Broken Promises: (Broken Duet #2)
Broken Promises: Chapter 11

Blake Davis is one of the few people who remained loyal to Frankie throughout the years. They had been partners since the early days, since before Dino died. He stood by Frankie’s side regardless of his sins. The Holy Trinity: Blake, Frank, Nikolaj. Unlikely but powerful affiliates at one point; good friends once Frank’s fixation with me and taking over South soared out of control.

And now I need his help.

He’s the biggest fish in Texas, a goddamn shark. The boss in Dallas. An old Mafioso who adheres to old rules and frowns upon breaking them. Under different circumstances, securing his help would prove impossible, but the odds are in my favor tonight. Makes for a nice fucking change, all things considered. He’s one of the old guys, one of those who lived through the eighties when La Cosa Nostra was sacred; when being a mafia man, being a made man was a way of life, not just a way to make a bucketload of cash fast. They had different values back then. They had values back then.

“Dante Carrow,” he drawls, answering his phone. A note of curiosity rings in his voice. “You’re the last person I expect a call from.” He speaks slowly as if reciting an old poem as if every word is worth its weight in gold. “I imagine this will be interesting. How can I assist the new kingpin of Chicago?”

“You’ll have to forgive me, Blake. I have no time for pleasantries tonight. I’m in urgent need of protection.” Squeezing the bridge of my nose, I wait, expecting a blatant no right off the bat, but Blake keeps silent, waiting for more words on my part. “As you must be well aware by now, there’s an open hit on Frankie’s daughter, Layla.”

“Yes, so I heard,” he sighs, pushing a long burst of air down the receiver. “If the whispers are true, I’m not surprised you ordered the hit. Although I must admit, you never struck me as a guy who’d—”

“I did not order the hit.” Why am I everyone’s first guess? Granted, not many people know or could hope to understand how much Layla means to me, but why does every single person consider me the prime suspect? “This isn’t the time to divulge the details. You must know two things for now. One: Frankie ordered the hit. And two—”

“Hold your horses right there.” The pace of his voice changes to animosity. Words come out sharp enough to cut if administered correctly. “You’re telling me Frankie Harston ordered a hit on his daughter? Don’t be ridiculous, Dante. I’ve known him since day one in this life. He’s my kind of guy. He had respect for La Cosa Nostra. He had respect for his family.”

“Right up until he didn’t,” I snap, heat pooling in the base of my stomach. “He used Layla against me and…” I huff the air through my nose. “This really isn’t the time for explanations. She’s been hiding in Texas, but someone found her. An amateur, a newbie judging by the way he handled the job. She’s alive at a hospital in Dallas. News travels fast, Blake. If I know she’s there, everyone knows. It’s a matter of hours before the place is crowded with hitmen. I need you to take her under your wing until I get there.”

Like most old bosses, Blake doesn’t make rash decisions. He’s scrupulous in his moves. Plans his actions in great detail if his work partnership with Nikolaj and Frank is any proof. They were unlikely allies, but they made it work.

Agreeing to protect Layla is not a decision he can take lightly. It comes with the possibility of stepping on the toes of many bosses and hitmen he might not be willing to cross. With both Nikolaj and Frank dead, Blake isn’t well protected. Alone on the battlefield. Which, come to think of it, could prove to be another ace up my sleeve… choose your friends wisely. I might be the best thing that has happened to him in a long time.

“Name your price,” I urge, staring out the window at a blur of Chicago’s streets.

The bastard sure knows how to build on the anticipation. Adrenaline burns through my veins like acid, bringing my focus to a very sharp point. Seconds tick away, nothing but heavy breathing in my ear as he weighs his options.

“I’m too old for this,” he says after what feels like a goddamn century. Tension in my neck gives way to the defeated undertone detectable in his clipped tone. “My son will soon take my place. I want you to hook him up with the right people. I want him safe up there, at the top of the game alongside you, Dante. That’s my price.”

My eyes narrow in confusion. “You want him to be my protégé? Where is this coming from?”

Blake laughs softly. “Nikolaj is dead, Mr. Carrow. You have gained a powerful ally in Julij, although you probably don’t see it yet. His father’s affiliates are now yours, whether they like it. And believe me, the word on the street is, they very much like the prospect of receiving your product. With the business venture you’ve set up with Detroit and all the other bosses who already bow to you, you’re very fucking close to the top of this ladder. I want my son on that ladder too.”

Words pile up on my tongue, pushing and shoving at one another to shoot past my lips. I mull over my response just as Blake did his. I wasn’t in the right frame of mind for the past two weeks while my world slowly splintered around me. I ignored the consequences and victories brought on by Frank’s death. I didn’t assess how much power I hold now that he’s out of the way, no longer breathing down my neck. It would’ve occurred to me sooner if I hadn’t been preoccupied with Layla since that fateful night. More than half of the biggest bosses in the country now work with me or rely on my product. I’m where I’ve wanted to be for years. At the same time, I’d give it all up at the snap of my fingers to keep Layla safe.

“You have my word,” I say. The knot in my stomach that tied itself up when Spades said Layla’s in the hospital starts to come apart now. “Kill anyone who tries to see Layla. She’s your priority for the time being. I don’t care if it’s a nurse, someone claiming to be related to her, or the president trying to get in her room. No one gets through.”

A low satisfied chuckle is his first answer. “I’ve got just the guys to handle the job. My son will lead the team. Don’t worry, she’s safe here.”

A state of mind where I don’t worry about her no longer exists. I don’t think it existed since the day she entered Delta.

“I need someone on the inside. Have you got a trusted, reliable doctor at the University Hospital?”

“Yes, of course. I’ll send you the details. His name is Mark. A hundred grand will have him dancing to whatever tune you might want to play.”

“Thank you. Keep me updated. Anything happens, I want to know first.” I cut the call a touch lighter and calmer.

Rookie sits behind the wheel, relaxed and seemingly unaffected by the hundred and thirty miles an hour on the clock. Spades and Nate have a hard time keeping up while Cai and Jackson are no longer visible in the rearview mirror.

It’s not that they lack power under the hoods. Last week I swapped the three identical SRT8 Charges we had to Hellcats. We sit on the same horsepower, but neither Spades nor Cai can handle a car the way Rookie can; neither has the balls to watch the speed climb to the max. That’s precisely why Rookie’s by my side and not Spades. I want to get to Layla as soon as humanly possible. He can make that happen.

“That didn’t take much work.” With a sideways glance my way, he slams the gas, veering into the other lane to pass a truck that’s still miles away. “I expected more resistance.”

“So did I.”

I check the phone every three seconds, waiting for the doctor’s details. Two minutes later, I call Jackson, who’s on the passenger seat of the car with Cai at the wheel, ordering him to wire a hundred grand over to a Mark Johnson. Once the transfer is complete, I dial the number Blake sent.

“Hello?” He answers, the Texan accent ringing in my ears.

“Check your bank account.”

He doesn’t question me, which hints it’s not the first call he received with such an opener. Tapping on the keyboard sounds in the background for a few long seconds before he speaks. “I’m listening.” An unhealthy dose of excitement spiked with dread chimes in his voice.

Who wouldn’t sound excited after becoming one hundred grand richer in seconds?

Money cheers everyone up. It’s the bread and butter of our existence in this mundane, shitty world. The main thing people chase. The reason behind the most heinous crimes. Money is power. Whoever says otherwise is either stupid or never had the kind of money that lets you buy everything. Material and immaterial things. A yacht. Obedience. A penthouse in New York. Information.

Money is power. Kids are taught from a young age that money is a tool, a means to get by, pay the bills, and buy necessities. Kids are taught that love matters most. That being a decent human should take priority over everything else. One doesn’t rule out the other, though.

You don’t have to give up love to have money. Believing the blatant lie that you have to choose is an excuse not to get off your ass and earn more. It’s the mindset of those who don’t want to succeed. Those who are perfectly happy with mediocracy.

Thank God average folk exist, willingly living out their average lives, or else rich people wouldn’t be as rich.

Don’t get me wrong, love is the best thing that can happen to a person. The notion is now well and truly cemented in my very being since I got a taste of what true love feels like.

Yeah, love is the best, but try paying your bills with fucking hugs and see how that turns out.

I’d give up all my money if I had to choose between the millions in my bank and Layla.

Layla. Always Layla.

That doesn’t mean I’d sit back on my broke ass, basking in the questionable wonders of mediocracy. I’d make the money back fast because I don’t settle for average.

“Layla Harston was admitted to your hospital an hour ago,” I say, watching the surroundings as they change from city streets to a quiet interstate.

“Yes, she was. I had Blake on the phone just now. You work fast, Dante. I haven’t seen Layla yet, but from what I gather, she was involved in a car crash.”

“Until I arrive at the hospital in ten hours, you’re the only person allowed to touch her. No nurses, no other doctors. Only you. She needs a change of dressing, you do it. She wants a glass of water, you get it. She wants anything at all, no matter how extraordinary her wish, you accommodate. The one thing you can’t allow is to let her leave the room. Understood?”

“Yes.” He clears his throat. Quiet scribbling in the background tells me he’s writing it all down. “Whatever she wants is hers as long as she stays in her room.”

“Put her in the most remote room you can think of. Don’t note the change in her file. Blake’s people are on their way as we speak to stand guard at her door. They have orders to kill anyone who isn’t you or me who tries to see her, and they will fucking do it, so you better make sure no hospital staff goes anywhere near the room.”

“Of course, I’ll ensure no one goes near her.”

“Good.” I squeeze the nape of my neck, bracing to ask the question to which I’m downright scared to hear the answer. “Now talk to me. How is she doing?”

More tapping on the keyboard follows. “Stable. Strained wrist, cuts, and bruises. A mild concussion. Twenty-six stitches on her thigh, eighteen on her shoulder, four more on the gunshot wound, two at the front and two at the back. The bullet went through and out. Nothing but muscle tissue was damaged. She’s conscious, but…” he trails off.

The short pause shouldn’t affect me the way it does. My thoughts shouldn’t grind to a halt. My heart shouldn’t climb up to my throat that pulses and throbs. But it does, and there’s shit all I can do about my body’s reaction.

“But what?”

“She’s hooked to diazepam. The attending’s note says she had a panic attack on the scene.”

I rub my face, eyes closed. The images his words summon, amplify the unease rolling around me like sewage. The car crash alone must’ve scared her senseless, but I know blood seeping from her wounds had a more sinister effect. “Make sure she doesn’t look at blood. She can’t stand the sight.”

“No blood. Got it.”