Broken Promises: (Broken Duet #2)
Broken Promises: Chapter 22

“Weapons?” A bald bodyguard stands in front of a red curtain on the top floor of Grande—a members-only strip club in the heart of Las Vegas.

Spades reaches into the holster, placing his gun on a black, high table in the corner. Julij does the same, and I put my gold revolver over there too. I don’t leave the house without it, just in case, by a miraculous coincidence, I’ll bump into Morte.

This isn’t the first time we’ve been asked to leave our guns behind. For the past two weeks, since Layla left Chicago, I’ve visited major bosses all over the states, paying them off in return for protection. Most don’t care about money. Some already ordered their people not to touch the order. Others want a few million before calling off their hunters.

We landed in Vegas a few hours ago. With time to kill, Spades thought it wise to hit the casinos. Precisely one hour later, he left the Bellagio twenty grand lighter but smiling, nonetheless. The meeting with Mauricio DelVannie is scheduled for ten p.m. He’s one of the oldest bosses in the States, one of the last native Italians.

In theory, he should respect the old rules, but in practice, he has dealt with Frank and Nikolaj for the past five years. There’s no telling how deep their alliance reached.

Our paths never crossed until tonight. I have no idea what to expect. Rumor has it that Mauricio is a no-bullshit, no-mercy kind of guy, which doesn’t bode well for me. I have a gut feeling I’m wasting time here because he won’t help. What’s more, I’m ready for a bloody finale to the evening.

The storm raging inside every cell in my body won’t help me convince Mauricio to cooperate. The longer Layla’s away, the shakier my self-control. I’m supposed to focus on the job, but instead, I think about her more. There’s no winning here. I can’t stop worrying, no matter where she is.

When she was in Chicago, I worried someone would kill her. Now when she’s away, in safe hands, I can’t replace peace because she’s not with me. As if that’s not enough to drive me nuts, I’m jittery like a sinner on judgment day because tonight is the Charity Ball Anatolij hosts every year.

I’ve been climbing the fucking walls thinking about her out in the open, mingling with people I don’t know, but…back in Moscow, no one can hurt a fly without Anatolij’s permission. I trust his judgment. Still, I’d rather she’d sit this out, locked in her room, invisible.

The one comforting piece of information came from Julij—no one knows Layla in Russia. No one knows me either. I only work with the Dutch and the Hungarians, but three million dollars is a hefty sum for a target as easy as my star. Knowing that she’ll be there, dressed to impress, dancing with other men doesn’t help the situation one fucking bit. She’s been gone for two weeks. I’ve not kissed, held, or felt her in two weeks, and it’s starting to weigh me down.

The henchman pulls the red curtain aside to reveal a spacious room bathed in a similar, dimmed lighting arrangement. Clouds of smoke hang over leather seats that face a row of poles on a raised stage. We step inside, my eyes darting left and right, scanning the room as I map the place out, sketching a possible escape route in case things get too hot. Young, naked girls writhe around poles, flashing middle-aged men with fake boobs. A bar is tucked away at the back, the room full of waitresses wearing nothing but bowties as they balance drinks on silver trays.

Julij pokes me with his elbow, pointing to the left, behind the dance floor. Thick, black, floor-length curtains hide, as I can easily guess, private rooms for those wanting to fuck either one of the pole dancers. A brothel under the banner of a strip club is standard in Vegas and any other major city.

“This way,” the henchman says, leading us to the nearest booth occupied by three men.

Despite never meeting Mauricio in person, I have no trouble guessing who the boss is. He resembles mafia men from Prohibition times—white suit, dark shades, a cigar in hand. Resting one elbow on his knee, he leans toward the stage, almost drooling at the sight of naked ass. Signet rings mark his fingers, and a large cross with diamonds hangs from a thick chain around his neck. Oh… and let’s not forget the hat. White with a black band.

Now, he does look like Al Capone. When compared to Mauricio, Nikolaj was merely a cheap tribute act.

“Dante Carrow,” Mauricio says, the high-pitched voice out of place on a man of his overweight size. He shakes my hand, squeezing hard to establish seniority. Most bosses take time to introduce their main entourage, but Mauricio scrams his and my people away. They move to a nearby table, offering us a false sense of privacy. “What’s your poison? Cognac? Whiskey? Bourbon?” He summons a waitress with a snap of his fingers.

The girl, her boobs bigger than my head, leans over the table, holding out a tray. I snatch a glass of bourbon and accept a cigar from Mauricio. Etiquette requires fifteen minutes of vague conversation before we get to business, so I start with the safest topic: I praise the club.

I don’t get to finish the sentence before he cuts me off.

“How about we skip the pleasantries, Dante? I know why you’re here. I know nobody has refused yet, and I know how much you offer.”

My phone vibrates in my pocket, but I can’t check who’s trying to reach me. It would show a lack of respect, erasing the small chance I have to win Mauricio over, and my chance would go down the drain. “The price is negotiable.”

“You’re going about this all wrong. Instead of paying for protection, pay for murder. You’re searching for the promoter yourself, but if you were to order a hit, pay, say, twice as much as Frankie wanted for Layla, you could lead most of the daredevils away from her.”

My grip on the glass tightens of its own accord. “It won’t work. Layla’s the easier target. And Morte is mine.”

Mauricio laughs, patting me on the shoulder. “Stop acting like a child. “Morte is mine,” he mocks. “What difference does it make who kills him? The main thing is that he’ll be dead, right? The order will become insolvent, and you’ll be able to bring Layla home.”

A cold sweat rushes down my spine as I watch Mauricio, searching his eyes for confirmation that he knows where she is.

No, no way. That’s impossible. Only me, Julij, Spades, and Nate know her exact location.

“No, I don’t know where you hid her,” he supplies before I can ask. “But I guess there’s a reason why you drag this dimwit with you everywhere.” He points at Julij and rises to his feet, urging me to follow. He gestures at his people to stay put before he takes me to his office at the back of the club. “Sit down, Dante. Julij’s as clueless as his father was. If not for Frank, Nikolaj wouldn’t have a thing. All he was good at was piggyback riding. If you don’t stop focusing on one thing at a time, you’ll share Frank’s fate. Julij will take advantage of your inattention. He’ll take your partners, your product, and your position.” He takes a long puff of the cigar, leaning over the small coffee table between us. “Open your eyes, Dante. You’re smart, you’ve been a part of this life for years, but ever since you met Layla, you make one mistake after another like a novice.”

“How do you know so much about me?”

“Who did I work with all those years? Frankie was consumed with envy. He despised who you became because you became better than he could ever hope. You surpassed all expectations. Everything you touch turns to gold.”

That’s plausible. Frank’s hatred started before we killed Dino. I didn’t notice it then, but I connected the dots years later. Dino died because he trusted me more than he trusted Frankie, who was his second in command. Frank felt threatened. His position in the ranks hung by a thread. Degradation wasn’t an option, and that’s how the plan of taking over Chicago came to life.

Frankie and I were close back then. He had me wrapped around his finger the same way he had Layla not so long ago. At one point in our lives, we were both manipulated and taught to believe him and in him. To follow him blindly. It was his greatest gift: turning people around him into his puppets.

I needed several weeks of separation to emerge out of the haze. I saw through Frank’s bullshit once Dino died, and I was locked in my house with nothing but my thoughts keeping me entertained for weeks.

It’s a goddamn miracle Layla saw him for who he was when she did.

“Frank’s been obsessed with you for six years, plotting elaborate revenge. His business was in decline, and partners started to turn away, but he didn’t care. He wanted you. He wanted to leave you with nothing, not even a will to survive, and for that, he was willing to sacrifice his daughter.”

“Are you suggesting that I’m following in his footsteps?”

“You’re a racehorse in the fog. You’re wandering a maze, feeling the walls instead of opening your eyes.” He reaches for a bottle of cognac to refill our glasses. “Let me guess. You want to replace Morte and force him to retract the hit. You’ll wait for a few weeks, maybe months, kill those who don’t get the message, and then bring Layla home to live a happily ever after. Am I close?”

I don’t answer. I met the guy half an hour ago, and I have no intention of sharing my plan. “Nobody knows where Morte is. My people have been looking for him for a month now. If I can’t replace him, what makes you think anyone else will? Ordering a hit only conveys the message that I’m out of options and desperate. It’ll prompt more killers to act, hoping to force a mistake on me so they can get to her.”

A sad, pitiful smile crosses his lips. “Stop thinking about Layla for a moment. Stop worrying. I’m more than certain Anatolij will sooner kill half his people than let someone hurt her. He’s a damn honorable guy.”

I swallow hard, my hands damp. I really do make mistakes worthy of an amateur if Mauricio figured out where she is within half an hour. Julij shouldn’t be here. He doesn’t mean much in this world yet. There’s no reason for his presence. I let him tag along because he helped transport Layla to Moscow. Because he’s as determined to ensure her safety as I am.

“Relax. I don’t start with the Russians. I have no intention of chasing Layla. Frank hit an all-time low when he ordered the hit. It’s something I can’t tolerate and would never participate in. I’m just trying to help you see that because of how you look at the case, you miss obvious things.”

“Why are you helping me?”

“Let’s say I’m getting sentimental in my old age. My grandson was born recently; my wife acts twenty years younger… I heard about the bounty on Layla, and I tried walking in your shoes. You’re a clever guy and a great businessman. I regret that our paths didn’t cross years ago. Things would look different now.”

The short conversation is enough for Mauricio to make it onto the short list of people I respect for the kind of humans they are. If we met all those years ago, working with him would’ve been a breeze, but this is neither the time nor place to start a new business venture.

First things first.

“Thank you.” I rise from the armchair and hold my hand for him to shake. This time, he doesn’t squeeze hard—a nonverbal admission that I stand above him in this world.

“Get rid of Julij. Order the hit on Morte and replace something to blackmail him with, just in case. And open your eyes,” he says again, then embraces me like the authentic Italian he is before we leave his office.

Spades and Julij rise on cue. We pick up our guns before exiting the club, getting into a limousine parked outside. I pull out my phone to check who tried to reach me earlier. Instead of a missed call, there’s an unread message from Layla.

I smile under my breath, looking at my star wearing a gold dress straight from the twenties. Feathers are pinned in her hair, and she wears a disarming smile that touches her gray eyes. A short question waits under the photo.

How do I look?

Like everything I need.

I dial the number to hear her voice. Mauricio’s right, my ever-growing obsession destroys my ability to notice the big picture. I have to draw a line between us for a while to focus on what matters most right now. I don’t think I can do that if we stay in touch.

“You look gorgeous,” I say when she answers.

“I like it too. Twenties fashion suits me. I look pretty with feathers in my hair.”

“You look pretty with a smile, baby. What time does the party start?”

“Late afternoon. It’s only nine a.m. here. I wanted to show you the dress before you fall asleep.”

“I’m glad you did. Dance until dawn and get used to it. You’ll be on the dance floor all night long at our wedding.”

Her light, happy chuckle titillates every nerve-ending in my body. “Can I count on my husband to dance with me too?”

The image of me standing at the altar never crossed my mind until I met Layla. I lived in the moment, not caring about what the future held. Then, Layla made an entrance… I wanted her to be mine right away, and a few weeks later, I wanted her to stay mine.

I don’t enjoy dancing, but I’ll make an exception for my wife. One dance, or five… maybe a dozen.

“I’ll be the first one to dance with you. And the last. And some number in-between.” I take a deep breath, convincing myself that we should stop talking for a while for her sake. She occupies my every conscious and unconscious thought, making it damn near impossible to protect her.

“Go on,” she urges. “Get it out. What’s wrong?”

As always, she senses the change in the atmosphere even though she’s five thousand miles away. All it took was my one deep breath to kick-start her sixth sense.

“I won’t call you for a few days, Star.”

“Why? Did something happen?” A tingle of worry in her voice tenses the muscles on my back.

God, I fucking hate hearing her worried.

Relationships don’t work this way, I’m sure. People don’t feel the sort of extreme protectiveness I feel toward Layla, or else most men in the world would be certifiably insane. This isn’t healthy, but I understand my own psychotic mind. We’re both emotionally challenged in different ways.

“Everything’s fine, but I need to switch off for a few days. I’ll call you when the chaos is more manageable, but if anything happens, if—”

“I know. I’ll call you. Do what you have to do. Don’t worry about me. Maybe it’s unreasonable, but I feel safe here.”

She has no idea how desperately I try not to worry for just five fucking minutes. Long enough to catch my breath, to get a break from the overpowering, irrational feelings.

“You are safe. Stay close to Anatolij. He won’t let a hair fall off your head.”

She clicks her tongue. Although I can’t see her, I have no trouble imagining what she looks like right now: pouty mouth, eyebrows pulled together, and probably one hand on her hip. Gorgeous. She’s so fucking beautiful when she’s annoyed.

“Funny you should say that. Julij has a different opinion on the matter.”

My eyes narrow at the man in question who sits opposite me, watching Vegas out of the tinted windows. A dreamy, barely-there smile on his face clearly indicates who he’s thinking about. Since he came back from Moscow, he acts more infatuated than before. Or maybe he just stopped hiding it. Either way, he’s pissing me off.

“And what’s that?” I ask.

“I spend a lot of time with Anatolij. Julij seems to think his uncle wants to sleep with me.”

I can’t help but laugh. God, keeping the truth away from Julij’s ears is absolutely killing me. One sentence would dissolve his feelings in the blink of an eye, but I promised Anatolij to keep it a secret until he replaces the courage to tell Layla himself.

“Julij’s got a vivid imagination.”

At the sound of his name, he looks up. “What?”

“That he does. I have to go. I’ll wait for your call. If I can make it that long without talking to you.”

The real question is whether I have it in me to stay away from her. “Have fun, baby.”

“What was that about? What did she tell you about me?” Julij asks once I cut the call.

“I told you I’ll tolerate it that you love her until you cross a line. Tone down with the jealousy, or I’ll show you how much a broken jaw hurts.”

He folds his arms over his chest, a knowing look on his face. “She told you…”

“You thought she wouldn’t? You don’t know her very well, do you? She won’t risk jeopardizing the little trust I put in her so far.”

Layla’s been tiptoeing around me since I arrived in Texas. Always nervous about making one false move. She’s slowly regaining her confidence, though. I can’t wait to have the girl I fell in love with back, showing off her true colors.

“It’s not about jealousy. It’s about safety,” Julij clips, seemingly pissed off that Layla hadn’t kept their conversation private. “She’s alone there. I just want her to be careful but don’t twist it to your preference. She’s not mine. I don’t fucking care who she sleeps with.”

Spades has no time to react.

Julij has no time to see my outrage coming.

It happens in a flash.

I lunge forward, grab him by the collar of his immaculate blue shirt, and smack his head against the window. “Layla’s mine. She only sleeps with me.”

I don’t have to throw it out there, but in a way, I’m marking my territory. I’ve warned Julij not once and not twice. He should’ve listened instead of disrespecting my girl. There’s no way in heaven or hell I’ll let anyone say or suggest anything derogatory about her.

“That’s strike one, Julij,” Spades clips behind my back. “Do yourself a favor and keep your big mouth shut.”

I feel his hand on my arm, pulling me back, and reluctantly let go of a wide-eyed Julij, who adjusts his shirt, eyes shooting daggers my way. This probably isn’t how he imagined our business partnership. To date, all he gets out of our arrangement is a kicking. His patience is probably wearing thin by now. Too bad for him; the cards are in my hand. All he can do is nod along.

“It was your idea to send her over there. You supposedly trust Anatolij, and now you say he’d hurt her? Bullshit. You’re in love, you’re jealous, and you’re getting on my nerves.” I growl, staring him down, waiting for one false move, one more foul word out of his mouth.

It’d justify manslaughter.

At least in my eyes, it would. I’m on the verge of overloading. Julij might not want to give me a reason to use him as an outlet for my emotions. There’s one thing that’d erase his feelings in a blink of an eye. One piece of information that’d turn his world upside down. He’d stop dreaming about Layla, fast.

I’m running out of reasons not to tell him. I want to see his face when he replaces out. I want to see the sliver of hope he has for a relationship with my girl die a tragic death, but I can’t tell him. Not yet. Not while Layla remains oblivious.

Fifteen minutes later, without another shitstorm, we arrive at the hotel. Julij, slightly pissed off and still sulking, storms toward the elevators, leaving me in the lobby with Spades.

“Why do you put up with it? You don’t need him, Dante. You don’t need Nikolaj’s affiliates. We’ve been doing fine by ourselves. Cut him loose.”

Yes, we have been doing fine. We sure don’t need Julij, but in the face of the newly discovered information, I know he’ll be a part of my life forever, no matter how I feel about it.

“He’s not going anywhere. Keeping him close means turning a decent profit. How’s Jackson doing with Morte?”

“No news yet.” He slips a hundred in the waiter’s pocket, earning us a far-removed table where a reserved plaque sits in the middle but is promptly taken away. “He’ll replace him. He just needs time, Dante.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Mauricio’s words bounce around my head as I skim over the menu. Find something to blackmail him with.” Knowing Morte’s way of thinking and the effort he put into being untouchable, I didn’t think twice about the reference to Sandra he slipped into our chat over the phone.

Maybe I should’ve.

She’s the only woman he ever loved, the only one to break his heart. He lost a piece of his fucking soul when she left, which makes me wonder… Layla stabbed me in the back, but I forgave her. Even if I left her alone, replaceing out a few years later that she’s in danger, I wouldn’t turn a blind eye. Feelings don’t go away. True love lingers at the back of our minds, hearts, and souls, numbed, suppressed, but always there, a bitter-sweet aftertaste of better times.

“Change of plans,” I tell Spades, pulling my phone out of my pocket. “Forget Morte. We’re looking for Sandra now.”

“Sandra?”

“She’s to Morte what Layla is to me.”