“The order is closed,” he offers quietly. “I did everything you asked, Dante. I want my son.”
“We’ll talk when you get here.”
Deep down, I know Morte was Frank’s tool; he merely did a favor to an old friend, but the satisfaction with which he carried out the task thus far turned him into an accomplice. He has to pay for his sins. Everyone does in the end. Morte will settle his debt much sooner than he anticipated.
We both have our fair share to answer for. Karma is out to get me, but today isn’t that day. Today is judgment day. Today is revenge day. Today is the last day of my life as a man with no boundaries.
Tomorrow, a new chapter of my life will begin. No more living on the edge or looking danger in the eye. No more dealing with shit personally. No more putting myself on the line. Layla and I will be dead ten times over before my accounts dry out. Enough people work for me to do the work while I step back, coordinating from behind the scenes.
Layla deserves a bit of normality. And normality she’ll get even if it means revaluating life as I know it.
Anatolij sits at the table, drumming his fingers on the armrest of his chair. I rang Carlton to tell him about the hold-up while Anatolij woke up one of the maids to serve us breakfast. I can’t stomach much more than a piece of plain toast, but two cups of black coffee go down without a hitch while we wait for the son-of-a-bitch I once considered a friend.
“I take it you had confirmation that he retracted the hit?”
“Yes.” I pinch a Marlboro between my teeth. “From more than one source.”
“How long before everyone finds out?”
There’s no guessing. Although because the same person issued and retracted the bounty, it’ll take half the time than it would if I killed Morte, hoping for word of mouth alone to work its magic. Morte must’ve issued the retraction through the same channels he put this whole farce into motion in the first place to reach the same people.
“I’ll keep the security running for a few months just to be safe, but I doubt we’ll deal with many more killers. News travels fast among the likes of us. By the time we reach Chicago, ninety-nine percent of those interested will know Layla’s no longer a feasible target.”
Forty minutes go by before Lew arrives with the man who stopped the war between Frank and me from ending the night Layla put a bullet in her father’s heart.
Morte enters the room. Sagged shoulders and a mask of indifference he wears is a front designed to avert my attention from the dark circles surrounding his eyes. From trembling hands, he keeps out of view. He’s not the one to willingly showcase his weaknesses or admit defeat, but today, I hold his son in the palm of my hand. He might be reckless, but he’s not stupid enough to make one foul move. He knows my hand will ball into a tight fist, obliterating what he cares for. All he can do now is hope I’ll show mercy.
The thing is... I don’t feel merciful.
The sound of the flat-lining heart monitor lingers at the back of my head, an endless reminder of how close I was to losing Layla, elevating my rage to blind fury.
“Sit down.” I point at the seat opposite me.
He shakes his head, rooted to the ground. “I just want my son, Dante. Where is he?”
“Dead.”
Four letters.
One word packed with more power than an H-bomb.
His world splinters apart before my eyes. He rocks on his feet, unable to hold himself up, and falls to his knees. Thick tears trail down his cheeks, his mind a cage. A fucking prison with no doors or windows. No way out.
I know. I lived through the insanity a few hours ago. I sank into the maddening trap at a snap of fingers, blinded with indescribable anguish.
Morte can’t say a word. He can’t scream. He can’t do anything. Panic, regret, and an overpowering emptiness tear his heart, soul, and mind apart.
Catatonic, paralyzing fear.
No amount of physical pain I could inflict on the fucker would compare to the torture he’s experiencing right now. If I chose to beat him to death, he’d have breaks from pain. Short, sure, but breaks, nonetheless. Every time my elbow would fall back before administering another blow—a break. A second to catch a breath.
There’s no escaping from the madness consuming him whole as he kneels on the floor, tearing his hair out.
Anatolij, Lew, and I listen to his senseless, heartbreaking sobs for one hundred and ninety-seven seconds. That’s how long Layla was clinically dead yesterday. Three minutes and seventeen seconds, which may well have been a lifetime.
The watch on my wrist tells me the seconds are up. I pull my gold revolver from the holster and get up on my feet, the gun aimed at his head. “Aiden’s alive and safe in Chicago.”
His eyes snap to me so fast I swear he almost broke his neck. Hope glows in the black, soulless eyes. With a strain, he rises to his feet, face wet, eyes tearful as he stares into the barrel with fresh terror. “Why...? Why tell me he’s dead?”