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With those words, I pull Layla to me once more, her chest gently pressing against mine. I lift her chin so she can look me in the eye and see that I mean business.
“Five days, Layla. In five days’ time, I expect you to be at city hall waiting to be my wife. Is that clear?” I demand. I will give her this time with her sister, but then she’s mine.
She swallows dryly, her green eyes fixed to mine. Fear and trepidation swim in her emerald gaze, but there is a hint of curious excitement too.
I can work with that.
I lean down and press a chaste kiss to her forehead before leaving her to do her sisterly duty by being at Zoey’s bedside as she recovers.
* * *
The past five days leading up to our wedding have been utter and complete torture. I should know, since I’m an expert at inflicting pain, but never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined that watching the clock turn could be such a miserable affair. I did everything in my power to keep busy and not allow the insecure voices in my head room to grow.
During the day, I began the process of preparing the life Layla and Zoey deserve, while at night I took every job I could, entertaining myself one kill at a time.
One of the first things I did this past week was purchase us a townhouse in Tribeca and hire a professional decorator to make sure the four-story building felt like a home worthy of my girls. It was a feat getting the house ready in time, but when money isn’t an issue, people tend to go the extra mile to get whatever you want done in record time. It would have been simpler to decorate an apartment, and I even considered buying us a penthouse apartment on the Upper East Side, but I nixed that idea fast. Such a home would draw too much attention to us, and the prospect of having nosy neighbors wanting to know our business isn’t something a man like me really wants.
The minute I walked into our Tribeca home, I knew it was too perfect not to buy. Not only does it have ample space indoors, but it also has a large, secluded backyard any kid would be happy to play in. It’s also situated close enough to St. Augustine’s that Layla will be able to take and pick Zoey up every day from school if she so wishes. And knowing Layla, the knowledge that her sister is just a five-minute walk away will certainly please her protective nature.
I, however, like the townhouse for more practical reasons. It’s a convenient twenty-minute drive to my brownstone in Brooklyn, which means I can keep my work life and personal life separate. I’m sure Layla wouldn’t appreciate me coming home with brain matter on my shoes after a hard day’s work, so having a place where I can work freely and clean up before coming home for dinner is vital for the success of our marriage.
Hmm.
That’s another thing that’s been keeping me up at night.
Layla has been so wrapped up with Zoey’s condition, she hasn’t thought to ask anything about me yet. The only question she did ask that very first night in my car was for my name—not even my full name at that. However, her lack of curiosity will dwindle once she’s confident Zoey is back to her healthy self. Then, every question she can think of will start coming to her like a tidal wave, and I have to make sure I’m well prepared to have answers to all of them. Coming right out and telling her that she’s about to marry a professional hit man isn’t high on my to-do list.
I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.
Right now, I’ve got bigger concerns, like figuring out just exactly why the fuck my fiancée hasn’t arrived yet. What could possibly be keeping her?
You know why, my forlorn heart whispers. It’s a quarter to two, the time we’re supposed to get hitched, and Layla is nowhere to be found.
Last night when I texted saying she needed to be here at city hall at two P.M sharp, I held my breath and watched the blue dots flicker on my phone then ultimately disappear. I didn’t even get a thumbs-up emoji.
It unsettled me.
Now that Zoey is okay, there is nothing stopping Layla from not going through with our deal.
What should I do if she doesn’t show up?
Do I scour the city until I find her then drag her kicking and screaming to the altar?
Or do I bow out and leave her the fuck alone once and for all?
These are the thoughts that plague me just minutes before my wedding. The obsessive animal in me that needs to possess every inch of Layla’s body, heart, and soul yells that she will be my wife whether she wants to or not.
But the beating organ in my chest that loves her, that worships the very ground she walks on, slaps that caveman notion away. If Layla doesn’t show up, then I will have to make my peace with it. All I want is her happiness, and if she doesn’t believe she can have that with me, then I have to respect her choices.
“Argh,” I grunt, running my hand over my face, hating where my head is at. “Pull your shit together, asshole.”
Easier said than done.
I look at my watch and verify that it’s now five past the hour.
“She’ll come,” I mumble as my heart deflates with each ticking second that passes by.
I keep my eyes peeled, waiting to catch a glimpse of her fiery red hair amongst the sea of people here. With each minute that passes, my hope of her coming starts to wither.
