Time is limited, but love is timeless.
I wear the watch every day and graze my fingers across the letters on the back every night.
“The sooner you finish, the bigger the bonus.”
They exchange tight-lipped smiles before I leave the room on a quest to swallow a handful of painkillers. Thirty minutes later, the clamorous headache eases enough to make room for Layla. Every time I blink, I see the look on her face when she stood outside the warehouse and aimed the gun at my chest while tiny rivers crept down her pale cheeks.
“I really do love you,” she whispers, staring into my eyes.
“I know.”
Her whole, petite body trembles, but she plucks up the courage and moves her finger to the trigger. Fear fails to arrive; there’s just relief that I won’t have to face the world without her.
“I’m sorry,” she mouths.
“Do you want me to count down from five for you, Layla?” Frank growls. His harsh, cold tone could freeze the vast lake behind Layla’s back. “We don’t have all fucking night. Get it over with.”
Letting all air out of her lungs, she pulls the trigger.
A loud bang rings in my ears.
Frank’s lifeless body falls to the ground.
And time fucking stops.
A six-year-long war ended by his daughter.
She killed him. She murdered him in cold blood, and I’ve never been prouder or more betrayed.
My cell vibrates, none other than the Chief on the line, his name flashing on the screen. I rub my face, exhausted, frustrated, and furious.
So. Fucking. Furious.
“It’s New Year’s Day,” I snap, my jaw working in circles.
“Yes indeed. Should I give you my best wishes? Of course, Dante,” Jeremy says in a theatrical, sarcastic tone. “I wish us many years of successful cooperation, but to make sure it will be successful, you must suffer a little. I had the CIA on the phone. Another detective will arrive here tomorrow, and he’s justdyingto talk to you. Get your shit together and meet me at the station in an hour so I can prep you for the uncomfortable questions.”
Great... just what I need. As if it’s not enough that he calls ten times a day to scream his head off, scolding me over the emerging evidence that points back to me or one of my people; or that the media overindulges the topic twenty-four-seven; or that I spent six hours on Thursday at the station with the FBI’s finest—detective Jones. Now the CIA is involved. The next step is the DEA knocking down my door together with a whole fucking SWAT team.
Only six days have passed since Frankie Harston took his final breath, but I’m half a million dollars lighter already, bribing people left and right to close the investigation before the ink dries on the page. The chief could send four more daughters to college for his cut. But he sure deserves a round of applause for how well he works under pressure.
I called him ten minutes after Frank’s body hit the ground to make sure his team would arrive first on the scene. And what a scene that was... macabre. Enough blood to sell by the pint. Chiefs men had to eliminate hard evidence and leave meaningless clues. My sole strict order for Jeremy that night: make surenothingleads back to Layla in any shape or form. I found out that she worked with Frank all along less than twenty minutes earlier, but her safety remained my priority.
Pity the fool.
“Consider it done. She was never there.”
My name would appear under theprime suspectcategory regardless of the evidence. The six-year-long war wasn’t as brutal as you’d expect, but not quiet either. CIA, FBI, DEA, and every other institution in this country was in the know. There’s probably a room in Langley dedicated to housing thousands upon thousands of pages filled with meaningless evidence they have gathered over the years, eager to shove Frank and me behind bars. Useless effort. A wild goose chase. Not one institution found enough evidence to warrant arrest. Now, they might.
My usual meticulous conduct went to hell the night Luca sent me a picture of Layla tied up, gagged, and missing a finger. I was careless that night. Under normal circumstances, under unwritten Mafia code, when Frank’s men bowed before me, they would’ve been allowed to join my crew. Undernormalcircumstances. Nothing about that night was normal, though. I was too fucking fervent to adhere to the rules I lived and breathed for years. Rules I imposed on myself at an early age. I needed an outlet for my rage, and the rules ceased to matter. All those fuckers, intentionally or not, hurt the woman I love. They deserved a bullet each. Still, slaughtering thirty men sparked a lot of unnecessary heat. Jeremy’s been working like a Trojan to clean the mess I made.
“I’ll be there in an hour.” I cut the call.
It’ll take longer before the house is back to a spotless state, so I dial Rookie’s number. He crawled into bed five hours ago, but someone should supervise the cleaners. A shower and sweats-to-suit wardrobe change later, I’m back downstairs, rolling the sleeves of my shirt. The little blonde, her hair in a bun, arches her back, dents her spine and winks at me over her shoulder. Yes, because a girl in rubber gloves sprinkled with puke and a mist of sweat on her pink forehead is so fucking arousing, right?
“Stop smiling, keep scrubbing.” I rake my hand through my damp hair. “You lack thirty IQ points and a lot of imagination to pique my interest, kid.”
Her lips part in an inaudibleoh,and her arms fly to her sides. “I do not lack any IQ! You better watch the way you talk to me. I’ll tell my brother on you!”