All of my men rushed to check what had happened. They killed two of Frank’s pawns, and Jackson overpowered the third one, leaving him alive.
Thank fuck for that.
I need to talk to him. None of this makes any sense. Frank sent three newbies and ordered larceny despite knowing my men would be there tonight, and his people wouldn’t come out alive. A strange feeling that something’s once again slipping my attention squeezed my throat when I arrived, and it won’t let go.
I motion to Spades, so he’ll take care of the captain. My head is too preoccupied with figuring out what is going on to hand out bribes. Involving the police will only waste too much time. Time I don’t have. I’ve already wasted an hour.
Vinn takes the captain’s place at my side. He invited himself over to the party with his brother because he’s crawling out of his skin trying to apologize to Layla. The morning after he made an enemy of her, two and a half thousand red roses were delivered to my house. Fifty bouquets of fifty flowers. Six flower shops. Almost four thousand dollars to apologize to my girl for being an asshole.
It didn’t work. Layla threw out the flowers and refused to talk to him despite his persistent phone calls. I guess Vinn decided he’d have a better chance of earning her forgiveness face to face at the Christmas party at Delta that was supposed to start half an hour ago.
“What’s the plan?” Vinn opens a packet of Marlboro. “Get your people together, and let’s go finish this.” He offers me a cigarette.
I want to kill Frank.
Until Spades called to say that Delta was on fire, I thought someone would do it for me or—wishful thinking—that Frank would step aside.
Now, I know there’s no chance of that ever happening. By setting my club on fire, he sent a message. Either he dies, or I die. Once again, I face a moral dilemma. Killing Frank equals hurting the one person I care about.
Spades joins us as the fire trucks drive away. “Everyone’s waiting for orders.”
I flip the cigarette on the pavement, taking my phone out of my pocket when I feel a short vibration.
Luca: Shall we play hide and seek?
Luca: Or would you rather have it the easy way?
Luca: Step aside, and your star will get out of this almost untouched.
I can’t process the information fast enough.
Layla—in danger.
Luca—the snitch.
And Frank laughing in my fucking face.
The ground shakes beneath my feet. The chain unfolds in my head slowly, relentlessly like a snake coming alive in the heat. A blizzard of confusion. Pure, frantic anarchy seizes my mind.
Luca: Eenie, meenie, miny... one. I’ll count to ten.
The phone vibrates again: a picture of Layla on the living room floor, face down in a pool of blood, hands, and legs tied. A cigar cutter glistens beside her head, and right next to it... afinger.
The cell phone slips out of my hand. My blood turns to ice, and my heart reaches cardiac arrest range, beating its way out of my chest like a trapped, wild animal. Fear consumes me whole. It starts in my heart, spreading to my lungs, legs, and the deepestrecessesofmy fucking soul.
I’m losing my grip on reality.
My vision blurs. Within seconds all I see are dark spots. Someone grabs my shoulders. Sounds distort, and voices blend together into incomprehensible gibberish. My legs, like two tubs of water, are fucking useless. I try to move but only manage a few awkward steps before, incapable of anything else, I double over, throwing up.
I’m shaking so violently it feels as if I’m standing through an earthquake. I clasp my hands over the unrestrained thunder of my own pulse ringing in my ears, fighting to distance myself from my delirious mind. My thoughts lose their form. Logic is absent. I fist my hands and close my eyes but regret it immediately when the image of Layla covered in blood flashes before my eyes.
I throw up again.
The ability to control my emotions went to shit. I’m losing my fucking mind. In a mechanical reflex, I reach for my gun, point it at the sky and press the trigger.
Bullet follows after bullet.
The smell of gunpowder, the deafening noise, the recoil—it all helps me regain the ability to think straight, to re-emerge from the helpless madness. With every shot fired, an ounce of fear morphs into a hot, white rage.