Broken Promises: (Broken Duet #2)

Empty bottles, brimful ashtrays.

Broken chairs.

Shattered glass.

Ecstasy, cocaine, confetti.

Deflated balloons.

Discarded condoms.

A stale stench of booze, cigarette smoke, and puke saturates the air. A wingback chair in the corner of the living room requires a deep clean after a blonde bimbo projectile-vomited across it, marking the wall and Nate too. She attempted a run to the bathroom but missed the mark by thirty yards.

Half a dozen crystal glasses were smashed in a game of I’ll show you just how pissed off I am. Bang! Two dining chairs require replacing after Spades broke one on the head of a royal douchebag, then hit him with the second for good measure.

My house has never been a venue for a single party before. And for a good reason. Chaos finds its way to every party regardless of where it happens, but the thought of the mess afterward stopped me from hosting for years. Unfortunately, this year, my options were limited. The idea to host a New Year’s Eve bash in the comfort of my living room was a spur-of-the-moment thing. With twenty hours to midnight, the choice of venues was limited while Delta remained closed for refurbishment. The travel ban imposed by a detective responsible for the investigation concerning Frank’s death squandered the initial plan of celebrating with Julij in New York or with the V brothers in Detroit.

It was supposed to be a small gathering, my entourage, their girls, and a few acquaintances. As expected, shit hit the fan when Bianca asked permission to invite her brother and his wife. Luna wanted her sister, and Jackson called in half of fucking Chicago. I agreed to all, including those who arrived in the middle of the night in a yellow school bus. The anarchy in my living room kept my mind in check, away from Layla. And since I sweat blood not to think about her, the party got out of hand four hours before midnight.

For the past six torturous days, I have busied myself with tasks my people usually take care of. I work eighteen-hour days, make shit up along the way, and break my neck to stay occupied. With the whole city in the palm of my hand and the forecasted increase in profits, I decided to open another club. Spades joined me on the hunt for new premises. He hardly leaves me alone these days, volunteering as my nanny. We bought two buildings, one in the North and one in the South. While my lawyer worked overtime to finalize the transactions, I shopped for sound systems, spent hours upon hours interviewing potential employees and checked every load from Detroit.

I knock myself out, but Layla feasts on my thoughts regardless of my efforts. I freeze in the middle of a conversation because one word reminds me of her. I forget the world when I’m behind the wheel as I drive by where I once saw her or where we were together. My mind switches off to all stimuli at the most inconvenient moments.

My people don’t utter her name. No one mentions the times when Layla was by my side. No one mentions the night she killed Frank, either. It truly is as if she never fucking existed… but every so often, conversations cease when I enter the room, and I just know they’re talking about her. Ironically, no one has said she doesn’t deserve me, that I should’ve killed her on the spot. Only Spades found the courage to comment on my refusal to go after her.

“You’ll regret it.”

Fucking Nostradamus.

Day after day, night after night, Layla infects my thoughts. There’s no forgetting, no moving forward. I’m stuck, my life on hold. Where is she? Is she safe? Why did she run? Is she afraid of me? Why did she follow Frank’s orders?

Questions multiply daily, but answers fail to arrive.

A knock on the door snaps me out of Layla-haze. I fling the cigarette butt over the terrace railing and make my way across the filthy house, eyes on the floor as I navigate around the broken glass and dried-up puke.

“Good morning.” A young girl dressed in a white apron with a pink logo of Pristine Clean company on her chest bows slightly. She holds two buckets brimming with chemicals. Behind her back, another girl plays tug-of-war with a hoover stuck in the trunk of a pink hatchback.

It’s New Year’s Day, but the owner of the Pristine Clean didn’t complain when I rang late last night to offer triple rates if he could get my house spotless this morning. New Year’s Day morning. Cleaning used to be the maid’s job, but she packed her bags three days ago.

Although ran might fit better in this context.

She was tired—probably scared too—of my tantrums whenever I found something of Layla’s around the house. She reached her limit when I upended the table after she served pancakes with honey—Layla’s favorite. Every breakfast we ate together flashed before my eyes…

I freaked the fuck out.

Not for the first time, and most definitely not the last. I lose my cool a lot lately, taking the steadfast frustration out on anyone within my reach. Good job my men handle my outbursts like pros by diligently ignoring the shit that spews out of my mouth, or I’d be left with no crew by now.

“Can we come in?” The girl steps from one foot to the other, wide eyes jumping between my face and chest.

I push the door open further to let them pass. Hoover girl, a petite blonde with melon-sized boobs, eyes me up, a confident, cheeky smile on her glossy lips. The obnoxious flirting stops when we enter the living room.

“Some party,” she says, peering at me over her shoulder. “Too bad I wasn’t invited. I would’ve made you breakfast.”

Courageous little thing.

“Get busy.” I glance at my wristwatch—a gift from Layla and the only thing I refuse to hurl out of the window. I hadn’t noticed until she was gone, but she had it engraved. Those few words speak volumes about her feelings.

Time is limited, but love is timeless.

I wear the watch every day and graze my fingers across the letters on the back every night.

“The sooner you finish, the bigger the bonus.”

They exchange tight-lipped smiles before I leave the room on a quest to swallow a handful of painkillers. Thirty minutes later, the clamorous headache eases enough to make room for Layla. Every time I blink, I see the look on her face when she stood outside the warehouse and aimed the gun at my chest while tiny rivers crept down her pale cheeks.

“I really do love you,” she whispers, staring into my eyes.

“I know.”

Her whole, petite body trembles, but she plucks up the courage and moves her finger to the trigger. Fear fails to arrive; there’s just relief that I won’t have to face the world without her.

“I’m sorry,” she mouths.

“Do you want me to count down from five for you, Layla?” Frank growls. His harsh, cold tone could freeze the vast lake behind Layla’s back. “We don’t have all fucking night. Get it over with.”

Letting all air out of her lungs, she pulls the trigger.

A loud bang rings in my ears.

Frank’s lifeless body falls to the ground.

And time fucking stops.

A six-year-long war ended by his daughter.

She killed him. She murdered him in cold blood, and I’ve never been prouder or more betrayed.

My cell vibrates, none other than the Chief on the line, his name flashing on the screen. I rub my face, exhausted, frustrated, and furious.

So. Fucking. Furious.

“It’s New Year’s Day,” I snap, my jaw working in circles.

“Yes indeed. Should I give you my best wishes? Of course, Dante,” Jeremy says in a theatrical, sarcastic tone. “I wish us many years of successful cooperation, but to make sure it will be successful, you must suffer a little. I had the CIA on the phone. Another detective will arrive here tomorrow, and he’s just dying to talk to you. Get your shit together and meet me at the station in an hour so I can prep you for the uncomfortable questions.”

Great… just what I need. As if it’s not enough that he calls ten times a day to scream his head off, scolding me over the emerging evidence that points back to me or one of my people; or that the media overindulges the topic twenty-four-seven; or that I spent six hours on Thursday at the station with the FBI’s finest—detective Jones. Now the CIA is involved. The next step is the DEA knocking down my door together with a whole fucking SWAT team.

Only six days have passed since Frankie Harston took his final breath, but I’m half a million dollars lighter already, bribing people left and right to close the investigation before the ink dries on the page. The chief could send four more daughters to college for his cut. But he sure deserves a round of applause for how well he works under pressure.

I called him ten minutes after Frank’s body hit the ground to make sure his team would arrive first on the scene. And what a scene that was… macabre. Enough blood to sell by the pint. Chiefs men had to eliminate hard evidence and leave meaningless clues.  My sole strict order for Jeremy that night: make sure nothing leads back to Layla in any shape or form. I found out that she worked with Frank all along less than twenty minutes earlier, but her safety remained my priority.

Pity the fool.

“Consider it done. She was never there.”

My name would appear under the prime suspect category regardless of the evidence. The six-year-long war wasn’t as brutal as you’d expect, but not quiet either. CIA, FBI, DEA, and every other institution in this country was in the know. There’s probably a room in Langley dedicated to housing thousands upon thousands of pages filled with meaningless evidence they have gathered over the years, eager to shove Frank and me behind bars. Useless effort. A wild goose chase. Not one institution found enough evidence to warrant arrest. Now, they might.

My usual meticulous conduct went to hell the night Luca sent me a picture of Layla tied up, gagged, and missing a finger. I was careless that night. Under normal circumstances, under unwritten Mafia code, when Frank’s men bowed before me, they would’ve been allowed to join my crew. Under normal circumstances. Nothing about that night was normal, though. I was too fucking fervent to adhere to the rules I lived and breathed for years. Rules I imposed on myself at an early age. I needed an outlet for my rage, and the rules ceased to matter. All those fuckers, intentionally or not, hurt the woman I love. They deserved a bullet each. Still, slaughtering thirty men sparked a lot of unnecessary heat. Jeremy’s been working like a Trojan to clean the mess I made.

“I’ll be there in an hour.” I cut the call.

It’ll take longer before the house is back to a spotless state, so I dial Rookie’s number. He crawled into bed five hours ago, but someone should supervise the cleaners. A shower and sweats-to-suit wardrobe change later, I’m back downstairs, rolling the sleeves of my shirt. The little blonde, her hair in a bun, arches her back, dents her spine and winks at me over her shoulder. Yes, because a girl in rubber gloves sprinkled with puke and a mist of sweat on her pink forehead is so fucking arousing, right?

“Stop smiling, keep scrubbing.” I rake my hand through my damp hair. “You lack thirty IQ points and a lot of imagination to pique my interest, kid.”

Her lips part in an inaudible oh, and her arms fly to her sides. “I do not lack any IQ! You better watch the way you talk to me. I’ll tell my brother on you!”

A lick of fury rises up my back, vibrating at the base of my neck, between my shoulder blades, and resonates to my fingers that ball into a tight fist. “Call him right now. Tell him who you’re pissing off. Believe me, barbie, I’m itching to dislocate someone’s jaw. Send him my way if he has the balls to fight your battles. Although, if I were you, I wouldn’t hold my breath. If he doesn’t already work for me, he sure as fuck knows who I am.”

She scoffs, arms akimbo. “And who may that be?”

“Dante Carrow. I’m sure it rings a bell.”

Her eyes widen, then narrow a second later. “Bullshit.”

“I’m paying you to clean, not to talk. Either get to work or get the fuck out of my house.”

She rises from her knees, taring her gloves off. “My brother will hear about this.” Head up high, she marches out of the house, slamming the door hard enough to reinstate my headache. Fucking drama queen.

“I’m so sorry,” her friend squeals. “I’m really, really sorry, Mr. Carrow. It’s her first day. She’s the boss’s niece, so she feels entitled. Please don’t send me away. I will clean the whole house, fast, I promise. It will be spotless. My boss will fire me if I don’t finish, and I really need this job…” she rambles on, crumpling the yellow duster in her hands, eyes on my nose or chin, never once landing on my eyes. Hers are large, blue, and brimming with unshed tears. A mess of in-need-of-combing hair surrounds her thin, freckled face.

“What’s your name?” I lean against the back of the couch.

“Grace. Grace Quincy.”

“Why do you work, Grace?”

She pulls her eyebrows together, staring at my nose. It’s one of the gestures diffident people use to appear confident. They chose a spot close to the eyes, like the nose or forehead, avoiding eye contact.

“I need the money…”

“Yes, I figured out that much. I’m asking why. How old are you? Eighteen? Nineteen? You should be in school.”

“Seventeen.” She drops her gaze to one of the many stains marking the floor. “School won’t pay the rent or buy me groceries.” She pulls on a loose thread of her apron, shoulders sagging. “Please let me finish.”

If I met her before Layla, her pleas wouldn’t mean shit, but post-Layla Dante mellowed a touch. A touch too fucking much. I can’t dismiss Grace while she’s on the brink of tears.

“You can finish,” I say. “I’m about to leave now, but I’ll be back in three hours. One of my men will keep an eye on you while I’m gone.”

“Of course. I’ll make sure the house is spotless. I promise you won’t regret this.” She drops to her knees, shoving her small hands into the yellow gloves discarded by the blonde.

The rumble of Rookie’s Camaro infiltrates the house, adding a bit more to the growing, dull ache at the base of my skull. Fuck, this is going to be a long day…

“You look like someone ate you then threw you up,” I smirk, standing in the open door, not one bit sorry that I dragged him out of bed. “Make sure the house is clean before you let the cleaner go. And get Jackson to run a background check on her for me, will you?”

Rookie narrows his bloodshot eyes. “You wanna hit that?”

“No.” Fuck, no. I shudder, coming apart at the seams as the mere idea of touching another woman pins me down between hard teeth. It’s way too soon to ponder the idea. Besides, Grace is a minor. Illegal. I’m far from a decent human being, but there are certain lines even I wouldn’t cross. “I need a maid. I want to know who she is before I offer her the job.”

I’ve been stabbed in the back by someone I trusted with my life recently, and lesson learned.

Fool me once…