Vince stops but doesn’t pull the spoon out. Almost half of it has disappeared under Jack’s eye already. “Which warehouse, Jack? I’m going to need an address.”
“S Kreiter Avenue. NASC warehouse,” he pants.
“And I should believe you because...?”
“Because it’s time for the finale.” The tone of his voice changes; fear evaporates, leaving no trace.
Vince pulls the spoon out, as surprised as I am. “Finale?”
Jack sits up as much as the ropes allow. “In an hour, you’ll wish you were dead, Dante. I promise. Frank made sure of it.”
Frank will die tonight. I don’t fucking care who kills him. I want him and all his people dead because all of them, knowingly or not, contributed to hurting the only person that matters to me.
“I can promise you something too,” I say, taking my gun out. “If I don’t find her there, I’ll gouge your girlfriend’s eyes.”
“You’ll find her, and you’ll regret you ever did.”
Never.
I pull the trigger silencing Jack forever. “Get everyone to that warehouse,” I tell Spades. “Now.”
Vinn joins us when we walk out of Delta, and we all jump into our respective cars. I put my foot down, the tires screeching. Every mile closer to Layla makes it easier to control my emotions. I know where my star is. God be my witness, I’ll obliterate the whole fucking state to get to her.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Layla
Aline of light entering the claustrophobic cell through a slit under the door is my focus point. Curling in the corner, I hug my knees, rocking back and forth. The room is cold, the floor damp. The stifling stench of wet concrete and mold makes me nauseous.
A tray with food Luca brought when he threw me in here sits where he left it, untouched. A cockroach swims in the watery oatmeal, struggling to escape the confinement of a metal bowl. His attempts are desperate, as if he mocks me for giving up. I accepted my destiny. I’m waiting for death to arrive, the Grim Reaper in a black leather jacket with Dante’s face, a gun in his hand instead of a scythe. He has every right to kill me. My father won’t come to my rescue; his triumph is the only acceptable outcome. Saving me means defeat, and Frank is too proud to go down without a fight.
The surrounding four walls will be my prison until my body gives up from tiredness, thirst, or hunger. Or until a bullet penetrates my head or heart. Frank won’t give Dante the North regardless of how much hurt Dante can bring upon him. Even if he kills me, Jess, and his men. Until Frank is no longer breathing, North will remain under his command.
I rest my forehead on my knees. There’s no sleeping in this place. I’m exhausted, but fear keeps me alert. Unwanted pictures of the moments I spent with Dante flood my mind whenever I close my eyes. I remember every touch of his lips, every night spent in his arms, every look of his green eyes, and I loathe myself more with every second.
Heavy footsteps echo outside the door, clapping loudly in the still, silent space. My heart tries to make a run for it, climbing to my throat. I squeeze into the corner, trembling and hiding the bandaged hand to protect my remaining fingers. I jump, startled by the sound of keys hitting the concrete floor.
“Fuck,” Luca clips.
Apart from the bowl, the cockroach, and the tray, nothing around could be used as a weapon. No hole to hide in. The door swings open with a loud creak letting bright light filter inside the room. My fear threatens to turn into a full-blown panic attack at the sight of the cigar cutter in Luca’s hand.
“Eenie, meenie, miny, mo. Which finger will you give up voluntarily, Layla?” He basks in his power, smiling maniacally.
I can’t speak, move, or force my eyes shut.
I don’t want to see or feel, and I no longer want to live.
“I’m kidding. You can keep your fingers.”
My eyes dart to his face. He’d only spare me if Frank surrendered to Dante. That’s not possible.
Had Dante changed his mind? Is he allowing me to leave? Or maybe he wants to talk before he decides what to do? Or maybe Frank is dead...
Luca crouches beside me, tearing my hand from behind my back. “The dressing needs changing, but it’ll have to wait. Boss wants to talk to you. I’ll go get him. Make yourself presentable.” He turns to leave when a gun goes off in the distance. “Shit.” He looks into the corridor, a gun in hand.
The acoustic warehouse fills with screams. More shots are fired, the noise ricocheting off the walls.
Luca grabs my arm and drags me in front of him like a human shield, one hand across my stomach. He presses the cool gun to my temple, pushing me out of the room. We turn left, and the subsequent shots seem to come from different directions as if we’re in the middle of the shootout.