his lesson!” she cries, hitting harder.
Careful not to squeeze too hard or cause more damage, I grab her by the shoulders, forcing her back inside the car. “Stop fidgeting, Star.”
“Next time, I won’t tell you anything!” She turns her head the other way in a theatrical manner.
It’d be amusing if not for the words. “Next time? You want to see him again?!”
“No, I-I… just, leave him be. Please, he didn’t do anything. I ran before he had the chance to—”
“If he had raped you, he wouldn’t be fucking breathing right now.” I would’ve killed him with bare hands. I’d batter him until he bled out on the front lawn outside his shitty house. “Put your seatbelt on.”
Romeo starts screaming in the trunk half a minute after we pull away from the curb. Luca slams the brakes a few times, silencing Romeo for the time being. He’ll scream again when I’ll hold a gun to his head.
“Hey, Dad,” Layla says out of the blue.
I jerk around, tearing the phone out of her hand. “What the fuck are you playing at? Why is Layla alone? Where’s her fucking security?!”
“Why are you with her again?” he sighs, sounding bored. “She told you to stay away.”
I tap Luca on his shoulder and point left, so he’ll turn there. “One of my men found her on Riverdale cornered by two junkies. Would you rather he left her there?”
“No, of course not,” he snaps. The concern in his voice sounds forced, unnatural. “But I’d rather—”
“Then be thankful Luca was driving by. You’d be looking for her in the gutter tomorrow if not for him.” Chills slide down my spine just thinking about what could’ve happened.
“Thank you,” he seethes, the words strained as if too tricky to pronounce. “And now, can you bring her back home and leave her the fuck alone? Stay away from her, Dante. You’ll do more damage than all the junkies in this city.”
A laugh escapes me. His daughter could’ve been raped tonight, or worse—drugged, raped, and beaten to death, but all he cares about is business. I hope he’ll lose it all soon. There’s a particular part of hell reserved for the likes of him.
“All I can damage is your fucking ego. I’ll bring Layla home, and I have a gift, too.”
I want to trial Romeo myself, but handing him over to Frankie might force the son of a bitch to look at my relationship with Layla from a different angle. He’s fond of Italian mafia culture and appreciates such gestures.
Layla meets my eyes when I return her phone, her pretty face clouded with uncertainty, but she grabs my hand, lacing our fingers together. “Thank you, and… I’m sorry.”
It’s not an average sorry. She doesn’t mean tonight alone, but also the rejection from two weeks ago. Without putting herself out in the open, she’s checking if I still want her.
“Stop the car,” I tell Luca.
I hesitated once. Never again. I won’t play games if she’s ready to give us a go.
I want her.
I need her to be mine.
The RAM’s tall enough, so when I open the back door, I take one step and being eye-level with Layla, I cup her face, covering her lips with mine.
Sweet.
So addictively sweet.
Her shoulders sag as her frail body relaxes under my touch. I hated every damn second I spent away from her the past two weeks. She presses her nose to my cheek, deepening the kiss with the same aroused urgency she kissed me last time, and her small, delicate fingers press into my jaw.
Having her close calms me right down. If she’s with me, she’s safe. “I’m taking you to Delta tomorrow. With or without your father’s blessing, with or without Burly, you’re coming with me. Understood?” A long journey to earn her trust awaits, but I’ll gladly work on her doubts.
Tucking her long hair back, she presses her forehead against my torso. “I told you I’d get addicted. A gentle reminder…” She pulls away to meet my gaze. “Too many people use me, hurt me, and toss me aside like a broken toy.” She rests her hand on my chest, keeping me away when I move to kiss her. “Don’t try and shush me. I’ll be waiting for you tomorrow but don’t show up if you intend to put me back on the shelf once you get bored.”
“I’ll pick you up at eight.”
