Broken Promises: (Broken Duet #2)
Broken Promises: Chapter 23

“I’m sorry I’m late. Dante called.” I join Anatolij in the dining room for breakfast.

“You’re not at school, Layla. No need to apologize. Is everything alright?”

Who knows? Dante sure didn’t sound alright…

As if it’s not hard enough to be kept away from home, now I won’t even hear his voice for God knows for how long. Anatolij’s castle feels more like a prison every day. Even the ballet sessions no longer lift my mood. The weather outside the window doesn’t help; a cold, snowy, beautiful picture keeps me inside because a short walk is enough to give me frostbite.

Last night, a raging blizzard kept me awake until the early hours. The wind played a haunting melody, slamming against the old, wooden windows as it raged outside while I lay in bed, watching the snow swirl in the air. Lack of sleep isn’t helping me look at the bright side of things. Whatever that might be.

“I don’t know… Dante doesn’t tell me what he’s up to, but something must be wrong because he called to say he won’t be in touch for a few days.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing he can’t take care of. Julij says Dante’s clever, perceptive, and hell-bent on closing the hit to keep you safe. They both are.”

“That makes one thing Julij’s right about,” I clip, the words bitter on my tongue.

Our recent conversation, the nerve of him implying what he did, boils my blood again. I’ve watched Anatolij closely since Julij left but found no proof to confirm Julij’s words. Not one sentence or look I could fault him with. If anything, he grows on me day by day. The way he treats me has no sexual context, no lustful vibe. If anything, he acts paternal, like I’m a child that needs care, and Anatolij decided that he’s equipped for the task.

“I sense annoyance,” Anatolij drawls in his thick, colorful accent. “What did my nephew do to upset you?”

Regardless of how comfortable I feel around him, I won’t explain that Julij voiced his absurd accusations not just to him but to me too. Under a layer of Anatolij’s politeness and good manners hides an unforgiving, ruthless man whose patience I won’t dare test.

“It doesn’t matter. All that does is what Dante thinks.”

“And what does he think?”

“That I’m safe with you.”

The corners of his mouth curl. “As I said, he’s clever.”

That he is. Among an abundance of other things.

“I’m afraid you’ll have no choice but to endure hours of listening to conversations held in Russian tonight. Don’t worry, most of my guests speak perfect English. I’m sure you’ll replace a common topic with some of them.”

The housekeeper enters the dining room with a pot of hot coffee. This time, she approaches me first. Anatolij’s home closely resembles a soap opera set. The maids wear matching gray dresses with white aprons tied around their waists. Every single one is blonde and wears her hair in a granny bun. Security circles the perimeter, armed with long guns. Bouquets of fresh flowers are delivered weekly, and despite many rooms and corridors, the castle is always spotless.

“I took time to learn a few words,” I say. The aroma of bitter coffee hits the back of my nose while the maid fills my cup slowly. “I won’t be able to hold a conversation, but when you mentioned the ball, I thought it’d be nice if I could at least say, zdravstvuyte, menya zovut Layla, and spasibo.”

Anatolij opens his mouth, but before any words leave his lips, peacefulness of the castle is shattered by gunfire. Blood drains from my face faster than Anatolij draws his gun from the holster by his belt. He’s up on his feet, ready and focused within a second.

The maid almost jumps out of her shoes, spilling whatever was left in the coffee pot on my thighs. With a squeal and a strand of what must be apologies in Russian, she tugs my arm, eyes wide. Muffled screams reach our ears, cutting through the air, mixing with the sound of my pounding heart and the maid’s pleas. Blood whooshes in my ears.

“Get down,” Anatolij orders.

As if on autopilot, I slide under the table when he turns his back to us, not a trace of nerves in his posture. His cold-blooded focus fails to eradicate the fear spreading through my mind like a drop of ink in a bowl of water. Pulse throbs in my dry throat. Adrenaline temporarily numbs the burning skin of my thighs. Ten trembling fingers dig into my arm when the maid ducks under the table. I’m not sure if she wants to protect me or hide behind me. Either way, the castle is once again ominously still. Silence falls upon us. The only sound in the room comes from a large, old clock as it counts every nerve-wracking second.

Thirty-seven pass before footsteps echo in the corridor. The whole building has incredible acoustics. I’ve listened to Anatolij stroll down the castle’s halls for two weeks, so I know it is him approaching the living room. His pace is off, though, not the unrushed pace he got me used to. More of an angry, heavy walk, but unmistakable, nonetheless. He enters the dining room, rounds the table, and crouches beside me and the maid who’s still bruising my skin with her bony fingers and me.

“I’m sorry, Layla.” He holds out his hand for me. “False alarm. One of my people didn’t close the basement door properly. The soundproofing didn’t work. There’s a shooting range downstairs, next door to the ballroom.”

A library I am yet to visit, a ballroom large enough for five-hundred guests, and now a shooting range. What else is hidden behind the many closed doors in this place?

“You didn’t mention the shooting range.” I grimace, scrambling out from under the table. Anesthesia in the form of adrenaline fades away, leaving my skin burning like hell.

Anatolij follows my line of sight to my soaked jeans. “You should take them off, Layla. Now. The sooner we apply a cool compress to the burns, the smaller the damage.”

I shimmy out of the jeans, taking care of keeping my panties in place. Pain is stronger than shame, but I don’t want to flash Anatolij by accident.

The maid rushes out of the room and comes back ten seconds later with a bowl of water and a towel. My cheeks warm up once I stand there, in just my t-shirt and a pair of black panties. Thank God I didn’t opt-in for lace today.

“Sit.” Anatolij gestures to the chair, wetting the towel. He kneels before me, his face five inches away from my panties, as he inspects the burns. “I can’t see blisters. It will hurt for a while, but it will heal without scarring. A cold bath should help with the pain.” He presses the make-shift cold compress to my thighs before meeting my gaze. “Can I carry you upstairs?”

“It’s okay. I can walk.”

“Yes, you can, but I doubt you want half of my people to see more of you than absolutely necessary.”

“Good point.”

He slides one arm under my knees, snakes the other around my back, and lifts me up with effortless ease. The maid covers my legs with a dry towel, tucking it in wherever possible so it won’t slip off at the least convenient moment.

Dante would burst into flames if he walked in here right now. Despite showing no signs of jealousy toward Anatolij, his territoriality would surely rear its head. I try to ignore Anatolij’s people gawking at us on our way upstairs. Thankfully, despite the raised eyebrows, no one dares to comment.

“I’m sorry my people scared you,” Anatolij says, climbing the third flight of stairs.

“You’d think I’d be used to gunshots by now. I guess I was for a while, but then the shots no longer meant a hole in a paper target.”

Even covered with the towel, my cheeks burn, matching the temperature of my thighs when Anatolij sits me on the bed in my room.

“You should take this off,” he points at my jumper. “I’ll get the bath ready.”

This time, I don’t hesitate before yanking the sweater off over my head. A black Cami top underneath keeps my modesty somehow intact. If it was Dante trying to submerge me in a cold bathtub, I’d argue until I’d turn blue in the face. I don’t dare argue with Anatolij. The aura of authority surrounding him doesn’t differ much from what Dante emanates, but it is different somehow. I nod along to everything he says.

“Let’s get it over with,” I mutter, crossing the room.

Anatolij holds my hand until I sit in the cool water, legs straight, hands on the edge of the tub. My breaths come in sharp gasps, goosebumps dot every inch of my skin, and my eyes fall shut, while I imagine that the water’s not cold at all. Not that it’s working. My body knows better.

“I’m fine,” I assure when a worried look taints Anatolij’s aristocratic features. “Too bad I won’t dance tonight.”

“Why do you think I told you to get in the tub? You’ll dance. The maid will bring the first aid kit soon. Stay in the bath for ten minutes, then apply the cream.” Two vertical wrinkles in his forehead deepen as he rises to his feet. “I must call Dante.”

“Why? He doesn’t have to know. He’s got a lot on his mind, and you said I won’t have a scar.”

“I promised to call if anything happens. Something did.”

“I think he meant something more important than a first-degree burn of…” my hand hovers over the burn to measure the extent of the damage, “…about eight percent of my body. If Dante decided he needs space, it means he’s trying to focus. Please don’t bother him. I don’t want him to beat himself up later that he didn’t do enough.”

A shadow crosses Anatolij’s face, and a slow glow of anger works through his body, tightening the muscles in his jaw. “You don’t believe he’ll close the hit?”

“I believe he’ll stop at nothing, but… I don’t expect a happy ending. He’s just one man, Anatolij. One man against, God only knows how many. He can’t win.”

Mafia is no place for sentiments. Dante won’t bribe everyone. My father orchestrated the hit, and if he put half the effort and brains into it as he put into manipulating me through the years, there’s no way I’ll come out alive. Frank was meticulous, always covered all bases, and prepared for a sudden wind change. The bounty on my head is plan B, and Frank’s B plans never failed.

Anatolij crouches beside me again, his hands on the tub’s edge. He looks like a man torn between right and wrong when he stares me down with light-gray eyes. I can’t get over how different he is from Nikolaj. No common features, nothing that’d portray they were related.

“Dante’s not alone,” he says. “He has his men, there’s Julij who, not unlike Dante, will do all in his power to protect you. There are Dante’s partners from Detroit and whoever else he works with. He already bribed a few of the major bosses. This won’t happen overnight, baby girl, but it will happen. Dante won’t rest until you’re safe.”

A small, forced smile curves my lips. Hope still smolders inside me, but I try not to let it burn bright. Being a realist got me through the life Frank gave me. I won’t become an optimist at the last stretch.

“Julij wants to help, but not many bosses respect him yet. The V brothers from Detroit have no reason to protect me. They’ll stand back when it gets too hot—”

“Don’t forget me,” he cuts in. “You’re safe here. If everything else fails, you and Dante can move to Moscow.”

“And what’s your motive? Why have you invited me to stay here with you?”

A pained expression flashes across his face again. “I can think of a reason. I’ll tell you about it one day, but today isn’t that day.” He crosses the room and lingers with his hand on the handle. “I think you better get out before you catch a cold.”

“Don’t call Dante. He doesn’t need to know.”

With an apologetic smile, he closes the bathroom door behind him.

***

A young man whose name slipped my attention talks about the joys of living in America. He moved to Los Angeles two years ago and can’t praise the city enough. For almost ten minutes now, he’s been listing his favorite Lakers players since the early fifties. I wouldn’t be surprised if LeBron’s poster hangs above his bed. He probably kisses it goodnight too.

Bored describes my mental state perfectly, which is why I finish the second glass of champagne, despite arriving in the ballroom thirty minutes ago.

Anatolij introduced me to a dozen people before the basketball fanatic started his monologue, overly excited to chat to a ‘fellow American’ here in Russia.

I scan the room, searching for a waiter, but instead of a floating silver tray, my eyes lock with Anatolij. He smiles over the sea of heads and shoulders. With practiced nonchalance, he raises his chin, pointing to my companion. I don’t want to be rude, so I plaster a convincing smile on my face, one that always worked on Nikolaj, and return to scanning hundreds of guests in search of the Holy Grail.

Twelve waiters were employed to serve the guests, but as if sensing my desperation, they’re all hiding. Enlightening conversations buzz in the air, accompanied by a string quartet playing a sad, monotonous melody. Two hundred kinds of perfumes mix with an equal number of colognes, but the sickening smell of white lilies overpowers the room.

The basketball fan is up to the nineties, gushing about Shaquille O’Neal, when a gentle hand touches my lower back.

I spin around, meeting the piercing gaze of gray eyes.

Anatolij hands me a glass of champagne, setting my empty flute back on a waiter’s tray. “Would you mind if I stole Layla for a while?” he asks my companion.

“No, of course not. I’ll replace her later.”

Anatolij nods, turning to me. “Waltz?”

“Only the basics.”

He raises his hand, twirls his finger, and in an instant, the string quartet starts playing a waltz. Anatolij offers me his arm while the crowd of people part to create a circle in the middle of the dance floor.

“You look beautiful,” he whispers in my hair before he spins me around, bows slightly, and we start dancing.

A heavenly female voice reverberates in the room. I turn to see a dark-haired woman standing in front of a microphone on the stage. She wasn’t there five minutes ago.

I’m the only one looking at her while all eyes in the room are trained on Anatolij and me. Ballet is my true love, but during the many fancy parties organized by Frank, I had to learn the basics of Waltz, Tango, and Foxtrot. As a little girl in tulle pink dresses, I danced, standing on the shoes of older men. Later, I hid in the corner of the room so no one would ask me to dance. Being there was bad enough. Especially that Frank insisted on my presence so he could put on a father-of-the-year act. Now, dancing with Anatolij, I’m a little thankful to my dad for teaching me the steps to the Waltz.

The melody is calm, Anatolij’s moves perfect, and the words coming out of the singer’s mouth make no sense. We swirl around the dance floor, my body light as a feather, my mind free of any problems.

I close my eyes briefly, enjoying the peacefulness, and smile when my imagination summons a vivid picture—Dante and I dancing at our wedding, surrounded by familiar faces. I hadn’t dreamt of a fairy tale wedding before I met Dante, but since he proposed, I catch myself thinking about the flower arrangement, the venue, and my dream dress.

A minute later, more people join in, and soon enough, the dance floor is full of dark suits and colorful, sparkly dresses. Anatolij bows once the song ends, offering my hand to an older gentleman who waited for me to become available. I don’t object. Not once for over an hour. I glide across the dance floor with different men until my feet start to ache.

I thank the last dancer, avoiding eye contact with anyone else, snatch a glass of champagne from one of the waiters, and slip out of the room unnoticed. I need a minute to catch my breath. Preferably away from the scent of lilies, that’s making me dizzy. I climb three flights of stairs, marching down the corridor to my bedroom in search of the library Anatolij mentioned. I can’t remember if he said it’s on the left, right, or opposite my room, so I open the door on the left first.

Feeling the wall, I replace the light switch and walk-in further when the lights come on. My eyebrows knot in the middle when I stare at the portrait on the opposite wall. Slowly, step by step, I walk forward, eyes on the woman painted on the canvas. Full lips, filigree posture, a smile that touches her baby-blue eyes… I can’t peel my eyes off her, growing more confused by the second.

Every rational thought gets away before I can catch it.

I sit on the couch in the middle of the room, hiding my face in my hands. When will this end? I have enough to deal with, trying to accept the past and not worry about my grim-looking future. I’m also fed up with the present because, looking at the portrait, I realize there are still more riddles from the past to uncover.

Everywhere I turn, I stumble upon lies. Everywhere I turn, someone’s trying to deceive me or hide information.

No one is honest.

My life is made up of a series of unfortunate events and accidentally spoken truths.