Again, a strange sense of familiarity envelopes me like a soft blanket. I know him, but I can’t recall his name. Even his face doesn’t ring any bells. Just the nickname. Knowing that he came here to kill me doesn’t help me concentrate. Inside, I’m as jittery as a sinner on judgment day, which, come to think of it, is probably a spot-on definition of me and this day. Outside, I wear a convincing mask of practiced indifference.
Too bad the machines betray what I feel as the rhythm of my heart beeps faster than it should.
I scrutinize his warm complexion, black eyes, and scruffy beard. Broad shoulders, large hands. Tall. Six feet at least. I tilt my head, taking him in as a whole again. Athletic build, probably in his forties... and then I spot it. A clue that untangles the web of memories, pushing the relevant ones to the front. If not for the signet ring on his finger, same as Frankie’s and Dante’s, I probably wouldn’t have remembered who he is.
Relief comes first. A single, powerful wave. It dies an ugly death after a fraction of a second, morphing back to fear. Our connection doesn’t matter. Family or not, there’s no room for mercy in the mafia world.
“Morte.” I drop my gaze so he can’t see fear clouding my vision. Blood drains from my face, and the treacherous hurtled beeping of the heart monitor fills the room.
It’s been a long time since I last saw him. Thirteen, maybe fourteen years ago, back when Dino was in control of Chicago and Frankie barely rose in the ranks to his second in command. Morte was a regular guest in our home when I was a child. No wonder. He’s my godfather.
“Hello, Imp. Long time no see.” Morte beams wider again, but there’s nothing friendly in his smile. He’s excited in a peculiar, eerie way. “I’ll repeat the question. What did you do to deserve a death sentence at nineteen?”
My fear sets his face alight with sick satisfaction, so I clench my teeth harder, giving up without a fight. My body is too exhausted to hold me up, let alone fight or run for dear life. This is it. Game over.
“Tell him I’m sorry,” I look back at my hands, my voice steady, a picture of calmness. I’m still breathing, but I feel dead inside. “And tell him I understand.”
And tell him I love him.
Morte chuckles softly. God, it’s so fitting. Almost poetic. Out of all the people he could hire, Dante chosehimas my executioner. He’s Portuguese, and so is his name:Death.I don’t know the story behind the name, but I’m sure there is one. What parent in the right mind calls their childDeath?
“I assume you mean Dante?” he asks, alive with excitement. “Don’t prove Frank right so easily. He always said you were naïve. You’re not, though. You just don’t trust your gut. Do you think Dante wants you dead? The kill order didn’t come from Carrow, Imp. It came from your father.”
Pure confusion blurs my vision. Althoughshockis a more appropriate word. Pure, incessant shock. I feel as if someone suddenly pulled the rug out from under my feet as if the sky turned green before my eyes. “Frankie told you to kill me?”
“No, no, no,” he hurries closer to take a seat on the bed and leans forward, closer to me, eyes wide, hands raised, ghosting over my cheeks. “I’d never hurt you, Imp.” He cradles my face, sweeping his thumbs under my eyes. A disturbing urgency resonates in his moves, gestures, and words. “I’dneverhurt you. You’re my family, remember? This job isn’t for me. It’s for everyone. Anyone can walk in here and kill you.”
“I don’t understand...” I’m dizzy with confusion. Frankie wanted me dead. My own father wanted me to die.
Hypocrite. You killed him, remember?
“It’s an open job, Layla. Instead of one hitman, you get hundreds.” Morte inches closer, lowering his voice the way children do when they want to let you in on a secret. “Frankie wanted Dante to end up with nothing even if things went wrong that night.” He throws his head back, cackling like a maniac. The sound sends a fit of shivers down my spine. The hairs on my neck stand on end. I think he’s mad. Certifiably insane. His attitude changes every few seconds, dark eyes overflowing with crazy. “Didn’t you surprise us all, Imp?Youturned that night on its head.”
This is too much to comprehend so quickly. My life is too fucked up to fight for it or understand the abstract reasons, lies, and secrets. Dante hates me. My father wanted me to die to satisfy his need for vengeance. What’s left? Not much. Nothing worth fighting for or looking forward to.
“Dante no longer cares about me, Morte. My death won’t change a thing.”
“Frankie told me about his plan and your lead role a few weeks before he died. He hired me because he thought Dante might kill him before the finale.... but it wasyou!”he huffs with an ear-to-ear grin, stroking my hair in a monotonous rhythm that could quickly put me to sleep under different circumstances. “You killed your father! You betrayed him despite agreeing to help him take Dante out.” Admiration and approval ooze out of every word. Keeping up with his mood swings is impossible. “I didn’t expect such a turn of events. This would make a great movie, you know? What a twist! On the other hand, Dante was always good with women. They fell head over heels for him.” He clicks his tongue, shaking his head in amusement. “See? You’re not as strong as your daddy thought you were.”
“You’re stalling. Please, just get it over and done with.”
He tuts under his nose, lips in a pout. “I told you the hit isn’t mine to take. Pay attention, Imp.”
“You said Frankie hired you!” I snap, my body rigid as steel, refusing to follow my mind and give up
I don’t want to hear any more. I’ve had enough. My parents let me down at every turn, but I always found a way to justify their lack of love. Now,thiscan’t be explained in neither a rational nor irrational way. It’s barbaric. Unnatural. Incompatible with every human’s basic instinct— to protect your offspring. Frankie was an anomaly.
And I’m an anomaly because of him. Because of the sick genes he passed down to me. I’m no better than him. Nothing in my life makes sense. Everything appears to be one giant illusion. I don’t know right from wrong. Truth from lies. How could I have not noticed my own father was a psychopath? How? How the fuck is it possible? There’s something fundamentally wrong with my head that no amount of therapy would fix.
“Earth to Imp.” Morte playfully wraps a lock of my hair over his index finger, pinching the dark strands with the fascinated look of someone in a coma for two centuries and waking in a new reality. “Did you hear what I said?”
“No, I don’t care.”
Gritting his teeth, he squeezes the bridge of his nose. “You should. Curiosity is a natural thing, Imp. Frankie hired me for surveillance. Not to carry out the dirty work. I wouldn’t agree. Not even for the three million he offered for your pretty head.” He stamps a kiss on three of his fingers and taps them at the crown of mypretty head. “I’m the promoter. I set the wheels in motion right after Frank’s death, but you hid so well it took me two weeks to trace your journey from Chicago all the way here. I only sent the word about your location earlier today.” He pauses for a moment, looks around, and crosses the room to pour himself a glass of water from a plastic jug on the side table. “The only reason I’m here tonight is that Archer called in your time of death two hours ago. Before I wired the money, I wanted to see with my own eyes that you are, in fact, dead. Imagine my surprise to find he’s the dead one.” He cackles, coming back to me. “But it’s all good fun. I’m glad we got to talk. As I said, I’ve been looking for you too.”
“Why?” I wrap my arms around myself, seeking a bit of comfort.
“Finally!” Morte takes my hand to squeeze lightly. “You’re starting to ask the right questions. Frankie wanted me to tell you why he ordered the hit. He wanted you to know you’ll die in the name of the greater good.” He scratches his beard, seemingly unconvinced. “At least that’s how he saw it. He wanted you to understand him. If he knew you’d kill him, there’d be a different reason for the hit, I guess.”