Broken Promises: (Broken Duet #2)

A mansion.

There’s no simpler way to describe the house of the New York King. Two armed men stand guard on both sides of a tall, brass gate that opens onto a dark-gray, paved driveway. Instead of a water fountain in the middle, like in most gangster movies, a palm tree thrives despite the freezing cold. A three-door garage stands to the right, and the house stretches before us, bathed in an orange hue of LED lights embedded into the driveway. Another bodyguard is guarding the entrance, stiff as a mannequin, eyes focused on something in the distance.

Spades parks out of the way, cuts the engine and spins his head left and right, taking in the over-the-top large mansion. “Nikolaj sure knew how to make an impression.”

“He sure did.” I agree, stepping out into the cool morning air, though the goosebumps dotting my skin aren’t because of the cold. I’m still reeling after that girl in the subway turned out not to be my star.

A thin layer of snow covers the roof, but it long melted on the ground. As we approach, one of Julij’s pawns opens the front door, muttering in Russian into a microphone affixed to his jacket. A spacious foyer with marble floors and a high ceiling brings to mind an expensive hotel lobby. A crystal chandelier hangs low on a silver chain, directly over a large bouquet of lilies and roses on a round table. Their aroma hangs in the air, reminding me of Layla’s perfume. The memory of hiding my face in her neck at night, inhaling her intoxicating scent plays on the backs of my eyelids. I push Layla out my head when Julij appears at the top of the grand staircase that snakes on both sides of the room.

A tall, dark-haired man stands right behind him, and although I never met him, his posture, facial expression, and something I can’t quite put my finger on seem oddly familiar.

Julij pins me with a hateful stare, his fists clenched. White-hot rage radiates off him as he rushes down the stairs, taking two steps at a time. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!” He grips me by the collar only to shove me against the nearest wall. “Are you out of your fucking mind?! Call it off!”

Spades reaches for the gun tucked in the holster by his belt, but Dimitri materializes behind him out of nowhere, pressing the barrel of his gun to Spades’ temple. Without much choice, he lets go of his gun and raises his hands to his chest in defeat, but I know that one word from me will have him raining hell on everyone around with his bare knuckles. I’m too stunned by Julij’s outburst and the fucking nerve of him getting in my face to say a single word. A few seconds pass before I process what the fuck just happened. Once it sinks in, a switch responsible for my temper flips in my head.

I catch Julij’s arm, twist it back, and watch him bend and arch away, his cheek not far off the floor as he tries to save his bones before they snap. “What is wrong with you?” I ask, my eyebrows furrowed. For now, confusion towers over anger.

“Me?!” Julij scoffs, fighting, albeit weakly, to wriggle out of my grip. He’s tall and muscular but doesn’t stand a chance against me. Not today. Not after the thirteen days of pure fury and slashing agony I’ve endured. Not after I thought I had Layla at my fingertips half an hour ago.

“Let go of him, Dante.” A stoic, low voice with a sharp, Russian accent sounds in the room, the commanding note unmistakable and un-fucking impressive.

I turn my head when the man descends the stairs. “Make me,” I hiss, turning back to Julij, “and you,” I twist his arm harder, forcing him to his knees, “explain that stunt.”

“You want me to explain?!” Sweat breaks out on his forehead, but he grinds his teeth, trying and failing to hide just how much his arm hurts right now. “You’re the one with explaining to do, but first, call off the hit. Right. Fucking. Now.”

I let him go at that. His words, like a freight train, crash into my chest. “A hit? What fucking hit?”

“How many have you commissioned lately?” Julij straightens up, smooths his shirt, and adjusts the jacket before he motions at Dimitri to stand down, cradling his sore arm in the other. “Call it off, or you won’t get out of here alive.”

I grab him by his throat and pin him to the wall in the same spot he had me moments ago. “Threaten me again, and I’ll snap your spine so fast Dimitri won’t have time to pull the fucking trigger. Now explain what the fuck you’re talking about, and you better change your attitude. It’s been over two years since I ordered a hit, Julij.” I let him go, stepping back. “Who’s the target?”

His face falls, eyes widen, and hands tremble as he grabs fistfuls of his hair. “It wasn’t you… Blyad’!” he bellows in Russian. “Kak ne ty…” Blood drains from his face, turning his usually pale complexion ashen.

Dimitri steps forward while Spades glares at Julij with one eyebrow raised and one hand back on the holster. Julij tears his gaze away from the wall, pure torment in his eyes. The atmosphere changes from raging to heavy in the blink of an eye. The fine hairs on my neck stand on end. My mind fills in the blanks based on the little information I have.

“Who is the target?” I ask again, my voice almost unrecognizable, muscles tense while I silently beg him not to say what I already know will come out of his mouth.

“It’s Layla,” he clips, his chest heaving. “She’s the target.”

An answer I expected and one I’m entirely unprepared for. The words bounce around my head like tiny balls inside a rattle toy. One sentence. One fucking piece of information, and I’m damn near losing my wits. The meaning of Julij’s words strips me of my sanity bit by fucking bit. For the second time in my life, I’m powerless. Crushed by the intense protectiveness. By fear.

I open my mouth, but words pile up on the tip of my tongue. I grip the nape of my neck, dig my fingers in my skin and squeeze hard to ease the tension. Instead of forcing the chaotic thoughts out of my mind by asking all the supporting questions popping up, I breathe in and out, delivering enough air into my lungs to remain focused, somewhat composed, and in a relatively sane mindset.

Layla in danger is the only thing that can get me from calm to all-out petrified in a matter of seconds. The most excruciating dread sweeps over my entire system, powerful enough to bring me to my knees and leave me weak and defenseless. It robs my mind of its basic functionality: the ability to think straight. It pushes me to act without gathering all the information. I could easily crumble under the weight of my protectiveness that engulfs every nerve in my body. It’s crushing. Primal. Uncontainable. My body springs into combat mode. Real, physical pain jabs at my heart because she’s out of my reach.

I can’t see her.

I can’t touch her.

I can’t fucking protect her.

“I found out this morning,” Julij says, his words distorted as if coming through bulletproof glass. “I don’t have much information yet.”

“Get the man a drink,” the authoritative voice says again.

Spades squeezes my arm for the second time today, pushing me toward the living room. I inhale a sharp breath, grit my teeth, and force my legs to move and my head to snap out of the trance. I collapse on a sofa, my hands shaking, chest tight enough to fucking choke me.

“Drink.” The dark-haired man hands me a glass of whiskey.

Instead of drying it in one go to calm my nerves, I set it aside on the side table. No way I’ll take that road. It’d numb my chaotic mind, but I can’t afford to lose focus. “And you are…?”

“My name is Anatolij Aristow.” He takes a seat on the opposite sofa. “I’m Julij’s uncle.”

Ah, the infamous Anatolij Aristow. The name doesn’t explain the strange familiarity I feel towards him. I’ve never met the man but can’t shake the feeling that I know him from somewhere. He’s the complete opposite of Julij and Nikolaj. Broader, coarser, and much more sophisticated. I imagined him to be older, but he looks in his late thirties at the most.

“Who the fuck ordered the hit?” I glare at Julij.

“Obviously, I thought it was you until you made it clear just now that you didn’t even know about the job.”

I pull a packet of Marlboro out of the inside pocket and pinch the filter between my teeth, lighting it up. Dimitri sets an ashtray on the coffee table while Spades sits beside me, the glass of whiskey I refused to drink now in his hand.

“So, there’s a hit, but no principal?” he asks, resting his elbows casually on his knees. It’s just a front, though.

I know Spades as I know myself. He’s fuming. Delirious with the need to find a kill whoever ordered the hit.

“Oh, there is. At least I think it’s him. Or was, actually.” Julij shakes his head in disbelief, pinning me with his rude, forceful stare. “Remember when I told you Frank’s on the lookout for a hitman last time you were in New York?” He waits for me to nod. “I thought he wanted someone to kill you, but it looks like he tried to find someone to kill Layla.”

Everything I had for breakfast climbs back up my esophagus, bitter bile pooling at the back of my throat. Jesus, just hearing kill Layla has me on the verge of spontaneously combusting.

I can’t believe the fucker. He sure deserved the bullet Layla put through his heart. Ordering a hit on his own daughter? How deranged; how bent on revenge was he to revert to murdering his only child? The hit was the one element of Frank’s plan that made no sense back then.

Now, it makes too much sense.

“Frank ordered a hit on his own daughter?” Spades asks, his tone filled with disgust and disbelief as he can’t comprehend what I already understood. “He was one cruel motherfucker, but he was her father… it makes no sense.”

I exhale a cloud of smoke. “It does.”

Frank’s plan was methodically crafted to perfection. Layla herself was my dream come true. I spent thirteen days and nights analyzing the last few months, and other than the supposed hitman Frank wanted to hire, I found nothing that couldn’t be easily explained. But that hitman… what a baffling idea. He wanted Layla to kill me, so why hire a professional?

So he’d kill her if the plan fell apart, as is always the risk in our line of work. So he’d kill the one person I cared about. Everyone knew Layla was my sole weakness. Even Frankie.

Especially Frankie.      

Without Layla, even if Chicago fell into my hands, even if I rose to the top of the game, I’d have nothing. My life is fucking worthless without her in it. Unlivable. Because I’ve not been living the past thirteen days. Merely surviving.

“I’m taking away what you hold dearest.”

Those are the words he spoke that night. He was one hundred percent sure Layla would kill me; he meant more to her than me, but he insured himself, nonetheless.

“I doubt he thought Layla would shoot him; otherwise, he wouldn’t have given her the gun, but Frankie always had a backup plan in case things turned to hell.” Julij sits beside his uncle, mimicking Spades’ position with elbows resting on his knees as he leans forward. “He had to consider a margin of error in his plan. It’d take a tiny slip-up to turn the tables. I guess that’s why he ordered the hit. “He wanted to make sure that even if he’d be the one to die, you’d still lose her.”

There it is again. The jab of fear. The violent hollowness in my stomach at the mere thought of anything happening to her. I squeeze the bridge of my nose, trying to recall the moment my borderline obsession began. I wasn’t like this from the start. But I was already like this before she ran. Somewhere along the way, the rational part of my brain left, and I don’t remember what triggered the response.

And I have to. I can’t go on for long, acting bat-shit crazy.

“We’ve got the principal. Who’s the hitman?” Spades asks.

He sits beside me, his back straight, muscles tense, a focused, determined look on his face. He can pull the wool over Julij and Anatolij’s eyes, acting composed, but I’ve known him for years. I see past the mask. Fury courses through his veins just as it does through mine. He’s ready to leave and not come back until he finds the hitman. He’d take his rage out on him first before dragging him back to me, half-alive, so I could finish the job.

“Anyone who wants to try,” Anatolij says with a heavy sigh. “Frank opened the hit to anyone willing.”

“An open hit?” Spades clips. “He couldn’t find a single person dumb enough to take the job?”

I rake my hand through my hair. “Quite the opposite. If he hired one guy, I’d find and kill the fucker. By opening the hit, he took control out of my hands.”

It’s frustrating how well I know Frank. Knew him. Deciphering his intentions is child’s play now, but the plan with Layla as bait slipped my attention. Now all I need are seconds to figure out his way of thinking. By opening the job, he turned it into a race. The first one to find and kill Layla wins the money… and anyone can try.

“How much?” I ask while Dimitri refills the glass for Spades.

“Way too much to hope that the professionals will forfeit this time. Not to mention amateurs. Search parties are probably out as we speak.”

The difference between a professional and an amateur isn’t all that significant. Professionals are those who make a living out of contracted killings. They work for no one but themselves, with no boss to answer to. People like Cai or Jackson who deal with the dirty work daily but report to a boss are amateurs. The way some of those so-called amateurs handle a gun would make a professional blush.

“How much?” I urge, staring Julij down.

“Three million.”

Spades chokes on the whiskey, coughing like an asthmatic. He raises his hands, gasping for air as his forehead and cheeks turn purple. “Three million dollars?” he pants between ragged breaths, calming down slowly. “Two years ago, Andreas got one and a half for taking out the boss from Florida. You’d think Layla’s the president’s daughter.”

Anatolij rises from his seat, making his way toward a window, each step calculated. An aura of crushing power walks with him. He stops a foot from the glass, staring out to the back garden, hands behind his back. “We seem to be overlooking one issue. We have an open hit and a deceased principal. That means someone must hold the money to pay the winner. Any ideas?”

“You mean a promoter. We call them promoters,” Julij clips, clearly unhappy with his uncle. “And no, I’ve no idea who could be stupid enough to agree to oversee this farce.”

“Think, Dante,” Spades elbows my ribs. “If we find the promoter, we can close the job.”

“Killing him won’t retract the job,” Anatolij interjects, turning back to face us. “The information is out there. You do not know how many people have been alerted or will be alerted in the coming days. You must force the promoter to close the hit and inform the takers using the same channels.”

“I won’t chase the promoter and risk anyone finding Layla in the meantime. She takes priority. Once she’s back home, I can start looking for the promoter.”

I pull out my phone to call Jackson. Apart from his job as my main fighter, he’s also the head of the Lost and Found department in my entourage. If I require any kind of information, he’s my guy. His friends can access an online database with a few keystrokes. Jackson himself isn’t a lousy hacker, but I need everyone he can get on the task right now.

I want… fuck, I need her back this very second.

“What’s up?” he asks, answering on the third tone.

“Find her.”

A short pause is his first response, but I doubt he needs an explanation as to who I want him to find. “Why?”

I almost smile at the hesitant note in his voice. He sounds like he dares me to make one false move; say one word wrong that’d warrant him going ballistic on my ass. Despite Layla’s betrayal, my people remained in awe of her. She clawed her way deep under their skin, not just mine. I guess they all knew it was a matter of time before I’d start looking for her. Deep down, I knew it too, but I was too stubborn, riled-up, and hurt to admit it. There’s no way in heaven I could let her go. Since the day she stepped into Delta wearing a red dress and a sassy attitude, my whole world revolves around her. Knowing people are out there searching for her, eager to claim three million dollars, flips my stomach. I spent thirteen days in a web of self-woven lies, but in the end, I’m powerless in the face of my feelings.

“Because it’s about time I stop lying to myself.”

“Took you long enough.” Jackson chuckles. “I’ll get on it straight away.”

“Get everyone on it, Jackson. Right now.” I ball my fists, adamant to say what has to be said without losing my fucking shit again. “There’s a bounty on her head. Three million dollars, open hit.” My voice remains stable even though inside, I’m screaming and sending one bullet after another into the New York sky.

“Shit,” he whispers as furious tapping on a keyboard starts in the background. “Who ordered it? And why?”

“Frank. I’ll explain when we’re in Chicago. Get to work.”

“On it. We’ll find her first, Boss.”

He cuts the call, and I turn to look at Spades, lighting another cigarette. “I want to know who the promoter is. Make it happen. Call the V brothers and all our other business partners while you’re at it. No one is to even think about taking the hit, or I’ll cut them off and kill everyone they’re related to.”