by I. A. Dice
I looked around, searching for Cai and Spades to check if they were okay, but before I spotted them, a movement behind a row of bushes to the left of the house caught my attention.
In the mayhem of shots, and screams no one noticed a group of men running toward the back of the house.
The van was just a distraction.
I turned around, rooted to the spot, my heart banging like a kickback of a gun. The sounds became muffled, distant – an unclear background noise to the blood whooshing in my veins.
My gaze fixed on the sheet of glass separating the inside from the terrace, my reflection staring right back at me, the clock ticking slower, louder, icy hands ghosting up and down my spine.
Two hands slammed on the glass, making me jump. The gunshots became louder, my breaths shorter, faster. Bianca’s voice registered with me, but I couldn’t make out words.
The man took one step closer, and a hooded silhouette became visible. The only thing standing between the killer and me was a sheet of bulletproof glass.
“Layla!” Luna cried, getting through my walls. “What’s happening?!”
I didn’t answer. My blood turned to ice as I watched the hooded silhouette raise a saw – the kind firemen use – and press it to the glass. I hoped it wouldn’t work, but the blade penetrated the glass, and the man pressed down, cutting a vertical line as if creating a doorway.
My heart jumped to my throat, and all my instincts rebelled against such an effortless acceptance of death.
I rushed back to the laptop. “Someone’s trying to get inside.”
“Run!” Jean screamed.
And I did.
Taking two steps at a time, and slamming all doors shut behind me, I ran to the bedroom, and stopped in front of the walk-in-wardrobe, my fingers ghosting over the keypad on the right.
But I couldn’t lock myself there defenseless. If whoever was coming had the tools to break through bulletproof glass, it was wise to assume they could penetrate the armored door too.
I turned on my heel, running to the nightstand on Dante’s side of the bed to retrieve the spare gun he kept there. I flipped the safety, my hands trembling; memories of the last time I held a gun threatening to bring me to my knees.
For a second, my mind drew a blank, struggling to remember the code to the door. I couldn’t focus in the chaos. Bullets kept flying outside, and a few seconds later, the sounds became louder, meaning that whoever was trying to barge inside, did.
“Here-kitty-kitty-kitty. Come out, come out wherever you are!” Reverberated throughout the house.
Fear started to choke me, the sound of heavy boots on the stairs summoned panic. Then I heard the alarm being disarmed and the front door slammed hard against the foundations, introducing a wave of relief, and a series of even louder gunshots.
Four digits popped into my head, and I rushed inside the walk-in-wardrobe, and backed out into the corner, sitting on the floor, holding the gun in both hands, and aiming at the closed door.
The one consolation was that Dante was on his way. I could feel it, and it was calming me down. Right until more shots sounded close by. Some hit the metal door, making me squirm, and press my back further into the wall as if I could melt into it.
Then a deafening silence fell all around, my heart slamming against my ribcage being the one sound I could make out.
“Layla!” Spades shouted outside the door, and furious tapping on the keyboard followed.
One, two, three tries, but the door remained locked.
“Fuck!” he growled. “Open the door. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I rasped, my throat feeling as if I suffered from a nasty infection.
And then, Dante arrived.
His “Layla!” shook the foundations on the house, and I heard him running up the stairs. I put the gun down and tried to hoist myself up, but more tapping on the keyboard halted my efforts. The door cracked open, and Dante appeared, a gun in his hand, worry on his face, blood on his shirt.
And suddenly I was no longer in the closet, no longer in Dante’s house, no longer an adult. I traveled back in time to when I was seven, to when my paralyzing fear of blood started.
I stood in the doorway to the kitchen, watching Dante sitting on the table, his white t-shirt crimson, face pale, twisted with agony.
“Get her out of here, Jess!” Daddy screamed, opening every cabinet. “Fuck! Where’s the first aid kit in this shithole?!”
My chin trembled, and a quiet sob escaped me. Dante’s eyes snapped to me. I wanted to run and hug him, but my legs wouldn’t budge.
A small, reassuring smile crossed Dante’s lips.
“It’s okay, cutie,” he muttered, tugging on his leather jacket to cover the bloodied t-shirt. “Don’t cry. I’m fine.”
Tears rolled down my cheeks, but I knew I had to be strong or else Daddy would scream and call me a wuss.
I cried into my pillow for hours, hoping, praying that he’d be okay. I must’ve pushed those memories out of my system, buried them somewhere deep because thinking about him in pain was too much. He was the only person in my life to show me any form of affection back then.
And he still was now.
He crossed the room, helped me up, and drew me into his arms. I clung to him, to the safety he offered. He acted calm, but the way he held me, and the way his eyes roamed over my body showed just how worried he was.
“I’m here,” he said, taking my face in his hands. “You’re good. You’re fine, star. It’s over.” He kissed my head, then pulled me to his side, and turned to look at Spades. “Everyone okay?”
He shook his head, glancing at me as if assessing whether I was in good shape to handle the news.
But my eyes wandered to look further into the bedroom, and my composure snapped. I stood there, motionless, paralyzed, my eyes fixed on the hole in the forehead of a man lying on the floor. Blood sipped from the wound, turning the cream carpet crimson, and flipping my stomach.
I couldn’t move, couldn’t say a single word, despite channeling all efforts into remaining in control of my own emotions, while my mind tried to isolate me, trap me in the darkest corner.
“Two dead, and Cai and Rookie both got hit, but they’ll be okay.”
“Get Carlton over here,” he said, moving his attention back to me. “Hey, don’t look,” he said, moving my head to the side.
But that’s just it. The first thing anyone does when told not to look is look. And I struggled to avert my gaze until Dante blocked the view with his body.
“Layla,” he clipped the authority in his voice mixing with concern. “Eyes on me, star. I’m getting you out of here.”
He was focused and determined to walk me through the house and down to the garage without me seeing blood again.
My eyes fell shut to make things easier, but they flew open a second later when the image of that man’s lifeless body bleeding out onto the cream carpet flashed before my eyes.
Dante squeezed my hands tighter. “Exactly why I didn’t ask you to close your eyes.”
I took one cautious step at a time, and Dante walked backward, steering me so I wouldn’t trip over dead bodies. We were in the living room when the door bursting open made my head snap in the direction of the entryway.
My head started spinning, and I held my breath, unable to look away, despite my mind diving headfirst into a choking panic. Blood was everywhere. It looked as if someone poured a bucket of it on the floor.
Dante hissed, grabbing my face in his hands and forcing me to look at him. “Breathe,” he said forcefully. “You’re fine. Just breathe.”
I nodded vigorously, gritting my teeth
“Good girl.”
A peck of his lips on my forehead worked like Novocain.
SIXTEEN
LAYLA
I gasped, biting my teeth on Dante’s shoulder. He leaned over me, one hand entangled in my hair, the other holding my hip, and lips on my neck as he plunged deeper into me in a slow, passionate rhythm.
His fingers dug into my flesh with every thrust, hooded eyes watched me in-between kisses as he focused solely on pleasing me.
The quiet rustling of bed sheets, muffled music coming from downstairs, our hastened breathing, Dante’s low throaty growls, and my almost inaudible moans created an erotic background noise that fueled the fire raging in us.
Dante rested on his elbows, holding his arms along my shoulders as if to trap me. As if he never wanted to lose sight of me again.
Cold drops of water – remnants of a recent shower – ran down his neck and fell on my burning skin, introducing more goosebumps, more shivers, more squirming. A greedy, lustful kiss sent a new dose of desire; like a boost of energy, it changed the calm, passionate moment into a battle of desire.
I freed myself from the makeshift cage of his arms, drawing long lines on his back, my muscles tightening in anticipation. We’ve been at it for a while, but Dante wasn’t ready to let me come. He tortured me, brought me to the brink of fulfillment, and stopped in the crucial moment as if he wanted to hear me beg.
Pleasant pain spread in a wave of small vibrations through my body when he froze, denying me the sweet release. He took a deep breath, combing the strands of long, damp hair behind my ears.
“You’re trembling,” he muttered, satisfaction visible on his handsome face. “And I didn’t let you come yet.” A cheeky smirk betrayed that he planned to torture me for a long time.
“I’ll be sore for days.”
I pressed my hand to my forehead, then tried to push him back so I could dictate the pace and take what I needed.
He bent down and bit my earlobe. “Don’t even think about it.” He straightened his hands, hovering higher. “I love seeing you on top, but today I prefer the look on your face every time you’re so close.”
Dante smiled, brushing his fingers down the side of my body, sliding in, taking his time at first, then thrusting harder the last inch.
I threw my head back, gathering a handful of the sheets, and tried to keep quiet, but he found that perfect pace – steady but demanding, and my moans bounced off the walls.
Like a balloon filled with helium, I rose higher and higher, closer to the all-encompassing fulfillment, closer to the state of weightlessness. Dante hissed when my nails drew long lines on his back, while I gritted my teeth to stop from begging. I wasn’t sure what I wanted more – to come or for that moment to last.
I opened my eyes, feeling the familiar cramps in my abdomen. I clenched my thighs around his hips and drew him to me, but the powerful orgasm took away my ability to kiss, and instead, my teeth closed on my lower lip, while I clung to Dante, disappearing in the depths of my own consciousness.
He bent his elbows, pinning me to the mattress, pumping in and out, prolonging and magnifying the sensation. A brutal kiss bruised my lips, and Dante stilled, digging his fingers to my flesh, and holding me in place, coming inside of me.
His green eyes fluttered shut, muscles turned to stone, and lips parted. I had no strength left to embrace him, and the dark spots in front of my eyes disturbed the image of a handsome face a few inches from mine until he collapsed beside me, wrapping his arm around my middle.
For a long time, I couldn’t move. All I could do was attempt to calm my heartbeat, and catch enough air to balance on the verge of fainting.
Dante came to himself first. He sat up, raking a hand through his hair, then turned to look at me. A wrinkle appeared on his forehead, jaw clenched, and puff, just like that the satisfaction was gone, and replaced by worry.
I frowned, lifting my head from the pillow.
“You bit your lip,” he explained.
My hand went up to touch it, but Dante stopped me before my fingers come across blood. The metallic, disgusting taste filled my mouth. A cold sweat washed over me, a pang of anxiety replacing the last of pleasure.
“Wait,” he ordered, standing.
He pulled on a pair of boxer shorts and disappeared in the bathroom to return a minute later, a wet towel in hand. He sat on the edge of the bed and parted my lips with his thumb to wipe them clean.
“You should be happy,” I said. “I didn’t feel pain. Too much pleasure.”
He shook his head in amusement, placing the towel on the bedside table. “I’d rather you didn’t panic minutes after we had sex.” He kissed my lip, blowing on the cut.
“I think I might be able to deal with blood a little bit better now that I know what triggered the phobia in the first place.”
He considered my words for a moment as if trying to find the answer for himself. It took a moment, but then anger tainted his features, and he fisted his palms, tensing.
“Did Frank hurt…”
“No!” I cut in, shaking my head. “He had nothing to do with it. I promise.”
“Okay.” He relaxed a little. “What was it then?”
“You.” I smiled, seeing the confusion on his handsome face. “I was seven, and you got hit. Frankie was looking for a first-aid kit in the kitchen when I walked in.”
Recognition twisted his features. “I remember that. You were the cutest little thing, and I hated to see you cry.” He grabbed my arm and drew me closer. “I still hate it now.”
I rested my head on his torso, enjoying the soft kisses he was pressing into my hair. “I forgot about it, but seeing blood on your shirt last week brought it all back,” I whispered, tilting my head to look at him. “Looks like I loved you back then too.”
He kissed the corner of my mouth again. “You’ll have to be careful for a few days. I won’t be around to take care of it.”
“Don’t remind me. I have eight more hours of pretending that I don’t have to go anywhere, that I can stay here with you and that no one is trying to kill me.”
After the shooting, Dante decided to evacuate me from Chicago. The idea did seem like a good plan, but the destination not so much. Yet both Dante and Julij were adamant that there was no safer place than Julij’s uncle’s house back in Moscow.
Dante got up, pulled one of his white shirts from the hanger, and threw it at me, announcing a break. I sincerely hoped it was time for food. My stomach was already stuck to my spine.
“Dinner? I want a big burger with grilled chicken and a rainbow of vegetables.”
He nodded and grabbed his cell from the nightstand, then dialed a number. He didn’t take his eyes off me, watching me button his shirt.
“Go to Bellissimo, and order the usual for me, and a burger with grilled chicken and vegetables for Layla.” He looked away when I covered my breasts and pulled out sweatpants from the wardrobe. “Then pay him enough to do it.”
I cringed realizing I missed one button at the top and, as a result, the shirt was misaligned. I didn’t want to re-do it, so I waved my hand, gathered my hair on top of my head into something that was supposed to resemble a bun and tangled a tie around the masterpiece, ready to go downstairs and wait for food.
☐
“Stella Meridionali?” I wrinkled my nose, looking at the new passport.
Dante handed it to me after I went through the customs control. The airport representative – probably bribed – led us through Employees Only corridors into a small room reserved for VIP passengers departing on board of private aircrafts.
“Meridionali…” I repeated, testing the word. “Sounds Italian. Was there a change of plans?” My voice filled with anticipation. “Am I going to Italy?” Italy was warm in February if compared to Russia. And I hated cold weather.
Dante put his arm around me, and with his other hand, he pulled out a small envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket.
“It’s not Italian. It’s Latin. And there was no change of plans. Moscow is still the destination. New York first, though. Julij will join you there.”
“Why, Latin?”
He chuckled. “Stop asking questions, star.”
I rested my forehead against his torso.
“We take off in fifteen minutes,” a stewardess said from the other side of
the room. “We should board the plane now.”
“They won’t leave without me,” I muttered.
Dante pushed me away enough to look at my face. “No, but they’ll have to wait for the next takeoff window, and you only have forty minutes in New York to get through clearance and onboard of the next plane.”
I shrugged and clung to him once more. “I’ll fly tomorrow.”
“Do not do this to me, star,” he said, pressing his cheek to my temple. “You think I want you to go? I don’t, but more than that, I don’t want you to get hurt.”
I hated it when he was right. Leaving Chicago, and hiding in Moscow out of reach was the smartest choice. Without me around, Dante could focus one hundred percent on closing the job.
I clenched my teeth and made a shaky step back. Anxiety surrounded me like a thick fog. My hands were shaking, and tears came to my eyes. I sniffed, staring into Dante’s green eyes – as sad as when I aimed the gun at his heart outside of the warehouse by the lake.
He cupped my face and kissed me, pouring every ounce of contradicting emotions into it.
“I don’t want to see your tears. You need to be strong, and you need to miss me like crazy. Understood?”
I nodded but didn’t dare to speak, too worried that my vocal cords would break the dam, freeing the tears.
“Good girl.” He kissed my forehead, whispered, “I love you, star,” then turned on his heel and left, not daring to look over his shoulder.
A single tear ran down my cheek, but I wiped it with a sleeve, annoyed that the salty drop had the nerve to escape its confinement. I took my purse from a chair, flung the coat over my shoulder, and followed the stewardesses out of the airport building, leaving the house, the city, and Dante behind.
All I hoped for was that I’d live long enough to come back.
SEVENTEEN
DANTE
Spades stood in the doorway with an expression that made the hair on my neck stand to attention. He walked around me, letting himself in. Before I closed the door, I saw Nate, Rookie, and Jackson in the car.
