Broken Promises

by I. A. Dice

  “So there’s a hit, but no principal?”

  “Oh, there is. At least I think it’s him. Or was, actually,” Julij said. “Remember when I told you Frank’s looking for a hitman the last time you were in New York?” He paused, waiting for me to confirm. “Well, I thought he was looking for someone to kill you, but it looks like he was looking for someone to kill Layla.”

  I hung my head low, feeling everything I had for breakfast climb back to my throat. The one element of Frank’s plan that made no fucking sense back then, suddenly made too much sense.

  “Frank ordered a hit on his own daughter?” Spades asked, his tone full of disgust and disbelief, not comprehending something I had already understood. “I know he was one cruel motherfucker, but he was her father! It makes no sense.”

  I exhaled a cloud of smoke. “It does.”

  Every part of Frank’s strategy was planned out to perfection. Layla herself was a dream come true. I had thirteen days and nights to analyze the last few months, and apart from the supposed hit Frank wanted to order on me, I found nothing I wouldn’t be able to explain.

  He wanted Layla to kill me, so why hire a hitman?

  So he’d kill his daughter if something went wrong. So he’d kill the one person I cared about. Everyone knew Layla was my sole weakness. Even Frankie.

  Especially Frankie.

  He knew that even if the whole of Chicago would be mine, even if I climbed to the very top, without Layla, I’d have nothing. My life was worthless without her.

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

  Those were the words he spoke to me that night. He was certain Layla would kill me, that he meant more to her than I did, but he insured himself nonetheless.

  Sick bastard.

  “I doubt he suspected Layla had it in her to kill him. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have given her the gun, but Frankie always had a plan B in case things went haywire.” Julij sat next to his uncle, and rested his elbows on his knees, leaning forward. “He probably considered a margin of error in his plan. It’d take a tiny slip-up to turn the tables, and he knew it. I guess that’s why he ordered the hit. He wanted to make sure that if he were the one to die, you’d still lose Layla.”

  And there it was again, that pang of fear, the irrational hollow feeling in my stomach at the mere thought of anything happening to her. I squeezed the bridge of my nose, trying hard to recall the moment when the borderline obsession with Layla began. I wasn’t like this from the start, and I was already like this before she ran. Somewhere along the way, the rational part of my brain left, and I couldn’t put the finger on what triggered it. And I had to. I couldn’t go on for long, acting bat-shit crazy.

  “So we’ve got the principal. Who’s the hitman?” Spades asked.

  He sat beside me, his back straight, muscles tense and face focused. He could pull the wool over Julij’s and Anatolij’s eyes acting cool, but I saw through his mask. Nerves raged in him, and he was ready to run out of there and not come back until he found the hitman. He’d take his fury out on him, and then he’d bring him back to me, half-alive, so I could finish the job.

  “Anyone who wants to try,” Anatolij said. “Frank opened the hit to anyone willing.”

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

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

  How well I knew Frank was frustrating. Deciphering his intentions was a child’s play, yet the plan with Layla as the bait slipped my attention.

  Now all I needed were thirty seconds to riddle out his way of thinking. By opening the job to anyone, he turned it into a race. The first one to find and kill Layla would get the money. And anyone could try.

  “What’s the price?” I asked while Dimitri refilled the glass for Spades.

  “Too much to hope the professionals will sit this one out. Not to mention the amateurs. Search parties are probably out as we speak.”

  The difference between a professional and an amateur wasn’t significant. Professionals were those who made a living out of contracted killings. They had no boss to answer to.

  Everyone else, people like Cai or Jackson who took care of the dirty work on a daily basis were amateurs, but the way some of them handled a gun would have a professional blush.

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

  “Three million.”

  Spades chocked on his whiskey and started coughing. He raised his hands, turning purple. “Three million dollars?” he muttered once he was able to breathe again. “Two years ago Andreas got one and a half to kill the boss from Florida. You’d fucking think Layla’s the president’s daughter.”

  Anatolij raised from his seat and walked away toward a window, staring out to the back garden, his hands behind his back. “The hit is open, the principal is dead. There must be someone who holds the money and pays the winner. Any ideas?”

  “You mean a promoter, Anatolij. We call them promoters,” Julij said. “And no, I’ve no idea who’d be willing to take up the task.”

  “Think, Dante,” Spades elbowed me. “If we find the promoter, we can close the job.”

  “Killing him won’t retract the job,” Anatolij interjected, turning to face us. “The information is out there, and you don’t know how many people found out so far, and how many will over the next few days. You have to force the promoter to close the hit.”

  “I’m not chasing the promoter risking anyone finding Layla in the meantime.” I rose from the sofa. “First Layla, then the promoter.”

  I took my phone out and dialed Jackson’s number. Apart from being a fighter, he was also the head of the Lost and Found department in my entourage. If I required any kind of information, he was my guy.

  He had friends who were able to access any online database with a few taps on the computer keyboard. Jackson himself wasn’t a bad hacker, but right now I needed everyone he could get on the task to start looking for Layla because I wanted, I needed her back that very second.

  “What’s up?”

  “Find her,” I said, gripping the phone hard.

  He remained silent for a moment, breathing down the line. “Why?” he asked warily not needing an explanation.

  He knew who I was referring to, and I almost smiled hearing hesitance in his voice. It sounded as if he were daring me to make one false move so he could go ballistic on my ass.

  Despite Layla’s betrayal, my people remained in awe of her. And they all knew it was just a matter of time before I’d start looking for her. Deep down, I knew it too, but I was too fucking stubborn and hurt to admit it. There was no way in heaven I’d be able to just let her go.

  My world revolved around her since the day she walked into Delta in that red dress and sassy attitude.

  Knowing people were out there looking for her to claim three million dollars was flipping my stomach. I’ve spent thirteen days pretending, lying to myself, but in the end, I was powerless in the face of my own feelings.

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

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

  “Get everyone on it.” I balled my fists, trying to say what had to be said without losing my shit. “There’s a bounty on her head, Jackson. Three million dollars, open hit.” My voice remained steady, although inside I was as far from steady as one could get.

  “Shit,” he hissed, and furious tapping on a keyboard started in the background. “Who ordered it? And why?”

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

  “On it. We’ll find her first.”

  He cut the call, and I turned to Spades, lighting up another cigarette. “I want to know who the promoter is. And call the V brothers and all the other people we do business with while you’re at it. No one is to even think about taking the job
, or I’ll cut them out and kill those they’re related to.”

  SIX

  LAYLA

  Jean stood in the doorway of my little bedroom with her hands on her hips and a stern face.

  “Don’t argue,” she hissed. “You told us what happened, nobody cares, and you promised to come with us tonight, so you’re coming whether you want to or not.”

  “I didn’t promise anything. I’d love to get out of here and stop thinking for a moment, but...”

  “No, buts! You’ve been helping me in the store for two weeks...”

  “Thirteen days,” I corrected her.

  I didn’t know why I felt the need to state it, but I did.

  She snorted and continued, “two dozen of people see you every day, and yet still somehow your loverboy has failed to arrive so don’t try to tell me that if you go out tonight, he’ll suddenly know where you are.”

  I sat on the edge of the bed, fidgeting with the hem of my flannel shirt. Jean was adamant I’d wear those while working at the shop. It wasn’t something I would’ve chosen to buy myself, but flannels turned out comfortable.

  Aunt Amanda owned a little convenience store on her premises and had me help Jean despite my weak protests.

  “I only work with you at the store because your mother refused to take money from me to cover the expenses.”

  “We live in the least interesting town in Texas. You won’t see any new faces at the bar, only those you already know from the store. We don’t have gangsters here, and nobody even knows who you are!” She undid her braid and gathered her hair into a ponytail. “And you know what I think?”

  I didn’t want to know, but Jean didn’t wait for an answer.

  “I think Dante isn’t even looking for you. Because, why would he? After what you did to him, he put a cross on you.”

  I took a deep breath and tried to control my palpitating heart. Jean mentioning his name was enough to make me feel as if someone locked me in a wooden box and threw it into a river.

  I missed Dante, and sometimes, I couldn’t understand how I could miss him so much. How could anyone love that much? How could anyone fuck up their life like I did before it properly began?

  “You hope he’s looking for you, Layla. You want him to find you because you think he’ll forgive you. I’m sorry to say it, dear, but hope is the mother of fools.”

  I shook my head, refusing to admit she was right. “If he’s looking for me, it’s not to forgive me.”

  “If he loved you as you said, it’s definitely not to kill you. Just stop freaking out. You’re safe here.” She pulled the hair tie back from her hair once more and combed through the blond locks, tucking loose strands behind her ears. She pulled a phone out of her jeans pocket. “There. Say goodbye to him and let’s start a new chapter in your life. I think Rick is into you, you know?”

  “You want me to call Dante? Are you crazy? He’ll trace the phone and know where I am.”

  “Then block the number.” She rolled her eyes, pressing the cell phone to my hand. “Call him, apologize, and say goodbye. You’ll feel better. I promise.”

  “Say goodbye?” I mumbled, staring at the black screen of her phone.

  How? Goodbye wouldn’t leave my lips. I didn’t know the rhythm, the sentence structure, or the individual words and letters needed to say goodbye. There were no such words in my dictionary or my language. And I didn’t know a language in which I could say goodbye to him.

  I shook my head and put the phone aside.

  Jean sighed, pity on her face. “Get changed and don’t even try to protest or I’ll send Taylor here, and he won’t be as nice as I am. We’re leaving at seven o’clock sharp.”

  A small smile tugged on my lips. It was six fifty-two. Jean was the only person who could make me smile. She was nuts, and since I appeared at the doorstep of this house, she was crawling out of her skin to get us back into the best–friends mindset from all those years ago.

  She was two years older than me but acted as if she were five years younger. Or maybe it was me being overly mature for my age.

  I grew up in a big city, in a house full of criminals, guns, and drugs, and Jean had a happy childhood on a Texas farm, in a small town. She was innocent, joyful, and behaving adequately to her age.

  I took a deep breath and rose from the bed. A moment later Taylor pulled onto the driveway in his thirty-years-old Ford Ranger. Rick sat on the passenger seat.

  Taylor waited for us, leaning against the hood of the car with a cigarette in his mouth and a cell phone in his hand. He tapped at the screen, but when Jean stopped in front of him, he put it away, and smiled, looking her up and down before moving his gaze to me.

  “Finally,” he said. “I thought you’ll stand us up again.”

  Jean smiled and pecked Taylor’s cheek before taking her seat in the pickup. “She wanted to, but this time I told her I’ll send you to go get her.”

  “Am I that scary?”

  He looked like taken straight out of a cowboy movie – a hat, high cowboy boots with spurs, and a checkered shirt tucked in his jeans.

  I bit my cheek to stop from laughing. “Not so much.” I winked and took a seat at the back with Jean.

  Taylor slammed the door hard to force it shut. He did that every morning when he arrived at the store for a chat with Jean.

  “Have you played pool before?” Rick asked, turning in his seat to face me. Piercing blue eyes drilled a hole in me.

  “No, I’m quite bad at games. Any games, really. I’ll watch and cheer.”

  He nodded, but with that unreadable face of his, there was no guessing whether he agreed or decided to teach me.

  Living in Chicago I was used to traffic, horns, crowded pavements, and flashing billboards, but out here there was none of that. During the ten minute drive to the bar, a total of three cars drove past us.

  Amanda’s farm was on the outskirts of the small town, and the bar was out of the way too by the quiet, lonely interstate.

  Accustomed to being served alcohol without a problem back in Chicago, I was stunned when the barmaid asked for ID.

  “Relax, Sydney, Layla’s with us,” Taylor shouted, and all eyes turned to me.

  Twenty people in the bar fell silent, watching my every move. Sydney raised an eyebrow and sized me up again, but finally reached for a beer glass. She cleaned it with a white cloth before pouring a beer for me.

  I couldn’t count on mojito or wine in this place. Beer and whiskey were all they served.

  “Put it on my tab,” I heard behind me.

  My knees buckled, and palms grew damp. Despite the voice sounding nothing like Dante’s, the words evoked a wave of memories.

  “Thanks, but I pay for my own drinks.” Irritation covered my words like honey.

  He took a seat next to me, his lips curving into a faint smile. He wasn’t a drunk idiot. No, he was sober and lethal. A black, leather jacket hugged his broad shoulders and went well with the short, styled hair, and cute dimples.

  My cheeks blushed when emerald green eyes met my gray ones.

  “I didn’t ask for permission.”

  “No need,” I said, crashing with reality when Taylor rested his back on the bar. “I’ve got money.”

  “I know. Which is why you’re buying the next round.” He winked beaming. “I’m sure wherever you’ve spent your evenings back in Chicago was a lot fancier than this, but it’s okay, right?”

  Most of the clients returned to their conversations, but a few still watched me with curious eyes. They were mostly older men with large beer bellies and long beards, but there was a group of young guys in the corner eyeing me up, and whispering among themselves.

  Jean sat close to the pool table, and Rick stood nearby, talking to a tall, muscular, tattooed man. A deep scar ran from his left eye down his cheek to disappear under the immaculate beard. He was dressed casual, his stance firm.

  “That’s Archer,” Taylor said in a hushed voice, glancing sideways. “He and Rick served toge
ther for a couple of years. I don’t like the guy.”

  A note of jealousy played in his voice, and I chuckled. Archer raised his head as if he could hear me through the chatting crowd and music playing in the background, and his eyes locked with mine.

  The intensity of his gaze slowly roaming over my body left me feeling naked. If it were Dante, my pulse would be all over the place, my cheeks flushed, desire blooming in the pit of my stomach. But it wasn’t Dante, and all Archer’s open staring did was make me uncomfortable.

  “Oh, great,” Taylor huffed. “Looks like he’s into you.” He crossed his arms, glaring at me. “He’s an asshole, Layla…”

  “Don’t,” I snapped. “I’m not interested in him or anyone else.”

  A moment later, we joined Jean. Together with Taylor, they went ahead and started the game, not waiting for Rick to finish his conversation with Archer. I couldn’t shake the feeling they were watching me, but I didn’t risk turning around.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to play?” Rick came back to the table ten minutes later when Jean was almost done humiliating Taylor.

  I shook my head, remembering all too well how great it turned out when I played with much bigger balls at the bowling alley. There were more balls here, and even though I wouldn’t be able to do much damage with those, the long wooden stick could prove a weapon of mass murder in my hands.

  We talked until Taylor lost, and then Rick took his place. Jean didn’t sit down for the next four games because Taylor kept letting her win. It did nothing to appease her, though. She wasn’t oblivious to his feelings, but never once told him to drop it. It’d save the guy time and effort, but Jean enjoyed the adoration.

  The beer glass in my hand was emptying slowly, and it took an hour before I went over to the bar to order another round.

  Archer’s piercing gaze caught mine when I raised from my seat. He sat in the corner, alone, quiet, enjoying a beer. It struck me as odd that Rick hadn’t invited him to join us.

  Archer offered me a one-sided smile, but I wasn’t about to give him the green light to get up and start a conversation. Instead, I nodded, keeping my expression stern, and moved away, feeling his eyes on me.