by I. A. Dice
We were on the same boat. Both worried sick, both prepared for the worst, both ready to unleash our demons on one another.
“Someone’s waiting for you there. He’ll bring you straight to me.”
“The order is closed,” he offered. “I did everything you asked, and now I want my son.”
“We’ll talk when you get here.”
Somewhere deep down, I understood that Morte was just Frank’s tool; that he was merely doing a favor to an old friend, but the satisfaction with which he carried out the task turned him into an accomplice, and he had to pay for his sins. Everyone does in the end, but Morte was to settle the debt much sooner than he anticipated.
We both had our fair share to answer for, and I knew Karma was out to get me, but today wasn’t the day. Today was a judgment day. Today was revenge day. Today was the last day of my life as a man with no boundaries.
Tomorrow a new chapter of my life was to begin. The end of living on the edge and looking danger in the eye. The end of dealing with everything personally. The end of putting myself out there. I had enough money to last three lifetimes. Enough people to do the work while I’d coordinate from behind the scenes.
Layla deserved a bit of normality. And I was going to give it to her even if it meant rearranging and revaluating life as I knew it.
Anatolij took a seat at the table, drumming his fingers on the armrest of his chair. I rang Carlton to tell him about the hold up while Anatolij woke up one of the maids to serve us breakfast.
I couldn’t stomach much more than a piece of plain toast but drank two cups of black coffee while waiting for the son-of-a-bitch I once considered a friend.
“I take it you had confirmation back that he retracted the bounty?”
“Yes,” I nodded, placing a Marlboro between my lips.
“How long do you think it’ll take before everyone finds out?”
There was no guessing. Although because it was the same person to issue and cancel the hit, it’d take much less time than if I were to kill him and hope for word of mouth alone to work its magic.
Morte had to issue a retraction through the same channels he put this whole farce into motion in the first place, reaching the same people, and counting on them to spread the news to the rookies the same way they did before.
“I’ll keep the security running for a few months just to be safe, but I honestly doubt we’ll have to deal with any more killers. News travels fast among the likes of us, and by the time we reach Chicago ninety-nine percent of those interested will know Layla’s no longer a feasible target.”
It took Lew forty minutes to arrive at the castle with the man that stopped the war between Frank and me from ending the night when Layla put a bullet in her father’s heart.
Morte entered the room, and his posture told me more about his mental state than words could’ve. Relaxed shoulders and an unaffected expression on his face were a front designed to avert my attention from the dark circles surrounding his eyes, and trembling hands he tried to keep out of view. Morte wasn’t the one to willingly showcase his weaknesses or admit defeat.
But today I held everything he loved in the palm of my hand. And Morte knew it’d take one foul move on his part for my hand to ball into a tight fist, obliterating what he cared for. All he could do was hope I’d show mercy.
The thing was – I didn’t feel merciful.
The sound of the flat-lining heart monitor echoed in my head, reminding me of how close I was to losing Layla, and elevating my rage to a blind-fury point.
I looked at the face of a man whom I once treated like a friend, and who made just one mistake in his life – he said yes to Frank.
“Sit down,” I said, pointing to the seat opposite from me.
He shook his head, rooted to the ground. “I just want to see my son, Dante. Where is he?”
“He’s dead.”
I watched his world collapse before my eyes. He rocked on his feet and, unable to hold himself up, he fell to his knees. Thick tears flowed down his cheeks. He couldn’t say a word. He couldn’t scream, he couldn’t do anything, because panic, regret, and that overpowering emptiness were tearing his soul apart, destroying his composure.
I knew that state. I went through it twice, and those were the worst minutes of my life. Morte deserved to feel it too. He cried sitting on the floor, tearing his hair out, his head hanging low.
Anatolij, Lew and I listened to his senseless, heartbreaking sobs for three minutes and seventeen seconds, because that was how long Layla’s heart stopped beating for yesterday.
Three minutes and seventeen seconds that felt like an eternity.
I pulled the gun from the holster and rose from the chair, aiming at his head. “Aiden is safe in Chicago,” I said, watching his face.
Hope glowed in the dark eyes, pushing away desperation and insanity. He stood up slowly, holding onto the wall for support, staring into the barrel with a new kind of terror.
“Why…? Why tell me he’s dead?”
“Now you know what it means to lose everything you love. I wanted you to feel it before you die.”
I didn’t wait for an answer. There was no point in prolonging his misery, talking, or listening to reasoning. Whatever he’d say wasn’t good enough; wasn’t worth losing time I could spend sitting by Layla’s side.
Morte knew why he had to die. No explanations were necessary, and when my index finger slid onto the trigger, I could see a glint of relief in his eyes that could only be interpreted in one way.
He was glad I chose to kill him over his son.
THIRTY
LAYLA
SIX MONTHS LATER
The smell of a freshly brewed coffee pulled me from a peaceful, dreamless sleep – the kind I liked best. It took months after the shooting in Moscow before I stopped having nightmares.
In fact, they only gradually started to fade away when Dante bought us a different house on the outskirts of the city. A house I wasn’t allowed to sleep at the night before my wedding.
Jess and Isla insisted that I spend the night away from Dante. We were reluctant, but Isla proved she was quite a convincing woman, and that even Dante Carrow had to fulfill her wishes occasionally.
“Good morning sweetie,” Jess chirped, rushing around the kitchen in her pink, silk robe.
Her house was new too. Anatolij bought it to avoid hotels whenever he’d want to visit me, but two months later Jess and he worked past their issues and moved in together.
I was happy for them, especially since it seemed that Jess was changing back into the woman Anatolij described – passionate, ambitious, and intelligent. And I loved that woman. She was caring and positive and tried to compensate the twenty years of poor motherhood.
I spent a lot of time with both of my parents lately, working through our issues with Jess, and getting to know Anatolij.
“It is, isn’t it?” I smiled, taking the cup of coffee she offered. “Seven hours from now, I’ll be Mrs. Carrow.”
“If it were anyone else you wanted to marry so young, I’d strongly object,” Jess said, putting oven mittens on to take out an apple pie she baked herself. “But I won’t because Dante is…”
“The right guy for me?” I laughed, expecting a cliché to come out of her no-longer-pink-and-glossy mouth
“I was going to go with scary, but right works too,” she winked, placing the tray containing a slightly burnt apple pie on the counter. “Jokes aside, sweetie, this isn’t the life I wanted for you, but Dante is the kind of a man I hoped you’d find. Take away his job, and he’s all a mother wants for her daughter.”
Jean, who arrived a week ago to fulfill her duties as my maid of honor and help me any way she could, appeared in the doorway wearing a summer dress, and a skeptical look.
“What’s so amazing about the guy?” She scoffed, shaking her head and acting outraged. “For the lack of more suitable candidates, I guess he’ll have to do for now.” She chuckled.
As a matter of fact, Da
nte and she became good friends over the past few months of her excessive visits to Chicago while she tried to help Jess and Isla plan the wedding down to the tiniest detail. In the end, Isla was the one to take care of everything.
She had a vision of the reception venue. A vision I immediately fell in love with – a big room with dark wooden floors and white, floor to ceiling voile drapes partially hiding large windows overlooking the ocean. Tall arrangements of peach and pink peonies and garden roses in very tall glass vases; round tables; string quartet to play our first dance, and a band to entertain the guests later on.
The one extravagant piece of decoration – a flower installation hanging above the dance floor – was my idea, and required moving the wedding from the planned July to late August due to the flowers I wanted not being available in July.
“Good morning, girls,” Anatolij joined us, smiling when he saw Jess finish with the apple pie. “What’s the topic of this morning’s conversation? Or would I rather not know?”
“Dante Carrow and his suitability to take your daughter as his beloved wife,” Jean offered, taking a seat by the counter. “Feel free to weigh in.”
Mr. Carrow, as if he could hear us, chose that moment to call.
“Good morning,” I said, taking a steaming cup of coffee from the counter. “Have you missed me already?”
“You’ve no idea,” he breathed down the line, sending a pleasant, tingling sensation down my spine. “Sleep well?”
A doorbell rang, and Jess frowned, looking over my shoulder and down the hallway. “Are we expecting someone?”
“Yes we are,” Jean said. “I’ll get it.”
“Please don’t tell me you’re standing outside the house,” I told Dante, watching Jean as she rushed passed me.
“No, it’s not me. Who is it?”
Jean opened the door, and I looked over her shoulder to find a brand new pick-up truck parked on the drive.
“It’s Taylor and Rick,” I said, watching the guys greet Jean.
Then my maid of honor turned around, walked straight back inside, and snatched the phone from me.
“Hey, lover boy,” she said. “I hope you had your fix because you won’t talk to her again for six hours.” She paused, probably listening to what Dante had to say. “That shit is getting old, sweetie. Put your big-boy pants on.” Another pause, accompanied by a cheeky smile. “I’ll take care of it. Bye.”
I wasn’t allowed in on the big secret as to what she was supposed to take care of, although looking at what happened during the next five hours I’d say she was supposed to make it a stress-free day for me. Too bad, she almost turned gray worrying and panicking that things weren’t ready on time.
She rushed around, shouting at the make–up artist, and the hairdresser every five minutes. Ever since she arrived in Chicago, she hadn’t really stopped shouting, taking her role as the maid of honor a little too seriously.
She took no prisoners.
When Dante accidentally walked into the bedroom when I was unzipping the bag with my wedding dress to show it to Jean last week, she ripped her shirt and turned into The Hulk.
I’ve never seen Dante speechless, and I guessed it had little to do with Jean’s outburst, but more with him not understanding half of what she said. The true Texan in her took over whenever she was angry, and even I had trouble keeping up despite spending a lot of time in Texas back in the day.
“We’ve only got an hour left before Dante arrives, and you’re not even dressed yet!” she cried, motioning to my gown.
“Stop panicking. God, you’d think you’re the bride. Better go and get me more coffee.”
“How are you so calm!” she cried, probably alarming half of the street. “What if you’re late for your own wedding?!”
I smiled, looking at her reflection in the mirror. “I’m pretty sure Dante will wait.”
☐
Dante squeezed my hand tight, the platinum wedding band on his finger reflected the light. I smiled, and as if waiting for that, he led me down the stairs. Over two hundred pairs of eyes watched us approach the dance floor.
My mother stood to the left with Anatolij’s arm wrapped protectively around her middle. I haven’t seen her so happy in… Ever. It suited her.
A little further Julij stood next to Spades and his girlfriend, Laura. Everywhere I glanced, familiar faces were smiling, waiting for our first dance. Dante led me to the middle of the room, and our song played from the speakers.
It wasn’t easy to dance to; it wasn’t something anyone would expect to hear at a wedding. It wasn’t happy, uplifting or cute. No, this song was dark and intense; emotional and stressful. Just like us, our relationship, and our love.
Dante drew me in, pressing me firmly to his chest, and a second later we glided across the dark floor, with white wisteria flowers hanging above our heads, filling the air with a heavenly smell.
No one joined us while One way or another reverberated throughout the room. Everyone watched us glide across the dance floor, and for the first time in my life, I felt at ease.
THE END
Continue to read the first chapter of “The Sound of Salvation”.
CHAPTER 1
THOMAS
A collection of emotions
I GLANCED OVER MY SHOULDER TO MY ASSISTANT – or rather an ex-assistant – Ann, sitting on a round leather sofa by the panoramic window, adjusting her clothes.
She pulled the blue skirt down, and then up by a few inches realizing she covered too much, then smoothed the creases on her blouse, getting it back to the before state, and walked up to my desk, swaying her hips.
“Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?” She licked her lips, giving me a slow, shameless once-over.
One. Please, just one. One woman who wouldn’t expect round two, three, or a ring. Who wouldn’t expect declarations, proclamations, whispered confessions, or my number. One, who’d simply let herself out.
Too much to ask for?
Shit.
“Yes,” I said, focusing on the pile of paperwork in front of me. “Clear out your desk. You’re fired.”
“Fired?” she choked, stumbling backward. “But… but why?”
Either women were getting dumber, or I was getting crankier. None tried to come up with something more creative than why anymore.
I’m an asshole. Nice to meet you.
“What did you expect? A promotion? You didn’t pass your probation. I’m looking for someone else.” The patronizing tone of my voice was reserved for women I fucked, and my best friend Nicholas if pissing him off was on the agenda. And it was often.
Whoever invented the probation period deserved a Nobel Prize. I hired, fucked, and fired women on repeat for two years now causing no problems to the business, as long as my victims weren’t employed longer than three months. None of them lasted half the time, so I was safe.
Advertising the job and interviewing new candidates every two to three weeks caused unnecessary staff downtimes. Nicholas lost his patience once or twice. Or more. Who’d count? And threatened to put an end to my extracurricular activities if I didn’t stop dumping my workload on his assistant whenever I fired mine. To keep my hobby, and maintain Nick’s and James’s happy moods, I organized an open day and gathered twenty CVs to minimize staff downtimes.
My assistant had to possess four qualities to secure her position: she had to be tall, skinny, blue-eyed, and blonde. Slutty was a bonus but not a necessity. They all ended up crushing on me whether it took a week or three.
Panty Peeler. Nice to meet you.
Nick considered my attraction to that specific type of women a mental problem. He urged me to see a specialist, claiming I had deep psychological issues. Well… Yes. Yes, I did, but not in that department.
There was no particular reason for hair color preference. I simply liked blondes. I liked their blue eyes, long curls, and even longer legs. Five-foot eight was a minimum. And heels were a must.
Ann propped her hands
on her waist like an outraged high school teacher, ready to put out a lecture on my wicked behavior.
What else was new?
“You fired me because I had sex with you?”
I had sex with you didn’t paint the picture quite so well. You fucked me would’ve been a better choice of words to describe the five minutes Ann spent with her legs spread wide open.
“Yes.”
What else could I say? It would’ve been thoughtful to lie, but I didn’t have enough thoughtfulness in me to hand it out to just anyone.
Her eyes widened, and lips parted, but words failed to arrive. She retreated out of my office, slamming the door to take out some of the frustration caused by losing her job and not getting satisfied when her skirt was up, and her boobs were pressed against the wall ten minutes earlier.
During the past two years, not one assistant held back longer than a month before giving me the green light. I could bag them more than once since they were handing themselves over on a silver platter with a bow tied around their waists, but once was enough.
The record-holder was Monica – not two days passed when she barged into my office and sat astride on my laps, wearing no underwear.
I didn’t protest. God forbid.
Fucking one of my assistants, or any other girl for that matter, more than once always ended badly. I learned it the hard way with Grace when Nicholas and I started the company.
Grace was perfect – my kind of perfect. Tall, skinny blonde with eyes like sapphires. She was a model we hired for a promotional video. Half an hour after she introduced herself, she dragged me to my office, took her panties off, and spread her legs on my desk nice and wide. Ten minutes later, she stood up and left as a good girl should.
We repeated the little ritual for a week. It was fun until she asked me to accompany her to some party. She said her friends were dying to meet her new boyfriend… A week of quickies somehow had her thinking I was looking for a relationship. A few minutes on my desk didn’t exactly scream I care about you, but Grace had a weird outlook on the world.