Broken Promises

by I. A. Dice

  “Not really. Dante doesn’t tell me what he’s doing, but something must be wrong because he called to say he won’t be in touch for a few days.”

  Anatolij’s face became unreadable as he sipped on his coffee, watching me with those cold, steel irises.

  “I’m sure it’s nothing he can’t take care of. According to Julij, Dante’s clever, perceptive, and more or less unstoppable.”

  “That makes one thing Julij’s right about,” I clipped, bitterness covering every one of my words. The recent conversation, the nerve of him implying what he did was like a slap across my face.

  Anatolij raised a questioning eyebrow. “I sense annoyance. What did my nephew do to upset you?”

  I studied Anatolij for a moment, searching for anything that could prove Julij had a point, but there was nothing. The way Anatolij treated me had no sexual context, no lustful vibe. But I wasn’t about to tell him Julij had the nerve to voice his accusations not only to him but to me too. If there was one thing I learned about Anatolij while enjoying his hospitality, then the fact he was unforgiving was it.

  “It doesn’t matter. All that does is what Dante thinks.”

  “And what does he think?”

  “That I’m safe with you.”

  The corners of his mouth twitched. “As I said – clever guy.”

  That he was. Among an abundance of other things.

  “You’ll be forced to endure hours of listening to conversations held in Russian, but most of my guests speak perfect English, and I’m sure you’ll find a common topic with some of them.”

  The housekeeper entered the dining room with a pot of hot coffee to fill my cup. Living in Anatolij’s mansion felt like living on a set of a soap opera. The maids wore matching gray dresses with white aprons, and their blonde hair was up in granny buns. Security guards circled the perimeter, bouquets of fresh flowers were delivered every Saturday afternoon, and the house was always spotless.

  “I know a few words,” I said. “I can say hello and introduce myself.”

  Anatolij raised his eyebrow, clearly surprised. “Did you study?”

  “When you mentioned the ball, I thought it’d be nice if I could at least say zdravstvuyte, menya zovut Layla, and spasibo.”

  The maid smiled, pouring the coffee into my cup.

  Anatolij opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, we all heard gunfire. Blood drained from my face faster than Anatolij managed to reach for his gun. He was up within a second.

  And just then boiling-hot coffee spilled over my thighs. The maid squealed, chanting what must’ve been apologies in Russian while tugging on my hand.

  “Get down,” Anatolij ordered, the authoritative tone loud and clear.

  Muffled screams came from the corridor mixing with the sound of my racing heart, and the pleas coming from the maid.

  Anatolij turned his back to us when I started to slide under the table. He was focused and composed, but it did nothing to erase the fear spreading through my mind like a disease.

  Flashback of the night when people barged into Dante’s house introduced more fear, and panic threatened to bring me down. I fought it, concentrating on one rational thought – Dante said I was safe here.

  My pulse throbbed in my ears while the adrenaline temporarily numbed the burning sensation of my thighs. Trembling fingers dug into my arm, the maid looking as scared as I felt. Perfect silence fell upon us, the only sound a large, old clock that hung above the fireplace.

  My attention went into counting seconds. Thirty-seven passed before footsteps echoed in the corridor. Anatolij’s pace was off. It wasn’t the chilled-out stroll he got me used to. More of an angry, heavy walk, but unmistakable nonetheless.

  He bent down to look under the table, and his relaxed, slightly irritated expression calmed me down.

  “I’m sorry, Layla. False alarm. One of my people failed to close the basement door properly, and the soundproofing didn’t work. There’s a shooting range next to the dance room.”

  I grimaced, taking his outstretched hand, and let out a quiet sigh of relief. It looked like he gave me the short version of the tour when he showed me around the castle.

  “You didn’t mention the shooting range,” I said, grimacing again, but for a different reason.

  Anesthesia in the form of adrenaline evaporated. My thighs burned like all hell. On the bright side – I smelled like freshly brewed coffee. Too bad I couldn’t wring it out of my jeans.

  “You need to take your jeans off,” Anatolij said, his eyes trained on my face, “Now. The sooner we apply a cool compress to the burns, the smaller the damage.”

  I did as told because the pain was stronger than shame.

  Anatolij said something to the maid, who rushed into the kitchen, and came back when I placed my jeans on the back of the chair, standing in front of my host barefoot and in black panties.

  Anatolij rounded the table, taking a damp towel and a bowl of water from the maid. He pushed me onto the chair, and covered the burn with the cold fabric, pressing gently before wetting it again.

  I couldn’t imagine a more embarrassing situation than sitting there with the sophisticated, elegant man kneeling before me, his face five inches away from my panties.

  “I can’t see any blisters,” he said a moment later. “It’ll hurt for a while, but it’ll heal up without scarring. A cold bath will help the pain.” He raised his chin, meeting my eyes. His were serious, but gentle at the same time. “Can I carry you upstairs?”

  “It’s okay,” I mumbled. “I’ll manage myself.”

  He chuckled. “Yes you can, but I doubt you want to show half of my people more than absolutely necessary.”

  I didn’t think of that. Flashing my ass at his people would be more embarrassing than having him carry me. Anatolij slid one arm under my knees, and wrapped the other one around my back, lifting me up as if I weighed no more than a sack of potatoes.

  The housekeeper covered my legs with a dry towel, tucking it in wherever she could to cover my butt.

  Dante would have a fit if he walked in to see this. Despite showing no signs of jealousy when it came to Anatolij, his territoriality would rear its head for sure.

  I tried to ignore Anatolij’s pawns and the maids on the way upstairs. Everyone watched us eyebrows raised, but no one dared to comment.

  Thank God.

  “I’m sorry my people scared you,” he said, climbing the stairs.

  “You’d think I’d be used to hearing gunshots by now. I was for a while, but then the shots no longer meant a hole in a paper target.”

  In spite of the makeshift towel curtain, I felt that my face was bright-red when Anatolij sat me on the bed. He went into the adjoining bathroom to prepare a cold bath.

  “You should take this off,” he pointed to my jumper.

  This time I didn’t hesitate. I wore a black vest underneath. If it were Dante trying to submerge me in a bathtub full of cold water, I’d argue until I was blue in the face, but I didn't dare to do so with Anatolij. I couldn’t explain it, but despite the aura of authority surrounding him not differing much from what Dante emanated, I felt the need to nod along to everything Anatolij said.

  “Let’s get it over with,” I said, making my way across the room, and into the bathroom.

  Anatolij caught my hand and held it until I sat down, straightening my legs, and gripping the edge of the tub. My eyes fell shut, and I steadied my breathing, imagining that the water wasn’t cold at all, but my body knew better than to let my brain fool it.

  I gritted my teeth and opened my eyes when I heard Anatolij crouch beside the bathtub.

  “I’m fine,” I assured, seeing the worried look tainting his aristocratic features. “I hoped to dance a little tonight.”

  “Why do you think I made you get in there? You’ll dance. The maid will be here in a minute with the first aid kit.” He rose to his feet. “Stay here for ten minutes, then apply the cream. I have to call Dante.”

  “Why?”
I asked before I stopped myself. “He doesn’t need to know. He’s got a lot on his mind, and you said yourself it won’t leave a scar.”

  “I promised to call if anything happened. Something did.”

  “I think he meant something more important than a first-degree burn of,” my hand hovered over the burn, measuring the extent of the damage, “about eight percent of my body. It’ll heal in a week. If he decided not to call, it means he has to focus. I don’t want him to beat himself up later that he didn’t do enough.”

  A shadow crossed Anatolij’s face, a slow glow of anger working its way up to his body, tensing his muscles.

  “You don’t believe he’ll close the hit?”

  I hugged myself as if it could help me keep warm and rested my head on my shoulder.

  “I believe he’ll stop at nothing, but I don’t think there’ll be a happy ending. He’s just one man, Anatolij. One man against God only knows how many. He can’t win.”

  Mafia was no place for sentiments. Dante wouldn’t be able to bribe everyone. My father orchestrated the hit, and if he put half the effort and brains that he put into manipulating me all those years, there was no way of me coming out of this alive.

  Frank was meticulous, always covered all the basis, always prepared for a sudden change of tables. The bounty on my head was plan B, and when it came to Frank Harston’s B plans… Well, they never failed.

  Anatolij pumped his fists, openly staring at me, looking like a man struggling to make up his mind. Next, he crouched beside me again, resting his arms on the edge of the tub. I couldn’t get over how different he and Nikolaj were. No common features, nothing that’d betray they were related.

  “Dante’s not alone. He’s got his men, there is Julij who, not unlike Dante, will do everything to protect you. There are Dante’s partners from Detroit, and whoever else works with him. And I know he already bought a few of the major bosses. It won’t happen overnight, baby girl, but it will happen. Dante won’t rest until he closes the hit.”

  A sad, forced smile curved my lips. Hope was still smoldering inside, but I was adamant not to let it burn bright. Being a realist got me through the life Frank gave me, and I wasn’t about to become an optimist at the last stretch.

  “Julij wants to help, but no one respects him yet. The V brothers from Detroit have no reason to protect me. They’ll stand back when it gets too hot…”

  “Don’t forget me,” Anatolij cut in softly. “You’re safe here. And if everything else fails, you and Dante can move to Moscow.”

  “And what is your motive? Why are you protecting me?”

  He shrugged, the pained expression of a man with a secret to share back on his face. “I can think of a reason. One day I’ll tell you all about it, but today isn’t the day.” He pushed away and stood up, towering above me. “I think you better get out now before you get a cold.”

  “Don’t call Dante. He doesn’t need to know.”

  An apologetic smile was all he offered before closing the bathroom door behind him.

  TWENTY-TWO

  LAYLA

  A young man whose name slipped my attention talked about the joys of living in America. He moved to Los Angeles two years ago, and couldn’t praise the city enough.

  For the past five minutes, he’d been listing his favorite Lakers players since the early fifties. I wouldn’t be surprised if LeBron’s poster hung above his bed. He probably kissed it goodnight too.

  Bored described my mental state perfectly, which was why I finished the second glass of champagne, despite arriving in the room thirty minutes earlier. Anatolij introduced me to a dozen or so people before the basketball fanatic began his monologue.

  I scanned the room for a waiter, needing another dose of bubbly alcohol, but instead of a floating silver tray, my eyes locked with Anatolij’s. He smiled over the sea of heads and shoulders, and raised his chin, pointing to my companion.

  I didn’t want to be rude, so I faked a convincing smile that always worked on Nikolaj, and went back to scanning the hundreds of hands, suits, and dresses in search of the Holy Grail.

  Twelve waiters were employed to serve the guests, but as if sensing my desperation, they all disappeared out of view.

  Cultural conversation buzzed in the air accompanied by a string quartet playing a sad melody. One hundred and twenty kinds of perfumes mixed with the cigar smoke and the sickening smell of white lilies and the basketball fan reached the nineties, giving me a lecture on Shaquille O’Neal.

  Someone’s gentle hand touched my lower back, and I spun around meeting the piercing gaze of gray eyes. Anatolij handed me a full glass of champagne and put the empty flute back on a waiter’s tray.

  “Would you mind if I stole Layla for a while?” he asked my companion.

  “No, of course not. I’ll find her later.”

  Anatolij nodded, turning to me. “Waltz?”

  “Only the basics.”

  He raised his hand, made a pirouette with his index finger, and instantly, the string quartet moved on to play the waltz. Anatolij offered me his arm while the crowd of people parted, creating a circle in the middle of the dance floor.

  “You look beautiful,” he whispered in my hair and with the grace of a Russian aristocrat, he outstretched his hand, and we started dancing.

  A heavenly female voice sounded in the room, and I glanced at the stage to see a dark-haired woman standing in front of a microphone that wasn’t there ten minutes ago.

  All eyes were on Anatolij and me. Ballet was my true love, but during the many fancy parties organized by Frank, I had to learn the basics of Waltz, Tango, and Foxtrot.

  As a little girl, in tulle, pink dresses, I danced, standing on the shoes of older men. Later, I hid in the corner of the room so that no one could ask me to dance.

  Being there was bad enough. Especially that Frank insisted on my presence just so he could show off the father-of-the-year act.

  Now, dancing with Anatolij, I was a little thankful to Frank for teaching me how to Waltz.

  The melody was calm, Anatolij’s steps immaculate, and the words coming out of the singer’s mouth made no sense. We swirled around the dance floor, my body light as a feather, my mind free of any problems.

  I closed my eyes briefly, enjoying the peacefulness, and smiled when my imagination showed me a picture-perfect moment – Dante and I dancing to this very song at our wedding, surrounded by familiar faces.

  It never occurred to me that I wanted a fairy tale wedding, but since Dante asked the question, I caught myself thinking about all the different things that went into that one day; flowers, dress, venue…

  It wasn’t going to be a cheap wedding.

  A minute later, other people started to join in, and soon enough, the dance floor was full of dark suits and colorful dresses. Anatolij bowed when the song ended and offered my arm to an older gentleman, who seemed to have waited for me to become available.

  I didn’t object. Not once for over an hour, gliding across the dance floor with different men. Dancing was my safe place for years, the one thing that helped me clear my head.

  I thanked the last dancer, avoiding eye contact with anyone else, took a glass of champagne from a tray, and slipped out of the room unnoticed. My feet ached, I was thirsty, and the sickening smell of lilies made me dizzy.

  I needed a minute to catch my breath. I climbed one flight of stairs that led to the ground floor, then one more to get to the first floor. I crossed the long corridor, searching for the library Anatolij had mentioned. I wasn’t sure if he said it was opposite my bedroom, or to the left, so I pushed the door to the left first.

  I felt the wall looking for the light switch and walked further in when the room lit up. With my eyes fixed on the portrait hanging on the opposite wall, slowly, step by step, I walked forward. I stared at the woman immortalized on the canvas, her full lips and filigree posture, the smile reaching her eyes, and I was unable to control the chaos in my head. Every rational thought got away before I could
catch it.

  I sat on the couch in the middle of the room and hid my face in my hands, feeling the overwhelming helplessness. I had enough of riddles, enough of the past and the grim-looking future, and now... I was also fed up with the present, because looking at the portrait, I understood that even the past I didn’t know fully.

  Everywhere I turned someone was lying, plotting and concealing information… Falsifying realism and authenticating falsehood. No one was honest with me. My life was made up of a series of unfortunate events and accidentally spoken truths.

  TWENTY-THREE

  DANTE

  I felt like a wound-up toy.

  Mauricio was quite right – I had to distance myself from Layla and look at the situation from the bench, like an observer, but such a strict cutoff from her tired me out both physically and mentally. As if it wasn’t enough that she was thousands of miles away from me, that I couldn’t see or touch her, now I was supposed to survive without even hearing her voice?

  Good fucking luck, Dante.

  I’ve been a mess when Layla hid in Texas, and despite coping with the unwanted separation much better this time because at least I knew where she was, that she was safe, and mine, it was still a torture not to have her within my reach.

  Whoever invented love should’ve been killed on the spot, before he had a chance to spread the idea throughout humanity. Love was confusing, overwhelming, and uncontrollable. It was a constant, buzzing worry at the back of the mind. A rush of protectiveness that could make or break a man.

  I still wasn’t sure if it was making or breaking me.

  Love was messy and amazing at the same time.

  Thanks to Frankie, Layla was a little damaged. A damsel in distress of sort. Although she probably never realized it. At first, she needed adoration and attention. Now she needed protection and safety. And her needing was what had me running in circles, doing whatever was necessary to fulfill those needs.

  Fucking Prince Charming with a gun and a drug empire.