by I. A. Dice
Copyright © 2019 by I. A. Dice
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover design by: ProperGraphicBD
Edited by: M. Rust
www.iadice.co.uk
To my mum and dad,
thank you.
ONE
DANTE
The amount of alcohol coursing through my veins could get a dozen people drunk. Just not me. A half-empty bottle of vodka stood on the nightstand, and two more laid on the floor.
I’ve been at it for forty-eight hours — two days filled with drinking, thinking, trying to hate her, and getting nowhere.
I sipped from the glass, attempting to numb the pain, silence my screaming mind, and fall asleep. In my left hand, I held my favorite gold revolver spinning it on my index finger as if it were a toy.
Three turns right, three turns left, three turns right, three turns left.
I laid on a bare mattress, glaring at the ceiling, willing my ass to stay where it was, and struggling. Not going after Layla was the hardest decision I ever made.
The bedsheets, covered with a thin layer of snow, became a questionable decoration on the driveway thirty seconds after I walked into my bedroom. They smelled of Layla, hence why they had to go. Just like all her clothes, cosmetics, and even the Christmas tree she bought and decorated.
Everything flew out of the windows. Everything that reminded of the existence of a petite, sassy cutie I fell so hard for; everything except my mind, which couldn’t escape Layla no matter how hard I tried.
And I tried really fucking hard.
But Layla was all I thought about. Since she disappeared without a trace forty-eight hours ago, she was constantly poisoning my thoughts, kicking me when I was already down and not trying to get back up.
Because… Why would I? Why would I subject myself to life if the one good thing in it left?
And so – not for the first time – I toyed with the revolver weighing my options.
I wanted to forget about her; the way she looked, smelled and behaved. I tried to forget what she sounded like when she told me she loved me. And most of all I wanted to forget that I loved her and couldn’t fucking stop. I missed her presence, gestures, and the awareness she was mine.
Was – past tense drove me insane. I fought against my heart, and brain, wanting to hate her for what she did. But I couldn’t hate her. Not for a second, not in the slightest.
I kept telling myself that Layla wasn’t worth the hassle; that she didn’t deserve me; that she was just an emotionally challenged teen who allowed her father to manipulate her.
And that was true. She was an emotionally challenged teen and did let her father manipulate her, but it didn’t mean shit. I still loved her, despite knowing I’d be better off if I could forget she even existed.
That was where my brain screamed no. It wouldn’t let me forget.
And so I kept spinning the fucking revolver right then left and right again, and wondered if it wouldn’t be easier to pull the trigger.
The night turned into day for the third time before, with new motivation, I rose to my feet to face the world without Layla by my side. I wasn’t ready, but it didn’t matter. Spades rang a few times, probably because the Chief of police was trying to reach me to discuss the eighteen bodies we left outside the warehouse by the Lake, and some more inside. Or maybe Julij couldn’t wait to meet up and talk business?
Either way, my phone buzzed from time to time.
I took a shower, drank a black coffee, and forced a toast down my throat to keep from starving. The housekeeper chanced a few glances my way with a puzzled expression. She must’ve wondered where the hell Layla was and why her stuff littered the driveway, but if she as much as uttered Layla’s name I’d shoot her. Just like that.
After breakfast, I put a cigarette in-between my lips, and called Spades, standing out on the terrace. He answered before the first tone ringed out. It seemed he spent his days staring at the phone, waiting for my call.
“Finally,” he clipped. “Jeremy’s freaking out, Julij’s calling every hour on the hour since yesterday, and the load from Detroit is way late. You want me to pick you up or will you drive yourself to Delta?”
Again, the amount of alcohol in my blood would get a dozen people drunk, so it was safe to assume I was in no state to operate heavy machinery. Too bad, I felt fresh as a daisy.
“Pick me up. I’ll call Vince, and you tell Jeremy we’ll see him at the club.”
Assessing the damage and hiring contractors to fix it was on the agenda. The thirty seconds spent talking to Spades redirected my thoughts away from Layla.
For two days straight, I couldn’t stop thinking about her for one second, but now I broke free from under her spell. Only for a moment, but it was more than I managed myself so far.
Work was my answer. Staying in bed wasn’t going to help me deal with the past. I had to do something… Anything.
TWO
DANTE
Empty bottles and overflowing ashtrays stood on every flat surface in the living room.
The air reeked of cigarette smoke, booze, and puke. Broken glass, pills, deflated balloons, and colorful confetti were scattered on the floor, and a wing chair, which stood in the corner required a deep-clean after a blonde bimbo projectile-vomited across it, marking the wall too while trying to make a run for the bathroom. Unsuccessfully.
Throwing parties at my house used to be out of the question. The chaos during said party had nothing on the mess afterward, but this year, my options were limited. The idea to host the party was a spur of the moment thing, and with twenty hours left to midnight, choice of venues was limited.
Delta was closed for refurbishment, and the travel ban imposed on me by a detective responsible for the investigation concerning Frank’s death meant the New Year’s Eve celebrations had to take place in my house.
Half a dozen of crystal glasses were shattered, and two dining room chairs required replacing. Spades broke one on the head of some douchebag and then hit him with the second for good measure.
It was supposed to be a small gathering – my entourage, their girls, and a few acquaintances. As expected, it turned to shit when Bianca asked for permission to invite her brother and his wife. Luna wanted her sister, and Jackson called in half of Chicago.
I agreed to everyone, and to those who arrived in the middle of the night in a fucking yellow school bus. The anarchy happening in my living room helped to keep my mind in check, away from Layla.
And since I did everything to not think about her, the party got out of hand four hours before midnight.
For the past six torturous days, I busied myself with all the tasks my people normally took care of. I worked eighteen hours a day, making shit up as I went along to stay occupied. With the whole city in the palm of my hand at last and the forecasted increase in profits, I decided to open another club to make it easier for my accountant to launder additional cash.
Spades and Nate accompanied me on a hunt for premises, and we bought two. While the lawyer worked overtime to finalize the transactions, I shopped for the sound systems, spent hours upon hours interviewing potential employees and checked
every load coming from Detroit.
I bent over backward, but Layla feasted on my thoughts regardless of my efforts. Not once and not twice, I froze in the middle of a conversation because one word reminded me of something related to her. I’d forget about the world driving a car, because I spotted a place where I once saw her, or where we were together, and my mind switched off to all stimuli.
My people refused to utter her name. No one dared to talk about the times when Layla was by my side, and no one mentioned the night she killed Frank.
Every so often, conversations ceased when I entered the room, and I knew they were talking about her. Ironically, not a single person said she didn’t deserve me, that I should’ve killed her then and there.
And only Spade’s had it in him to comment on my refusal to go after her.
“You’ll regret it.”
Fucking Nostradamus.
Day after day, night after night, Layla infested my thoughts. There was no forgetting, no moving forward. I was stuck, my life on hold.
Where was she? Was she safe? Why did she run? Why did she follow Frank’s orders? Questions multiplied daily, and answers failed to arrive.
A knock on the door snapped me out of the Layla haze. I threw the cigarette butt over the rail and made my way across the filthy house, watching where I stepped.
“Good morning.”
A young girl dressed in a white apron with a pink logo of a cleaning company on her chest bowed slightly.
She held two buckets full of cleaning products, and behind her back, another girl struggled to retrieve a hoover from the trunk of a pink hatchback.
It was New Year’s Day, but the owner of the cleaning company didn’t complain when I rang late last night offering triple rates to get my house back to a spotless state this morning. It was the maid’s job over the years, but Marie packed her bags and left three days ago.
Ran was a more fitting description.
She was tired, and a little scared of me throwing a fit whenever I found Layla’s stuff around the house. She reached her limit when I toppled the table seeing that apart from pancakes, she also served toast with honey – Layla’s favorite. All the mornings we’ve spent together flashed before my eyes, and I freaked out.
Not the first, and most definitely not the last time. I was losing it a lot lately, taking my frustration out on everyone within reach. Good thing my men handled my outbursts like pros by diligently ignoring the shit spewing from my mouth.
“Can we come in?” The girl stepped from one foot to the other, hesitation in her eyes.
I opened the door further and stepped aside. The hoover girl – a petite blonde with melon-sized boobs sized me up and winked with a confident, cheeky smile on her glossy lips. She stopped flirting when we entered the living room.
“Some party,” she chuckled, glancing at me over her shoulder. “Too bad I didn’t get invited. I would’ve made you breakfast.”
Courageous little thing.
“Get to work,” I said, glancing at my wristwatch – a gift from Layla, and the one thing I refused to let go.
I hadn’t noticed it until she was long gone, but she had it engraved, and the few words spoke volumes about her feelings.
Time is limited, but love is timeless.
I held onto it, wore it every day, and touched my thumb to the letters at the back every night, wishing I could find it in me to forgive and trust her again.
“The sooner you finish, the bigger the bonus.”
I left them to it, swallowed two painkillers, and sat in my office with a cup of black coffee. Thirty minutes later, the pain was gone, making room for Layla. Every time I blinked, I saw her face as she stood outside of the warehouse, aiming the gun at me, tears rolling down her cheeks, regret consuming her whole.
“I really do love you,” she whispered, staring into my eyes.
“I know.”
Her whole, petite body trembled, but she plucked up the courage and moved her finger to the trigger. Fear failed to arrive; there was just relief flooding my mind that I won’t have to face the world without her by my side.
“I’m sorry.”
“Do you want me to count down from three for you, Layla?” Frank growled, and the coldness in his voice could freeze the vast lake behind Layla’s back. “We don’t have all night.”
Letting all air out of her lungs, she pulled the trigger.
A loud bang rang in my ears.
Frank’s lifeless body fell to the ground.
And time stopped.
A six-year-long war ended by his daughter. She killed him. She murdered him with cold blood, and I never felt prouder or more betrayed.
My cell phone vibrated on the desk, and chief’s name flashed on the screen. I rubbed my face, exhausted, frustrated, and furious.
So fucking furious.
“It’s New Year’s Day,” I said through gritted teeth.
“And so it is. Should I give you my best wishes? Well, okay then, Dante,” Jeremy began in a theatrical tone. “I wish us many years of successful cooperation, but to make sure it is successful, you have to suffer a little. I had the CIA on the phone. They’re sending someone detective here tomorrow. He wants to talk to you, so get your shit together, and meet me at the station in an hour. I have to prepare you for the uncomfortable questions.”
Great. Just what I needed. As if it wasn’t enough that Jeremy called ten times a day to talk about the emerging evidence, which led to me or one of my people; or that the media were on the topic twenty-four-seven; or that I spent six hours on Thursday at the station with the FBI’s finest – detective Jones.
Now the CIA got involved too. Next step was the DEA breaking down my door together with a whole SWAT team.
It’s been six days, and I was half a million dollars lighter, bribing people left and right to close the investigation as soon as possible. The chief could send another four daughters to university for his cut.
I had to give it to him, though – he dealt with the pressure well.
I called him ten minutes after Frank took his last breath to make sure his team was first on the scene. They had to eliminate hard evidence – everything that’d guarantee time behind bars, and leave clues.
My only strict order for Jeremy – make sure nothing leads back to Layla in any shape or form.
I found out about her betrayal twenty minutes earlier, but her safety and freedom were my top priority.
“Consider it done. She was never there.”
I was bound to be the prime suspect, regardless of the evidence. People in Chicago knew about my war with Frank. The CIA and the FBI had nothing on me – nothing that’d warrant arrest, but I had to be careful.
“I’ll be there in an hour,” I told Jeremy and cut the call to dial Rookie’s number.
Someone had to supervise the cleaners. He wasn’t happy I dragged him out of bed five hours after he crawled into it, but he agreed to come over. Not that he had much choice.
A quick shower and a sweats to suit wardrobe change later, I walked downstairs, and the blonde stopped scrubbing the wing chair. She arched her back and winked at me as if a girl in rubber gloves covered in puke was supposed to be arousing.
“Stop smiling, and get back to work,” I hissed. “You lack thirty IQ points and a lot of imagination to pique my interest.”
Her lips parted, and arms flew to her sides.
“I don’t lack IQ! And watch your words. I’ll tell my brother on you!”
I had the urge to bite on my fist, just to stop from exploding — sort of like the trick with holding your finger to your nose to stop a sneeze.
“Either start scrubbing or get the fuck out of my house.”
She raised from the kneeling position, tore the gloves off, and tossed them aside, then, head up high, she marched out of the living room, slamming the door.
Fucking drama queen.
“I’m so sorry,” her friend squealed. “I’m really sorry. It’s her first day. I don’t really know her.
Please don’t send me away, I will get it all done, and fast, I promise. My boss will fire me if I don’t finish, and I really need the job.”
She stood in the middle of the room like an orphan, stuttering, pulling on the yellow duster, looking at my nose or chin, but not into my eyes. Hers were large, tearful and pleading. A mess of red hair encircled a thin, freckled face.
“What’s your name?” I rested my back against the couch.
“Grace. Grace Quincy.”
“Why do you work, Grace?”
She pulled her eyebrows together, still staring at my nose.
It was one of the gestures diffident people used to appear confident – they looked at a spot close to the eyes like nose or forehead, avoiding eye contact.
“I need the money…”
“Yes, I figured that much. I’m asking why. How old are you? Eighteen? Nineteen? You should be at school.”
“Seventeen,” she uttered, dropping her gaze to one of the many stains marking the floor. “School won’t pay the rent.”
She looked as if someone took hope from her; as if her dreams went down the drain.
“Please let me finish,” she looked up, meeting my eyes.
If I met her before Layla, her pleas wouldn’t mean shit, but post-Layla Dante mellowed a touch, and I couldn’t dismiss Grace.
“You can finish,” I said, and left her there, hearing Rookie’s Camaro pull onto the driveway. “You look like shit,” I told him, chuckling at the sight of his bloodshot eyes. “I won’t be back for a while, so make sure the house is immaculate before you let the cleaner go. And get Jackson to check her for me, will you?”
Rookie raised an eyebrow. “You wanna hit that?”
“No.” God, no. It was too soon. “I need a maid, but I need to know who she is before I offer her the job.”
I’ve been stabbed in the back by someone I trusted with my life recently, and lesson learned.
Fool me once…
THREE
DANTE
“Where do you want this?” The interior designer stood in the middle of the POP music room at Delta, eyeing me like a piece of candy.
