The stench of burnt plastic fills the air. Two fire trucks are parked outside Delta, and the firefighters rush around, collecting equipment. The captain stands beside me, eyeing the open doors to the club as if expecting to see more flames.
“You should call the police,” he says, watching his crew finish up. “I should call the police,” he corrects, meeting my gaze, his eyes hesitant as if he’s not sure how to go about asking for money in exchange for keeping his mouth shut. “It’s not a joke, Mr. Carrow. If not for the quick reaction of your men, someone could’ve died.”
Someone died. Two someone’s, to be precise, but thankfully none of my people are hurt. Three of Frank’s men barged inside the club with canisters of petrol. Instead of keeping their heads down, they made a lot of noise, lighting the first room with a gun instead of matches.
All of my men rushed to check what had happened. They killed two of Frank’s pawns, and Jackson overpowered the third one, leaving him alive.
Thank fuck for that.
I need to talk to him. None of this makes any sense. Frank sent three newbies and ordered larceny despite knowing my men would be there tonight, and his people wouldn’t come out alive. A strange feeling that something’s once again slipping my attention squeezed my throat when I arrived, and it won’t let go.
I motion to Spades, so he’ll take care of the captain. My head is too preoccupied with figuring out what is going on to hand out bribes. Involving the police will only waste too much time. Time I don’t have. I’ve already wasted an hour.
Vinn takes the captain’s place at my side. He invited himself over to the party with his brother because he’s crawling out of his skin trying to apologize to Layla. The morning after he made an enemy of her, two and a half thousand red roses were delivered to my house. Fifty bouquets of fifty flowers. Six flower shops. Almost four thousand dollars to apologize to my girl for being an asshole.
It didn’t work. Layla threw out the flowers and refused to talk to him despite his persistent phone calls. I guess Vinn decided he’d have a better chance of earning her forgiveness face to face at the Christmas party at Delta that was supposed to start half an hour ago.
“What’s the plan?” Vinn opens a packet of Marlboro. “Get your people together, and let’s go finish this.” He offers me a cigarette.
I want to kill Frank.
Until Spades called to say that Delta was on fire, I thought someone would do it for me or—wishful thinking—that Frank would step aside.
Now, I know there’s no chance of that ever happening. By setting my club on fire, he sent a message. Either he dies, or I die. Once again, I face a moral dilemma. Killing Frank equals hurting the one person I care about.
Spades joins us as the fire trucks drive away. “Everyone’s waiting for orders.”
I flip the cigarette on the pavement, taking my phone out of my pocket when I feel a short vibration.
Luca: Shall we play hide and seek?
Luca: Or would you rather have it the easy way?
Luca: Step aside, and your star will get out of this almost untouched.
I can’t process the information fast enough.
Layla—in danger.
Luca—the snitch.
And Frank laughing in my fucking face.
The ground shakes beneath my feet. The chain unfolds in my head slowly, relentlessly like a snake coming alive in the heat. A blizzard of confusion. Pure, frantic anarchy seizes my mind.
Luca: Eenie, meenie, miny… one. I’ll count to ten.
The phone vibrates again: a picture of Layla on the living room floor, face down in a pool of blood, hands, and legs tied. A cigar cutter glistens beside her head, and right next to it… a finger.
The cell phone slips out of my hand. My blood turns to ice, and my heart reaches cardiac arrest range, beating its way out of my chest like a trapped, wild animal. Fear consumes me whole. It starts in my heart, spreading to my lungs, legs, and the deepest recesses of my fucking soul.
I’m losing my grip on reality.
My vision blurs. Within seconds all I see are dark spots. Someone grabs my shoulders. Sounds distort, and voices blend together into incomprehensible gibberish. My legs, like two tubs of water, are fucking useless. I try to move but only manage a few awkward steps before, incapable of anything else, I double over, throwing up.
I’m shaking so violently it feels as if I’m standing through an earthquake. I clasp my hands over the unrestrained thunder of my own pulse ringing in my ears, fighting to distance myself from my delirious mind. My thoughts lose their form. Logic is absent. I fist my hands and close my eyes but regret it immediately when the image of Layla covered in blood flashes before my eyes.
I throw up again.
The ability to control my emotions went to shit. I’m losing my fucking mind. In a mechanical reflex, I reach for my gun, point it at the sky and press the trigger.
Bullet follows after bullet.
The smell of gunpowder, the deafening noise, the recoil—it all helps me regain the ability to think straight, to re-emerge from the helpless madness. With every shot fired, an ounce of fear morphs into a hot, white rage.
That’s better.
I can’t fucking cope with fear. I’ve never felt anything close to the madness seizing my mind. I’ve no idea how to come out on the other side.
But I have to.
I have to get a fucking grip. I can’t fall apart. There’s no time. I need to act fast before that fucking psycho sends another picture.
“Pull it together,” Spades says, squeezing my arm. “She needs you, Dante. Pull it together.”
He helps me up from where I’m kneeling on the ground, making sure I can hold my weight before he hands me my phone and a full clip. I reload the gun to feel like I’m in control. Like I’m still capable of functioning while my world splinters apart.
My hands ball into fists, and my jaw locks, muscles so tense it’s fucking painful. Three deep breaths, and I turn around, a mask of confidence back in place.
My people stand in a group, waiting for orders. Twenty men in front of Delta, thirty more a phone call away.
“What the fuck are you waiting for?!” I bellow. “Find her!”
Nate, Jackson, and Rookie divide people into smaller groups shouting orders. Next to me, Vince is on the phone using his contacts to find Layla. Vinn does the same thing, standing a few feet away, holding a machine gun.
“I want Luca alive!” I yell when everybody rushes to their cars. “Kill everyone else.”
Thirty seconds later, the street fills with the roar of a dozen V8 engines cutting through the peaceful, quiet night. V brothers and Spades stay behind to help me beat the information out of Frank’s pawn.
“Where’s the last of Frank’s men?” I ask.
“In the basement. Luca fucked him up bad.”
The sound of his name boils my blood all over again. I want to kill him with my bare hands, inflicting as much pain as possible. I want to hear him beg for mercy. He better have dug his grave before laying a finger on my girl because that’s where he’ll end up before sunrise.
“I wouldn’t count on him telling us much tonight,” Spades adds. “If I hadn’t dragged Luca out of there when you told me to, he would’ve fucking killed the guy, and now I know why.”
“He’ll talk.” I dial Carlton’s number. “I need you. Right now.” The distraught tone of my voice lets on more about my mental state than I wish to share.
“What the fuck happened?”
“I’ll explain when you get here. Bring something to keep the fucker conscious. Meet me at the club.”
Spades pours a bucket of water over Jack’s head. He chokes and coughs, thrashing in the chair like a retard. Blood trickles down his wrists where the ropes cut through the skin. His used-to-be white t-shirt turned crimson and now lays on the floor, drenched in blood. I’ve been torturing him for an hour. Vinn interjected a few times, using his face for a punching bag. Jack can no longer see. His eyes are swollen shut, and his cheekbones and nose are all broken in at least a few places.
Carlton emptied a syringe into his neck as soon as he arrived. Whatever he gave him worked a treat, stopping Jack from taking the easy way out and fainting. Unfortunately, he’s not eager to talk, testing my already questionable patience. I’ve reached for my gun a few times, but Spades stopped me before I pulled the trigger. Dead, he’s useless.
“I think you’re too delicate,” Vince says. Until now, he stood by the wall, a silent observer.
I glance at him, toying with a long knife. “Be my guest.”
He crosses the room toward a row of cabinets at the back of the basement.
“I’ll wait outside,” Vinn mutters, his face a faint shade of green as he turns to leave.
His brother joins me, armed with a spoon, and my expression probably matches Vinn’s. “Give him another dose,” he tells Carlton.
“His heart will burst.”
Vince rolls his eyes, snatching a syringe out of Carlton’s bag. “He only got twenty milligrams before. He’d need three times that to die.” He shoves the needle into Jack’s neck, tosses the empty syringe, and shimmies out of his suit jacket. He rolls up the sleeves of his white shirt, taking off a gold watch, before gripping a fistful of Jack’s hair and tugging hard, forcing his neck to rest on the back of the chair. “You got a girl?” he asks, sliding the spoon down his forehead. “You remember what she looks like? Of course, you do. Think about her for a minute. Try to remember her smile. Memorize it because you won’t see it again.”
Without warning, asking, or ordering Jack to talk, Vince slides the edge of the spoon under his eye. A horror movie kind of scream—loud, long, blood curdling high-pitched scream fills the room. Vince holds him in place, and a chill runs down my spine when Jack realizes the slightest move will make things worse. He sits there, still as a statue, screaming.
“Stop!” His nails crack when he digs them into the wooden chair. “Stop! Layla’s in the warehouse!”
Vince stops but doesn’t pull the spoon out. Almost half of it has disappeared under Jack’s eye already. “Which warehouse, Jack? I’m going to need an address.”
“S Kreiter Avenue. NASC warehouse,” he pants.
“And I should believe you because…?”
“Because it’s time for the finale.” The tone of his voice changes; fear evaporates, leaving no trace.
Vince pulls the spoon out, as surprised as I am. “Finale?”
Jack sits up as much as the ropes allow. “In an hour, you’ll wish you were dead, Dante. I promise. Frank made sure of it.”
Frank will die tonight. I don’t fucking care who kills him. I want him and all his people dead because all of them, knowingly or not, contributed to hurting the only person that matters to me.
“I can promise you something too,” I say, taking my gun out. “If I don’t find her there, I’ll gouge your girlfriend’s eyes.”
“You’ll find her, and you’ll regret you ever did.”
Never.
I pull the trigger silencing Jack forever. “Get everyone to that warehouse,” I tell Spades. “Now.”
Vinn joins us when we walk out of Delta, and we all jump into our respective cars. I put my foot down, the tires screeching. Every mile closer to Layla makes it easier to control my emotions. I know where my star is. God be my witness, I’ll obliterate the whole fucking state to get to her.
