Frantic, silent helplessness invades my mind, sucking out the will to live. I don’t know what to do. My heart coos at me to stay, wait and hope. My mind roars at me to flee and never look back. I want to fall asleep and wake up in an alternate reality. One where Dante and Frank’s war never started, one where they’d rule Chicago side by side.
Why, instead of choosing the one who gives me everything, I fight for the one who gives me nothing? Because I want to prove I can earn Frank’s love, that I deserve the family I dream of.
I can’t make a conscious decision. I shouldn’t even try because the fire at Delta is the beginning of an end. Over the next few hours, Chicago will see its new boss.
And it won’t be Dante.
My cell phone screen lights up with an incoming call from Frank. Immediately, fear wraps around me like a quilt fashioned out of many cold, wet hands. My vocal cords stick together like strands of overcooked spaghetti when I flip the nightlight on.
“Run,” he barks. “Layla! Run! Danteknows. You’re not safe. Run. Now!”
As if electrified, all my senses come back, working better than ever. I jump to my feet, throw on a hoodie and sweatpants, and run out of the bedroom with the phone to my ear despite Frank cutting the call. I’m not thinking straight. I’m detached from reality as if watching myself from the sidelines.
I take two steps at a time, visualizing the garage. Dante’s custom-tuned orange Camaro is the most powerful car there, maybe even powerful enough to break through the bulletproof garage door.
The light’s on in the living room.
My concentration slips, brows furrow, and feet hesitate. I miss the last step, falling face down, extending my hands at the last moment to brace.
And then I realize why the lights are on.
Lifting my head from the polished, wooden floor, I see two pairs of elegant shoes, legs, chests, and faces. Luca stands six feet away, a phone to his ear, disdain on his face. His friend stands behind him, tilting his head as if unable to comprehend how I found myself flat on the floor.
“She just flew downstairs,” Luca says, crouching beside me. “I’ll take care of it, Boss.”
A nerve-shaking, blood-curdling sense of horror consumes my mind. I can tell by the disgust in Luca’s eyes he knows I work with Frank. I spring to my feet and bolt toward the garage but only manage a few steps. Luca’s friend grasps a handful of my hair, pulling me back. I cry out in pain, landing with my ass hard on the floor.
“What’s the hurry?” Luca smirks, looking down at me. He unzips his jacket, revealing two guns. “Can I convince you to stay?” Cold fear slithers in the pit of my stomach. I’ve seen Luca with a gun... he has the best shot I’ve ever seen.
“Tie her up,” he says to the guy who still holds my hair.
He yanks hard until I lay on the floor, tears in my eyes. A knee digs into my back, and a thick rope bruises my wrists.
“Let me go!” I scream, tossing and turning. Shock laced with fear rules my mind. “Let me go!”
I’m not thinking; I’m not comprehending that because of the restraints and the advantage they have over me, I won’t make it half a step. The basic survival instinct won’t let me give up. I swear in my mind thinking about the gun Dante gave me before he left. It’s upstairs on the nightstand. The initial frenzy caused by Frank’s words made me forget all about it.
“Shut up, Layla. Screaming won’t help you.” Luca kneels on one knee. His wild smile disappears when I spit in his face. I regret the decision when he backhands me, glaring at the other guy. “Get me the cigar cutter.”
“No,” I squeal, terror rising up my throat like hot oil. “Luca, please... please...”
“I’ve waited for this far too long,” he hisses, amused. “Try not to scream.”
He turns me around to grab my left hand. I feel the cold steel around my small finger. Tears trickle down my face when he presses harder on the cutter. My whimpers grow louder, a solid rock of pain in my chest.
Luca’s breath fans my neck. “Be a doll and shut your fucking mouth,” he whispers, closing the cutter.
A spine-chilling, escalating scream cuts the air like a scalpel.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Dante
The stench of burnt plastic fills the air. Two fire trucks are parked outside Delta, and the firefighters rush around, collecting equipment. The captain stands beside me, eyeing the open doors to the club as if expecting to see more flames.
“You should call the police,” he says, watching his crew finish up. “Ishould call the police,” he corrects, meeting my gaze, his eyes hesitant as if he’s not sure how to go about asking for money in exchange for keeping his mouth shut. “It’s not a joke, Mr. Carrow. If not for the quick reaction of your men, someone could’ve died.”
Someone died. Two someone’s, to be precise, but thankfully none of my people are hurt. Three of Frank’s men barged inside the club with canisters of petrol. Instead of keeping their heads down, they made a lot of noise, lighting the first room with a gun instead of matches.