After a quick shower, I call Spades, ignoring the ungodly hour: six a.m.
“Why the hell are you up?” he mumbles.
“I need to know when Layla starts classes. Call everyone who might know.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier to ask her?”
“Call me back by eight. You better have an answer.”
“Okay, okay.” The bed creaks on his side of the line. “I’ll call you when I find out.”
He cuts the call, and I dial another number. This time it’s Rookie. His girlfriend, Jane, studies at the same college as Layla. After dragging two of my men out of bed, I call the rest too. What a good fucking idea that was. Neither Spades nor Rookie comes back with an answer.
Luca’s the only one who rose to my expectations within half an hour of receiving the order. “She starts at ten.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve got my ways. She’s usually there early. Burly’s with her at all times now. She drives a blue BMW M1.”
She got the car on Saturday, but he already knows what make and model. Looks like he has a spy up North he didn’t mention. I call Rookie again, so he’ll pick me up at nine, then drive to the nearby cafe for my morning caffeine fix.
At half nine, we park in the college parking lot. Time ticks by, but Layla’s car is nowhere to be seen. I light one cigarette after another, losing my patience at ten o’clock sharp. Either she slipped by me unnoticed or decided to skip classes today.
Luca calls when I’m about to do the same. “Boss, Layla’s in the dance studio on Michigan Avenue. She just walked in.”
How the hell does he know that?
“Thanks,” I say, looking at Rookie while shoving my cell back in my jacket pocket. “Dance studio on Michigan Avenue.”
He starts the engine, pulling out of the parking space. It takes us eight minutes to arrive at the destination and I enter the building with Rookie following suit. “One Way Or Another” resonates throughout the small reception area, sending a pleasant chill down my spine. I lean over the large desk, towering above a young girl wearing rimless glasses.
She glances up from a stack of papers on her desk. “Good morning. Would you like to sign up for dance classes? Modern Jazz, maybe?”
“Boss?” Rookie says behind me.
I shush him, raising my hand, focused on the snarky receptionist. “I’m looking for Layla Harston.”
“Oh... um, follow the corridor down, but—”
“Boss,” Rookie clips again. I turn to find him at the mouth of the corridor. “Burly’s here.”
“Exactly.” The receptionist folds her arms over the busty chest. “Layla came in with a bodyguard.”
I didn’t expect anything else. To be perfectly fucking honest, I’m glad she has security even if the idiot Frank chose is not fully equipped to take care of my star. I’m calmer knowing someone’s always watching over her. The music grows louder as we enter the long corridor.
I hope Layla’s not pole dancing.
Burly stands at the far end, but I stop once we reach a glass section of the wall.
Dance floor.
Mirrors.
Layla.
She looks like an angel in a white, loose dress. Closed in her own bubble, unavailable to the outside world, she glides across the dance floor, lighter than a feather, as if gravity doesn’t apply to her. Together with a tall, blonde guy, they dance something that resembles ballet, but it’s not standard ballet. It’s a game of seduction. Their movements;hermovements ooze sexuality. He touches her, pulls her in, and pushes her away in a slow, flawless rhythm; a couple of lovers fighting for dominance. I let out all the air from my lungs. She’s captivating. Even though her dance partner is close, even though he’s touching her, I hope the song will never end. I could stay here for fucking ever, watching her dance. I like how my chest tightens every time she jumps, so graceful it’s almost like she’s flying for a second before he catches her with undeniable ease.
“You’re not getting in there, Carrow,” Burly says, his tone hinting unease, but he takes a broad, artificially confident stance. “You’re supposed to stay away from Layla.”