Broken Promises

by I. A. Dice

  Enraged Jean reminded me of an enraged puppy – exasperated, loud, but ineffective. A lot of yapping followed by a lot of nothing.

  She was always the fiercer one out of the two of us. The tomboy – climbing trees, getting dirty, and fighting with boys. I was the girly girl in pink dresses, weaving flower crowns. But Jean’s attitude left a mark on me, and in part I had her to thank for the feisty bones in my body.

  “You won’t drag me out of here, no matter how creative your threats get. You’re wasting time. Go, and enjoy.” I shooed her away.

  She hissed, cursing under her breath and left, slamming the door so hard the old windows shook in their wooden frames.

  Moments later, Taylor’s pick-up truck pulled onto the driveway. I peeked through the curtains to see Jean get into the car, a frown on her face. They remained parked for a minute, and I could only imagine the earful Taylor was getting on my behalf.

  When the pick-up backed out and disappeared out of view, I made my way downstairs to make a cup of hot chocolate, then took a thick blanket from the chair on the porch and headed for the back of the house.

  It took effort, but not long later I managed to light a fire, and wrapped in a thick blanket, with a steaming mug of hot chocolate in my hands, I sat on the bench, enjoying the silence and warmth.

  Fire danced in front of me, orange flames rose higher and higher, illuminating a small clearing. Large chunks of wood blackened, crack and turned into ash before my eyes. Just like my damaged heart. It was slowly falling apart, turning to dust.

  Thousands of sparks rose into the night air and went out in a fraction of a second... like Dante’s eyes when he realized my betrayal.

  They say love is like a flower. It needs nurturing, or else it dies.

  They say love is like a dream. It arrives when we don’t need it, but when it comes, we want it to last.

  They say love is like wine – sweet and bitter at the same time. It kicks your butt, makes you dizzy, intoxicated. We do stupid things when drunk, but no matter how much we convince ourselves it was the last time, that we won’t ever touch wine again, we do it anyway.

  In my case, love was like a drug. It grabbed me by the throat, infested my mind, and spread through my structure. Drug users forever remain addicts, even when they stop using. Letting go takes strength and courage, and not many people volunteer to get clean. Not many have that kind of willpower.

  I didn’t. I’d never get clean. I was to forever stay in love, forever in limbo, hoping, dreaming, waiting for a kiss to wake me.

  Uninvited tears stained my cheeks. I promised myself I wouldn’t cry because tears couldn’t change the past. Nothing could.

  Tears made me weak, and I wanted to fight. Each morning I woke up determined, told myself the world didn’t collapse, that it wasn’t over, that I should thank the saints I came out on the other side.

  Every day I created a new scenario of my life, one in which Dante didn’t play the lead role. One in which he didn’t exist, but regardless of my efforts, I couldn’t change that although he was nowhere around, he was still everywhere.

  He occupied every cell of my body, every thought, every dream. He was omnipresent, though absent, and I crumbled like a house of cards every night, drowning in grief, longing, and love.

  I wiped my cheeks hearing a car pull onto the driveway. One deep breath helped bury the pain under a pile of rubble that was my heart.

  Their shoes and pants rustled in the long grass for a moment before Jean plopped down beside me, holding two bottles of wine.

  She handed me one, staring at the fire, then unscrewed the top on the other, taking a large gulp. Taylor and his best friend Rick arrived with a four-pack of beer in one hand and a chair from the porch in the other.

  “Is the bar closed?” I asked, feeling somehow guilty that they changed their plans to keep me company.

  Jean shook her head, clanking her bottle to mine. “I won’t let you spend another evening crying.”

  “I wasn’t crying.”

  Taylor snorted, trading a knowing look with Rick. They were like two ends of a spectrum. Taylor was twenty-two and the most gullible guy I came across in all my nineteen years. He was a five foot eight, one hundred and seventy pounds of a goofing around softie. No one could take him seriously. Not with the ever-present surprise on his young, delicate face, not with the laid-back, careless attitude, and not with the lack of a backbone.

  Rick, on the other hand, was a tall, over-the-top muscular stiffness. Five years served in the military explained the lack of facial expressions and tense stance to a certain point, but Rick seemed almost inhuman. He was intelligent and perceptive, but there was no joking with him.

  “Instead of lying, start talking,” Taylor said, drinking his beer. “You can’t hide it forever, tell us why you ran from Chicago. You’ll feel better when you get it off your chest.”

  “Exactly,” Jean agreed. “I can’t look at you anymore. You’re like a shadow, you’re absentminded, frightened… What the hell happened there?” She squeezed my hand. “You can trust us, Layla. I promise.”

  The weight of my secret was unbearable. I wanted to let it go, but fear stopped me from wording a reply.

  Taylor scratched his head, glancing at Rick. “I mean, we kind of know most of it anyway, right? It’s all over the news, and Jean filled us in about your dad.”

  I scowled, glaring at Jean. “Way to keep a secret.”

  “A secret?” she scoffed. “It’s all over the news! You do have the same surname as Frankie, you know? And it’s not like I never told either of them that I used to have a cousin who’d visit every summer. They would’ve riddled it out all by themselves by now.”

  Rick? Yes. Taylor? Not so much.

  “What have you told them?”

  Jean shrugged, staring at the fire. “Nothing that isn’t readily available online. Oh, go on. Just spill it. Tell us what happened so we can tell you it’s not a big deal and take you out for a drink tomorrow.”

  I sipped from the bottle weighing my options. God, I wanted to tell them everything and hear an opinion. I wanted to know if there were a chance Dante would forgive me.

  I trusted Jean. Taylor’s unconditional and one-sided love for her meant he’d never share my secrets with anyone as it’d risk him losing the slim chance he had with Jean. But Rick… He was a different story. His defense walls were up at all time, and there was no guessing his reaction.

  I scoffed under my breath. What difference did it make? There wasn’t much either of them could do with the knowledge. Maybe apart from informing Dante of my whereabouts… And somewhere deep down I wanted them to do it even if all it’d bring upon me was death.

  “One thing you have to know about my father is that he never should’ve had children. He wasn’t fit for the role. Maybe because he was too young, or maybe because he was a sociopath and a manipulator.”

  “He was a cold, heartless bastard,” Jean said, imitating her mother’s condescending tone. “He had no decency, he was a criminal!” She continued, faking outrage.

  I chuckled. “I see Amanda wasn’t too fond of her brother.”

  Jean shook her head a firm no. “She hated his guts. At some point, she had way too much to say about Frank.”

  It wasn’t hard to guess when. Amanda had no idea about her brother’s profession until Frank killed Dino, and the media showed his face all over the country as the prime suspect. Nothing came out of it, but Amanda found out what Frank did for a living and ceased all contact.

  “He was a bad person, but he was my father… See, the main point in this story is that I never had what anyone deems as a normal family.”

  “I don’t really understand,” Taylor interjected, his eyebrows forming one line. “You’ve been crying after someone you’re calling a sociopath and a manipulator?”

  “Who said my tears have anything to do with Frank?”

  He fell silent and gestured for me to continue. And so I did, starting with the poor relationship
I had with my parents, through the gay boyfriends, and finally onto Frank’s master plan.

  “Frank wanted to destroy Dante, but he didn’t want to simply kill him. He wanted to inflict as much pain as possible. He wanted him to know what it meant to lose everything he cared about.”

  I paused to gather my thoughts. Talking about what happened later was a challenge, but a few sips of wine untied my tongue.

  “The problem was that Dante cared about nothing but his work. And that’s where Frank needed my help. He needed me to give Dante something to care about.”

  “Don’t tell me, Frankie wanted you to seduce the guy!” Jean disbelieved. “I mean, seriously? What the hell?”

  “That was my reaction.” I sighed, my heart aching. “And then Daddy told me my whole life was part of that sick plan. He thought about it for years, raising me to become someone Dante wouldn’t be able to resist.”

  Taylor exhaled heavily. “He wasn’t all there, huh?”

  Looking back now, I couldn’t believe my own naivety. I volunteered to be led into a trap, allowed Frank to use me as a means of winning the war over half of Chicago.

  Frank wasn’t normal. And because of him, neither was I. The emotional instability, the craving for closeness, the complete lack of common sense – not normal. Frankie raised me to follow him blindly, and I did, hungry for his love and acceptance even though a parent’s love should be unconditional and undeniable.

  Frank’s wasn’t. He wasn’t capable of loving or caring. The one good thing he ever did was sending me on my way to meet the greatest strength in my life – Dante.

  “What happened next?” Jean grew impatient. “Did you do it?” She was half-way through the bottle, her cheeks flushed, eyes wide and glassy.

  A small smile made its way to my lips. The joy associated with memories flooding my mind mixed with regret and pain that tortured me since I failed and hurt someone who loved me selflessly.

  “Next? I met Dante, and though I wasn’t supposed to fall for him, I did, and it only took a few weeks. There aren’t many men like him around. He’s confident, ruthless and arrogant…”

  “He sounds lovely,” Taylor mocked, rolling his eyes.

  I glared at him. “He’s intense, protective and caring, and he loved me so much…”

  The bottle of wine in my hand was emptying quickly once I started talking about the night Delta burst into flames. The look on Dante’s face when he realized my part in Frank’s plan haunted me in my sleep. Fear writhed inside me, battling with hope. Fear of the man I loved and hope that he’d forgive me.

  With each passing day, both were subsiding. Amanda’s house wasn’t the safest hiding place, and informing Jess I ran here wasn’t the smartest move, but safe or smart wasn’t what I aimed for.

  If he wanted to, Dante could find me, but he wasn’t showing up, and it hurt more than if he arrived with his men and put a gun to my head. At least then I’d know my betrayal hurt him, that he felt something.

  Now it seemed he moved on, leaving me behind like a distant memory.

  “Frankie told me to kill Dante,” I began again, my hands trembling. “I aimed at him. I watched him cross the thin line between love and hate. And if Frank hadn’t shown his true colors, I would’ve killed him.”

  “You would’ve killed Dante?” Jean repeated disbelievingly.

  I nodded. “It’s scary how much power Frank had over me. He barked at me when I hesitated, the tone of his voice filled with malice as if I was trash. And I realized I was just a tool. He didn’t love me and was never going to love me. He didn’t deserve me, my love, and my loyalty.”

  Jean’s eyes grew in size, and she covered her mouth. “You killed him?” she uttered.

  “If I didn’t, he would’ve killed Dante.”

  One of them had to die that night. And Frank deserved what he got.

  FIVE

  DANTE

  A mansion.

  There was no simpler way of describing the house of the New York King. A tall, brass gate with two armed men standing on both sides opened onto a gray, block paved driveway.

  Instead of a water fountain in the center of the driveway, like in the movies, a big palm tree stood in the center. A three-door garage stood to the right, and the house stretched in front of us, lit up in an orange hue, with another bodyguard standing ground by the entrance, stiff as a mannequin, staring into the distance.

  Spades parked out of the way and killed the engine. “Nikolaj sure knew how to make an impression,” he said, taking the house in.

  “He sure did,” I said, stepping out into the cold, morning air.

  One of Julij’s pawns opened the front door as we approached, muttering something to his chest in Russian. We entered a spacious hall with marble floors and a high ceiling. A crystal chandelier hung low on a silver chain, and two staircases surrounded the room starting on the opposite sides and meeting at the top directly in front of us.

  The air smelled of sweet flowers reminding me of Layla’s perfumes, but I pushed her out of my mind, for the time being, noticing Julij at the top of the right staircase.

  A tall, dark-hair man appeared behind him, and though I never met him, his posture, facial expression and something I couldn’t quite put a finger on seemed oddly familiar.

  Julij glanced at me, his eyes narrowed, and fists clenched at his sides as he rushed down the stairs.

  “What the fuck are you doing?!” he yelled, grabbing my shirt, and pushing me at the nearest wall. “Call it off!”

  Spades reached to the holster, but Dimitri appeared out of nowhere with a gun aimed at his head, forcing him to retreat while holding his hands in line with his chest.

  It took me a couple of seconds to process what just happened. Once it sank in, I caught Julij’s arm, twisted it back and he bent to stop me from breaking it, plastering his cheek to the wall.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?” I asked, my eyebrows furrowed, confusion towering above anger.

  “Me?!” Julij scoffed, trying to wriggle out of my grip.

  He was tall and robust, but he couldn’t compare to me. Not after the thirteen days of pure fury slash agony battling in my head.

  “Let go of him, Dante.” A low voice with a foreign accent boomed behind me.

  I turned my head, watching the man who ascended the steps. His accent was stronger than Julij’s, and so was the commanding note ringing in his voice.

  Well, he found his match.

  “Make me,” I hissed, “and you,” I pressed Julij’s head harder to the wall, “explain.”

  “You want me to explain?! You’re the one with explaining to do, but before that, call off the hit. Right. Fucking. Now.”

  I let go of his hand, taking a step back. “What hit?”

  “How many have you commissioned lately?” Julij adjusted his shirt and, holding onto the sore arm, motioned to Dimitri to stand down.

  “None. Who’s the target?”

  He watched me, his face falling, eyes growing wider, and hands trembling. Then he grabbed fistfuls of his hair, looking up to the ceiling.

  “It wasn’t you… Shlyukha!” he bellowed in Russian. “Kak ne ty…” His face turned pale, and fist connected with the wall.

  Dimitri took a step toward him while Spades watched the scene with one eyebrow raised, and arms now crossed over his chest. Julij tore his gaze away from the wall and torment twisted his face.

  The atmosphere changed from raging to heavy. A chill ran down my spine as my mind filled in the blanks going off the little information I had.

  “Who’s the target, Julij?” I asked again, my voice almost unrecognizable, muscles tense while I silently begged him not to say what I knew was going to come out of his mouth.

  The look on his face was unmistakable, but it made no fucking sense, and I hoped to have misread his reaction.

  “It’s Layla. She’s the target. I found out this morning, I don’t know much yet.”

  An answer I expected, and one I was entirely unpr
epared for. Julij’s words echoed in my head, their meaning stripping me of all senses. For the second time in my life, I felt powerless.

  I opened my mouth to speak, but words were stuck somewhere deep in my throat. My hand traveled up, and I squeezed the nape of my neck, digging my fingers hard into the skin.

  Instead of forcing my vocal cords to work, I tried to deliver enough air into my lungs to remain focused. Layla in danger was the only thing that could get me from calm to all-out petrified in a matter of seconds.

  The worst kind of fear swept over my entire system, weakening me, robbing my mind of the ability to think straight, pushing me to act without gathering all the information.

  I could’ve easily crumbled under the weight of my own protectiveness. It was crushing, primal, uncontainable. The muscles on my shoulders turned to stone, and I felt physical pain, knowing she was out of my reach, and I couldn’t protect her.

  “Get the man a drink,” I heard the authoritative voice again and felt Spades squeeze my arm for the second time that day.

  I inhaled sharply and gritted my teeth, forcing my legs to move. Julij led us to the living room, and I collapsed on a sofa, my palms trembling.

  “Drink.” The dark-haired man handed me a glass of whiskey, but instead of downing it to calm the fuck down, I placed it on the table.

  “And you are…?”

  “My name is Anatolij Aristow.” He took a seat opposite. “I’m Julij’s uncle.”

  The infamous Anatolij. The name didn’t help me understand the peculiar familiarity I felt toward him. He looked nothing like Julij or Nikolaj. He was broader, coarser, and much more sophisticated. I imagined him to be older, but he looked in his late thirties at the most.

  “Who ordered the hit?” I asked, glaring at Julij.

  “I thought it was you until you made it obvious you didn’t even know about it.”

  I took a packet of Marlboro out of my jacket pocket and lit one up. Dimitri handed me an ashtray, and Spades took a seat beside me, taking my drink with him. He knew I wouldn’t touch it. I had to stay focused, find out all I could, and then act.