“I’ll take the risk.”
Frank turns purple, but one glance at Jess reminds him that he needs to remain in control no matter how difficult that may be. “Trust me, Layla. Trust me for once in your fucking life. Stop taking offense! If he finds you again, get rid of him. Do you honestly think he’s falling in love with you? Aftertwoevenings?!” He bangs his fist on the table so hard the nail varnish tips over, splattering the white oak tabletop with hot-pink stains. “You might be pretty, but stop andreallythink about this! It’s fucking ridiculous!”
He hits the soft spot, and my arguments fly out the window. I can’t deny it all smells a bit fishy. Dante started to care about me fast.Toofast.Frank’s not the father-of-the-year type, but he knows Dante well. He understands his way of thinking better than anyone.
I bow my head low, fresh tears prickling my eyes as I retreat upstairs. I’d give a lot to erase this weekend from my mind, or at least the emotions Dante awoke. Not in my wildest dreams did I expect him to be so caring.Frank made him out to be a monster, a ruthless, vicious killer.
That may be true, but he’s much more than that. And thatmore,will be the death of me if I’m not careful.
Curled in an almost fetal position, I hug the pillow to my chest, fighting the tears, but I smell like Dante’s spicy cologne, and when I touch my lips, the memories of his kisses bring me undone.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Dante
Asleepless night. That’s what I get after Layla leaves my house. I can’t stop replaying her words, trying to understand why her parents don’t treat her like the light of their lives.
She sure as fuck is mine already.
It’s painful to imagine the little girl with big gray eyes who was denied affection by her parents. What kind of monster doesn’t hug their child?
I knew Layla before she entered Delta on Friday, but twelve years have passed since the last time I saw her. She’s hardly the child I remember. A smile plays on my lips when I recall the good old times. I spent most of my time at Frank’s house during the first six months of my career as a mafia man. Layla was a few months away from her seventh birthday at the time and the biggest pain in my ass.
Once. Only once had I asked her what she was up to while she sat at the kitchen table, drawing. From then on, she clung to me whenever I entered the house. Luckily, she never enjoyed playing with toys. As a sixteen-year-old fucker I wouldn’t have been keen on dressing up Barbies with her, but I didn’t have to.
Layla loved crayons, paints, and everything she could mess up my clothes with. I left their house with playdough stuck to my jeans more than I could count.
The one thing that hadn’t changed over the years is Layla’s eyes. Large, steel-gray irises watched me with admiration back then and now watch me with curiosity. I used to think she was simply taking advantage of my weakness and inability to saynowhen she pleaded quietly, almost begging me to look at what she had drawn the day before. Like any other kid, she wanted someone to play with.
Now, I wonder if she craved attention back then as she does now. And how much does she need it now, exactly?
The question kept me awake most of the night. I’m not an emotional man. The few women I dated in my early twenties complained about my lack of attention outside the bedroom. Things are different with Layla, though. I hold her hand and touch her whenever she’s within my reach. I kissed her in the middle of the road and kissed her forehead more than once—something I’d never done before. My mother once told me that a man who kisses a girl’s head cares about her deeply. I’d forgotten all about it until the first time my lips touched Layla’s head.
Two evenings.
Three kisses...
I’m way over my fucking head with this girl.
But in a way, I’m put off by her desperate need for attention. I can’t imagine dealing with her monopolizing my time. I also can’t imagine dealing with her unsatisfied craving for adoration. There’s no way I can or even want to live up to her expectations.
I know me. If she tries to cling to me all day, it’ll start pissing me off real soon. There’s something undeniable forming between us, sure, but it’s fresh and based mostly on hormones. We just fucking met, but my mind is preoccupied with the petite cutie non-stop.
Another reason behind the sleepless night is my newfound ability to trust at the snap of my fingers. I didn’t question Layla’s appearance in my life. At least not how I should have. Not how I question everything else. It crossed my mind that our relationship might be built on ill intentions, but I pushed the idea aside before it sprouted roots.
Layla wasn’t trying to seduce me; she wasn’t even trying to act friendly. If anything, she tried to push me away. On the other hand, her attitude is what intrigues me most.
A battle raged in my head all night. Despite not reaching any conclusions, I text her the moment I wake up, then check my phone every ten seconds like an infatuated teenager. Half an hour goes by while I wait for a reply, to no avail. When I try calling, it goes straight to voice mail.
Frank got his way.
Either he brainwashed her or pulled out the big guns, reverting to sabotage. Relief washes over me like a cleansing shower, relaxing my muscles and silencing the infuriating train of thoughts—the problem solved itself. There’s no longer any need to debate whether Layla’s worth the trouble.
Rejection doesn’tfeelgood, but itisa good thing.
At least, that’s how I choose to think of it for the first half an hour or so until the initial relief evaporates like rain puddles on a hot summer day. My mood deteriorates with every hour of her silence. I drive around the city, busying my mind withanythingother than Layla, but nothing works. She’s dancing at the back of my mind, smiling adorable smiles, and kissing me with an aroused kind of urgency.
And then comes another sleepless night. At least I made up my mind. I wake up, determined to find out why she’s ignoring me. If it’s Frank’s doing, then maybe it’s fixable, but ifshemade the decision, I can forget about her. Given how quickly she got me to where I am—losing my fucking mind—forgetting may be the safer choice.