1
Lyla
The night is cold and aggressive as I make my way to the residence of theonly man in the world who can help me. I shudder, despite my warm shawl wrapped around my shoulders, my breath forming little mists in the air.
I’m not supposed to be here. I’m supposed to be in bed, sleeping at this hour but I had to do something. I couldn’t just keep sitting around, waiting and hoping for the best. And now he’s my only hope.
Few people know who he is and yet his name is well known in the dark corners of the city that never sleeps. One is never supposed to say it out loud, only whisper it. With respect and fear.
Dolokhov.
A Russian mobster, the head of the so called brotherhood and a man who rarely steps into the light. I’m well aware of that what I’m doing is borderline madness but when I care about people, I care deeply.
And that is why I’m ready to do whatever it takes as long as Dolokhov helps me. I need him to say yes and I can’t have him refuse me. I already feel so alone in this that I’m obviously desperate and reaching for anything. Even men so cruel, they might ruin me in the process.
Crossing the road, I bite the inside of my cheek when I almost slip on the asphalt. November is such an unforgiving month, there’s frost everywhere and getting here wasn’t easy. First I had to take the train from the city, then the bus and then I had to walk up a thorny path.
The man lives like a recluse, in a private cul de sac, surrounded by tall hedges and a private view over the Hudson River. I’ve never been here before and I can only hope his place won’t be crawling with members of the brotherhood.
When they see me, will they try to hurt me for trespassing? Will they care about my pleas? Nervousness floods me at the thought of what could happen. It’s not too late to turn back. If I go now, I’ll be back at the dance studio where I live before midnight.
It’s what I should do. We have a performance tomorrow and I need to be well rested. As a proud ballerina, I usually never do anything reckless that could risk ruining my show. Usually I’m always a goody-goody and do everything I can to stay on point.
But this situation is different. There are some things that are more important than dance. Things such as human life for instance. My stomach rollercoasters and I feel a little bit sick.He can’t be dead, he can’t be dead, he can’t...
I chant those words in my head to comfort myself and I inhale and exhale, instinctively knowing that I can’t show up at Dolokhov’s doorstep, acting like a mess. If this is going to work, I need to keep my head cool, can’t lose my nerve, can’t show any weakness.
Criminals hate weakness I’ve been told. They can smell it like sharks smell blood. When they see it, they crush it between their teeth.
A sudden flare of protectiveness makes my body tremble and I clench my fists. Is that what those mafia members did to my friend? Did they hurt him because they thought him weak? The anger gives me a burst of energy and I pick up my pace.
The more time that passes, the more difficult it’ll be to find my friend. I’m doing this for him. I’m doing it, because I know he’d do the same for me. Passing the hedges, my mouth drops at the sight of the Georgian mansion before me.
It looks hostile and a little mystical as it’s bathing in the light of the full moon. I peek out from behind the bushes, trying to see if there are any guards patrolling or any Dobermans that are going to come running as soon as I set my foot on the perfectly groomed lawn.
But the place is not at all what I expected. Its’ quiet, disconcertingly so. The trees don’t even ruffle in the wind and there is no chirping from birds. I pull my shawl around me tighter, walking up the neat gravel walk. Looking around, I’m preparing for an alarm to go off, for headlights to turn my way but the coast is clear, daring me to come closer.
Pebbles crush under my boots, mixing with the sound of my own frantic breathing. I’m nearly hyperventilating because I’m not used to these kinds of things. I’m used to softness and beauty. Safety. I’m not the kind of girl who seeks out mobsters.
And a shiver crawls down my spine when I realize that I might not be coming out of this alive.
Not too late to turn back...
Ignoring that persistent voice in my head when my whole body starts tingling from unease, I rush up to the front porch. There’s nothing homey about it, no porch swing, no hanging floral arrangements and there’s no light in the windows.
Almost as if nobody lives here. Or maybe the one who lives here simply prefers the dark.
“Don’t you dare chicken out now,” I whisper, before using the bronzed, lion head knocker. The dull boom boom sound echoes in my ears and I automatically take a step back. I don’t want be here, I really don’t, this place scares me, I shouldn’t have come...
I gasp when the black door opens and a towering figure stares down at me. My heart starts thrashing at the sight of him and I can scarcely breathe.
Mobster.
Tyrant.
Man...
He’s not what I anticipated, for one he’s not as old as I thought. He looks to be about in his early thirties. His hair is the color of wet sand and lines that tell of hardship and struggle crisscross his face, giving him a sinister appearance. His jaw is without a stubble, his blue eyes hooded and sharp.