Dante
Empty bottles, brimful ashtrays.
Broken chairs.
Shattered glass.
Ecstasy, cocaine, confetti.
Deflated balloons.
Discarded condoms.
A stale stench of booze, cigarette smoke, and puke saturates the air. A wingback chair in the corner of the living room requires a deep clean after a blonde bimbo projectile-vomited across it, marking the wall and Nate too. She attempted a run to the bathroom but missed the mark by thirty yards.
Half a dozen crystal glasses were smashed in a game ofI’ll show you just how pissed off I am. Bang!Two dining chairs require replacing after Spades broke one on the head of a royal douchebag, then hit him with the second for good measure.
My house has never been a venue for a single party before. And for a good reason. Chaos finds its way to every party regardless of where it happens, but the thought of the mess afterward stopped me from hosting for years. Unfortunately, this year, my options were limited. The idea to host a New Year’s Eve bash in the comfort of my living room was a spur-of-the-moment thing. With twenty hours to midnight, the choice of venues was limited while Delta remained closed for refurbishment. The travel ban imposed by a detective responsible for the investigation concerning Frank’s death squandered the initial plan of celebrating with Julij in New York or with the V brothers in Detroit.
It was supposed to be a small gathering, my entourage, their girls, and a few acquaintances. As expected, shit hit the fan when Bianca asked permission to invite her brother and his wife. Luna wanted her sister, and Jackson called in half of fucking Chicago. I agreed to all, including those who arrived in the middle of the night in a yellow school bus. The anarchy in my living room kept my mind in check, away from Layla. And since I sweat blood not to think about her, the party got out of hand four hours before midnight.
For the past six torturous days, I have busied myself with tasks my people usually take care of. I work eighteen-hour days, make shit up along the way, and break my neck to stay occupied. With the whole city in the palm of my hand and the forecasted increase in profits, I decided to open another club. Spades joined me on the hunt for new premises. He hardly leaves me alone these days, volunteering as my nanny. We bought two buildings, one in the North and one in the South. While my lawyer worked overtime to finalize the transactions, I shopped for sound systems, spent hours upon hours interviewing potential employees and checked every load from Detroit.
I knock myself out, but Layla feasts on my thoughts regardless of my efforts. I freeze in the middle of a conversation because one word reminds me of her. I forget the world when I’m behind the wheel as I drive by where I once saw her or where we were together. My mind switches off to all stimuli at the most inconvenient moments.
My people don’t utter her name. No one mentions the times when Layla was by my side. No one mentions the night she killed Frank, either. It truly is as if she never fucking existed... but every so often, conversations cease when I enter the room, and I just know they’re talking about her. Ironically, no one has said she doesn’t deserve me, that I should’ve killed her on the spot. Only Spades found the courage to comment on my refusal to go after her.
“You’ll regret it.”
Fucking Nostradamus.
Day after day, night after night, Layla infects my thoughts. There’s no forgetting, no moving forward. I’m stuck, my life on hold. Where is she? Is she safe? Why did she run? Is she afraid of me? Why did she follow Frank’s orders?
Questions multiply daily, but answers fail to arrive.
A knock on the door snaps me out of Layla-haze. I fling the cigarette butt over the terrace railing and make my way across the filthy house, eyes on the floor as I navigate around the broken glass and dried-up puke.
“Good morning.” A young girl dressed in a white apron with a pink logo ofPristine Cleancompany on her chest bows slightly. She holds two buckets brimming with chemicals. Behind her back, another girl plays tug-of-war with a hoover stuck in the trunk of a pink hatchback.
It’s New Year’s Day, but the owner of thePristine Cleandidn’t complain when I rang late last night to offer triple rates if he could get my house spotless this morning. New Year’s Day morning. Cleaning used to be the maid’s job, but she packed her bags three days ago.
Althoughranmightfit better in this context.
She was tired—probably scared too—of my tantrums whenever I found something of Layla’s around the house. She reached her limit when I upended the table after she served pancakes with honey—Layla’s favorite. Every breakfast we ate together flashed before my eyes...
I freaked the fuck out.
Not for the first time, and most definitely not the last. I lose my cool a lot lately, taking the steadfast frustration out on anyone within my reach. Good job my men handle my outbursts like pros by diligently ignoring the shit that spews out of my mouth, or I’d be left with no crew by now.
“Can we come in?” The girl steps from one foot to the other, wide eyes jumping between my face and chest.
I push the door open further to let them pass. Hoover girl, a petite blonde with melon-sized boobs, eyes me up, a confident, cheeky smile on her glossy lips. The obnoxious flirting stops when we enter the living room.
“Some party,” she says, peering at me over her shoulder. “Too bad I wasn’t invited. I would’ve made you breakfast.”
Courageous little thing.
“Get busy.” I glance at my wristwatch—a gift from Layla and the only thing I refuse to hurl out of the window. I hadn’t noticed until she was gone, but she had it engraved. Those few words speak volumes about her feelings.