Broken Promises Page 2

  I arrived at the club ten minutes ago to check on the renovation team and the progress they made so far. The fire damaged one room, but I used the opportunity to refresh and update the rest of the club too. The workers took their time, but it looked like we could open on Friday.

  “I don’t know what it is and you’re asking where to put it?” I raised an eyebrow. “Which one of us is the decorator?”

  The guy took a step back, placing something that resembled a big dildo on the floor, then raked a hand through his long, blonde hair. He looked like a spitting image of Nick Carter of Backstreet Boys. Just gay.

  “It’s a sculpture.” He clicked his tongue, pulling the duh! face. “It represents a bullet.”

  I took a deep breath to calm down. A glass of whiskey would’ve worked faster.

  “Why is it here?”

  “It’ll make an interesting feature and add character to the bland space.”

  The main entrance opened behind my back before I had the chance to comprehend and word a reply.

  “Wow, someone’s been busy!” Jackson entered the club, turning his head in all directions, watching the workers. “When are we opening?”

  The decorator rolled his eyes, probably mocking the hopeful note in Jackson’s voice.

  “I didn’t ask for permission,” I said, watching her plump lips.

  She clicked her tongue and rolled her eyes, sending a wave of desire traveling throughout my nervous system. Ten seconds passed, but I was already hooked on that girl. The bartender placed a tall glass in front of her, and she held her money out.

  Little Miss Independent.

  The bartender looked at me and only reached to take the twenty out of her hand when I nodded. I liked her attitude, and kind of hoped it wasn’t just an act.

  “Will you introduce yourself or will you just gawk at me all night?” she clipped, closing those full lips on the straw.

  God, where the hell was she all my life?

  A low blow to my ribs brought me back from Layla land.

  “Did you hear me?” Jackson asked, glancing between the decorator and the so-called sculpture with a frown. “Man, what do you need a huge dildo for?”

  “It’s a bullet, not a dildo,” the decorator retorted.

  “I don’t know where you buy your bullets, but this one doesn’t look like any of those I use.”

  I smirked under my breath when the guy turned pale at the sight of a gun tucked in the holster under Jackson’s jacket.

  “Get this out of here,” I said, motioning to the dildo. “Have you seen pictures of this room from before the fire?”

  The decorator nodded, examining his fingernails with a bored expression. “I wouldn’t call it classy. I can’t picture any VIP’s entering this place. No finesse, no glamor…”

  “You’d be surprised what kind of VIP’s this club hosted over the years. Nevertheless, this is a club for masses not for selected individuals. Recheck the photos and get to work. I want it looking like it used to, and I want it ready by Friday.”

  His eyes snapped to me, and lips parted in a theatrical, exaggerated state of deep shock. “But that’s three days away!”

  “We’re opening on Friday,” I emphasized each word. “Now get out of my sight.”

  He blushed, rolled his eyes again, and grabbed the dildo, leaving the club. I lit a cigarette, looking at Jackson and the rolled-up paper in his hand.

  “Ah, right.” He handed me the documents. “Grace’s personal profile. She’s clean. Nothing out of the ordinary. Deceased father, a drunk of a mother, two-year-old brother. She’s been working at the cleaning company for six months.”

  I knew that. Grace told me about the car crash her father died in, her mother’s addiction, and that she’s been living at a friend’s house for months, trying to save enough money for a deposit to rent a flat.

  Wanting a chance to get to know her, I arranged for her to clean my house daily. She was punctual, well-organized, and bent over backward to ensure the house was spotless. I wanted to help her. There was something about her, and I pretended to have no idea what it was, that made it hard to leave her in the swamp she found herself in.

  That something was vulnerability. The same kind Layla sported. The helpless kitten aura hiding under a mask of self-sufficiency.

  “So? Should I let everyone know we’re opening on Friday?” Jackson asked, strolling around the room as if Delta was a museum full of exhibits. “Are the V brothers coming? Julij?”

  “I’m seeing Julij tomorrow. But yes, let the V brothers know.”

  He nodded to signal he understood and continued examining the bare walls, pulling the face of an art connoisseur. “Here.” He pointed high at the wall. “It’s crooked.”

  Madhouse.

  One walked around the club with a dildo; the other searched for imperfections three meters above the ground.

  I left Jackson to deal with the workers and went home to talk to Grace. She scrubbed the sink in the kitchen, her hair tied in a bun, and a pair of yellow gloves on her hands.

  “Hey, I didn’t expect you back so early.” A full-blown smile stretched her lips.

  She was refreshing. Smiling for no reason, acting as if working for me was a godsend. As if life couldn’t get any better. As if I gave her hope back. I found myself smiling small when she was around too.

  “I want to talk to you,” I said, taking off the suit jacket, and unbuttoning the first two buttons on the gray shirt I wore. “Make yourself a cup of coffee and come to the living room.”

  Her face fell a little. “Is something wrong?”

  “No. Everything’s fine. Don’t worry.”

  She nodded, tucked the cleaning products back in the cupboard under the sink, and washed her hands before reaching for a cup.

  I went to the living room to get a drink. My wristwatch showed four p.m., but I had no plans for the rest of the day, and without alcohol, I’d start obsessing over Layla’s absence.

  Grace joined me a moment later. She sat down two stools away, with an uncertain, somewhat frightened face, cupping the mug with both hands and waiting for me to speak.

  “Can you cook?”

  She shook her head. “Not really. I can prepare simple dishes, but nothing special.”

  “My housekeeper ran away two weeks ago. I like you, Grace, and I want you to work for me. You will have to learn how to cook, but an evening class should take care of it. I’ll rent you a flat, you’ll get a car, and we’ll find a nursery for your brother somewhere close by.”

  Her eyes grew wide, and when I mentioned I’d take care of the flat and the nursery costs, and told her how much she’d be taking home every month, tears formed in the corners of her eyes.

  She lunged forward and hugged me tightly, weeping into my shoulder. I sat there, stiff as a statue, too surprised to embrace her.

  “Thank you,” Grace squealed, moving away. “You’ve no idea what it means to me. Thank you.” She wiped her cheeks.

  “I’m going away tomorrow, but one of my people will sort everything out for you over the weekend.”

  ☐

  Jeremy Smith had a sudden onset of a migraine when I ordered him to deal with the traveling ban so I could attend Nikolaj’s funeral.

  Truth be told I couldn’t care less about the deceased King of New York, but now that Julij and I became business partners, it was in my best interest to show up.

  The most influential bosses from all over the country were attending, and I wanted to befriend some of them. Julij was a newbie in the world. There was no way anyone would take him seriously if he started talking business.

  My name, on the other hand, had a reputation. People knew me or knew of me, and thanks to V brothers and their genius chemist, people also respected me.

  Nikolaj was their go-to guy when drugs were concerned. He supplied his allies, and I wanted to take his place and double my network in size. With the whole of Chicago under my belt and no breathing-down-my-neck Frank, I could finally stretch m
y wings.

  “I’m driving,” Spades said when we exited the airport building. “I’m thinking of getting one of those next month. I wanna see how it handles.”

  I locked our luggage in the trunk of the sky-blue rental Challenger, then took the passenger seat.

  “We’re meeting Julij at his house before heading to the cemetery.”

  Spades nodded, and I took my phone out to call Isla. I haven’t spoken to her since the face-time chat on Christmas day. She tried calling a few times when the media started broadcasting the news about Frank’s death, but I didn’t answer.

  Now the time came to inform her that she no longer had a future daughter-in-law.

  I gritted my teeth and closed my eyes to compose myself. Twelve days passed since Layla disappeared.

  Twelve.

  I thought it’d get easier with time, that the hole left when she took my heart with her would start to heal, but the pain wasn’t subsiding. If anything it was getting worse, maddening almost.

  At nights I laid awake for hours unable to fall asleep without her in my arms. I used the time to come to terms with what had happened, to try and hate her, to convince myself that her disappearance was a good thing.

  Sleep eluded me, the release not coming until dawn, and lasting a few hours at best. And then I woke up feeling empty, betrayed, and confused all over again. Any progress made the day before would vanish into thin air, and every day, I had to learn to live without her all over again.

  I slid my thumb across the screen, and pressed the phone to my ear, watching the streets we were passing.

  “Hey, baby. I’m glad you called. I’ve been trying to reach you, but I know you must’ve been busy…” Isla stopped to clear her throat. “How is Layla doing?”

  It’s been the first time anyone said her name out loud since she ran. My palms fisted, and it took a second to rid the consuming ache spreading through my mind, and the physical pain of my tensing muscles.

  “This isn’t a conversation I want to have over the phone. I’m in New York. I’ll stop by the penthouse tonight.”

  “Oh, of course. Should Marie prepare the guest bedroom?”

  “Not this time, I’ll see you later.”

  We were nearing the city center when in the crowd of nameless faces I spotted Layla. She walked in the opposite direction, a concerned look on her face.

  My pulse throbbed everywhere at once – in my ears, in my veins, in my fingertips. Spades pulled away from the traffic lights, crossing a busy junction. I gripped the seat hard, pretending I hadn’t seen her.

  For days I told myself she didn’t deserve me and it’d be wise to forget about her and move on. It worked to some extent until someone reminded me of her. Then all my assumptions went to hell, and I just wanted to touch her, feel her lips, hear her sweet whispers in my ear. To see love in those big, gray eyes.

  Now that I saw her, remaining in my seat went against all my instincts. But I had to stay. I had to let her go. She didn’t deserve me.

  Her betrayal was all that mattered, right?

  Wrong.

  “Stop the car,” I rasped, my throat so dry even I didn’t understand it. “Stop the car!” I roared louder, unfastening the seatbelt.

  Spades hit the brakes, startled, and I shot out of the car before the wheels came to a full stop. My surroundings became a blur; the one clear thing in my line of sight was her.

  I started across the busy road at full speed, not daring to check for oncoming traffic and risk losing Layla. A cacophony of blaring horns erupted while my hands bounced off the hoods of different cars.

  Shivers ran down my spine, and my stomach twisted in knots. I was thirty seconds away from seeing that pretty face, from taking the petite body in my arms and tasting those plump lips.

  The relentless attempts at hating her stopped, leaving no trace, no evidence that I ever wondered if she was worth me.

  I couldn’t hate her. I could only love her with everything I had.

  I reached the pavement and pushed through the crowd of pedestrians, shoving people aside, ignoring the outraged heys and watch-where-you’re-goings.

  For twelve days, I tried to convince myself that her betrayal mattered, that it was unforgivable.

  It wasn’t.

  It didn’t mean shit, because even though Frank’s plan was the sole reason we got together, somewhere along the way Layla lost herself in me. She chose me. She killed her father to protect me. And nothing else mattered.

  She turned right, ascending the stairs that lead to a subway station. I chased after her in a tailor-made suit, a pair of five hundred dollars shoes and a gun under my jacket. I ran for the first time in years, short of breath, my chest burning, and heart racing.

  It took another minute before I reached the station platform. Ten seconds too late. The subway was leaving, and Layla, leaning against the window, stood with her back to me in the second wagon. I had her at my fingertips, so close yet out of reach.

  When the train was about to disappear around a bend, she turned around, glancing at the platform.

  But it wasn’t Layla.

  The young girl looked out of the window, oblivious to the destruction her face wreaked in my system. I grabbed my head pulling on my hair, the emptiness filling my mind again.

  Someone placed a hand on my arm. I spun around to find Spades watching me warily. His expression fluctuated between sincere compassion and the classic I told you so.

  I had it coming.

  He took a step back, shoving his hands in pockets. “You good?” he asked, weighing the words, looking as if expecting me to lose it and start shooting any second.

  He knew me well. The only reason my gun was still tucked in the holster was that we were in New York, and not in Chicago.

  FOUR

  LAYLA

  A white, fluffy blanket covered the left side of my body as I laid on the bed, staring at hundreds of bright blue stars painted across the wall and ceiling.

  A large, old fashioned clock hanging on the wall ticked loudly, the rhythm of passing seconds mixing with the rhythm of my own heartbeat.

  The floor creaked outside of the door, and a light knock followed. I covered my face with my arm, and turned my back to the door, hugging my knees. Jean’s persistence was tiring.

  Another knock. Louder this time. Five more seconds and she turned the knob, walking in uninvited.

  “I know you’re not asleep,” she said, sounding annoyed.

  I turned to face her, knowing full well she wouldn’t leave without a fight. It became our daily routine. For the past twelve days, Jean was relentless in her attempts to get me out of the house and over to the nearby bar for a couple of drinks with her friends – Taylor and Rick.

  As I expected, she stood in the doorway of the small bedroom, a scowl on her pale face. She put her foot down, crossing her arms, apparently trying a different approach today.

  She was supportive, and understanding at first, then changed her strategy to pleading. Neither worked, so she moved over to bribery, and now it looked like anger was on the agenda.

  “You’ve been crying. Again!” she hissed. “And you’re not ready. Taylor will be here in half an hour, and you’re wearing…” she eyed my top, “this monstrosity!”

  “It’s pajamas, Jean. And I’m not going. I told you yesterday, and the day before, and all the other days since I came here. I can’t go. I don’t want to go. I’m fine here.”

  She scoffed, sizing me up. “This is what you call fine? You’re a mess, girl. You’re pathetic. And because of a guy. C’mon! You’re a Harston, and Harston girls don’t cry over guys. Where’s your pride?”

  I moved my eyes from her enraged face back to the ceiling. “It won’t work, Jean. You can say whatever you want. I don’t care.”

  Neither about the way she saw me nor about anything, really.

  She plopped on the bed, pulling the blanket from me. “I’m sorry.”

  A small smile crept up on me. “I know. And I’m sorry
too, but I can’t go. Not even if I wanted to. If someone would see me…”

  “Of course someone will see you,” she fumed again. “It’s a bar, people attend, drink, and laugh. Remember? Everyone will stare at you because you’re new here.”

  “You said it. I can’t go.”

  Jean waved her hand dismissively and rushed to the chest of drawers. She opened the first one, made a mess, and continued her journey, rummaging through my clothes.

  “There.” A pair of jeans landed on my face, and Jean left the room to come back thirty seconds later and toss a flannel shirt at me. “Put it on, and don’t you dare say no. It’s been two weeks!”

  “Twelve days,” I interjected.

  “Whatever. I’ve tolerated your compulsive, obsessive…” she pulled her eyebrows together, searching for another adjective, “just plain stupid need to sit here by yourself and cry, but not tonight. You’re coming with us whether you like it or not. Either that or you tell me why you’ve cried two rivers so far.”

  A long time ago, Jean knew my darkest secrets. Her mother’s house was my home during the summer holidays until I turned twelve, and back then, Jean and I were inseparable.

  Then Frank killed Dino, and aunt Amanda found out how her brother made a living. She refused to have anything to do with him or his family ever again, and my friendship with Jean ended.

  But when I knocked on the door of Amanda’s house, she took me in. Reluctantly, and under merciless conditions, but she did.

  “If anyone shows up here looking for you, I’ll lead them straight to your room.”

  I was grateful she agreed for me to stay despite the media blaring about Frank’s death, and The Mafia War getting out of hand with thirty bodies found in Chicago.

  Neither Jean nor Amanda asked for an explanation, and while the latter just didn’t want to know any of it, the former tried to force the story out of me every day in privacy, without Amanda knowing.

  “Goddamnit!” Jean snatched the pillow from under my head. “Get dressed! Taylor won’t be pleased if he has to wait.” She waved the red and black flannel shirt in front of my face. “You need an invitation? Should I draw you a map to the bathroom or will you find your way?!”