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He continues to grin, but there’s darkness in his eyes. I’ve struck a nerve. “Just as sassy as your mother.” He pauses again, walking so close to me I can see the scar on his forehead that runs across his hairline. Rumor has it, when Frankie was younger, his father went bat-shit crazy and cut him there. “I’m wondering what other talents of your mother’s you have.” As he stops just short of me, the way he leers at me makes me squirm in my skin. “Maybe we should find out.”
I want to clock him in the face—and probably would, too—but my hands are still bound. So, instead, I say, “Don’t fucking talk about my mother. Ever,” I growl. “You didn’t know her, so don’t pretend you did.”
That makes him laugh. “Everyone knew Lalana, Lola. Most men better than you, probably.”
I hate the way he annunciates men. I’m about to snap at him, tear open the wound and let myself bleed out, just to get in a few good lines and threats, however the metal door to my right swings open and in walks Layton.
I give him the coldest glare I can muster, more enraged than I ever have been at him before. This isn’t the Layton I used to know; his eyes are colder, his shoulders carrying more weight, probably from the lives he’s taken in the name of his job. He used to be so caring, so protective.
There was one time when we were about fifteen and I’d beaten the shit out of Manny Depler for grabbing my ass while I was heading to class. Layton took the fall for it when the Delper clan had showed up for payback. They beat him up pretty good; broken arm, bloody nose, which still has a tiny kink in it now. When I’d asked Layton why he had taken the fall, he’d simply said, “Because I care more about you than I do myself. I’d rather get hurt than see you get hurt.”
But seeing him here, his expression hard as tone, I decide things have dramatically changed.
“Perfect timing, Layton,” Frankie says. “Lolita and I were just finished getting reacquainted.”
“It’s Lola,” I say coldly as my gaze cuts to Frankie. “No one’s allowed to call me Lolita unless I give them permission.”
Frankie’s eyelids lower as he aims me a look of warning. “Maybe I was wrong. You seem more like your father with that mouth of yours—never knowing when to shut the fuck up.” He slowly draws one of his pistols out, not aiming at me, but carrying it to his side with his finger hovering on the trigger. “I could make you shut up, make it so you can never speak again.”
I should be more afraid than I am—maybe it’s shock, maybe it’s madness—but for some reason, I feel calm.
But Layton is nervous, tensing as he stops to the side of me. “Easy, Frankie. There’s no use shooting her just yet when she hasn’t done what you need her to do.”
Frankie rubs his jawline that’s covered in grey whiskers. “Good point.” He tucks the gun back into the holster, then he paces the floor. “Where to start. Where to start.” He wavers, amusedly.
“Just tell me why am I here,” I demand.
Layton grazes his finger along the inside of my wrist, though instead of welcoming his touch, I move my arm away. He frowns but doesn’t utter a word.
Frankie’s smile broadens as he continues to pace the floor, pointing his finger at me. “That’s a very good question.”
“It wasn’t a quest—” I start to say, but Layton snatches ahold of my wrist, rather roughly, and then gives me a pleading, pressing glance.
Please be careful, he mouths.
I hate admitting it, yet he’s right. No matter how bad I want to put Frankie in his place, now is not the time. I just hope I get another time—another chance to make him pay for everything.
I bite down on my tongue and stay quiet as Frankie strolls toward the television and turns it on. He doesn’t say a word, he simply steps back and lets me watch the screen. It’s a video of my father chained to a chair, his shoulders slumped, blood dripping down his head and pooling around his feet. I want to cry out as a hefty man with arms the size of my legs steps up to my father and starts beating him with a metal pole, slamming it against him repeatedly, causing more blood to stream onto the floor. The cracking sounds make me sick, but what’s worse is the silence of my father, as if he’s been so beaten he can’t even muster up a single noise.
“That’s enough,” I say after about five minutes of watching the screen in horror. Layton is still holding onto my arm, which is good in a way because, otherwise, I may have buckled to the floor. Between the sedative and watching my father bloody and battered, I’m feeling a little lightheaded.
Frankie lets the video play for a minute more just to torture me then turns the television off and faces me. “You’re going to do a hit on Anthony Defontelles in exchange for your father’s freedom and life.” He says it as if it’s the simplest thing to do, as if I’m a natural-born killer.
“No way.” I shake my head as I scan the warehouse for an easy exit, but unfortunately, there are guards everywhere. Layton’s fingertips dig into my arms, as if sensing I’m going to try to run for it. “I’m not a hit man, nor will I ever do anything for you.”
“Are you sure about that?” Frankie considers this for a while then ultimately shakes his head. “This isn’t an argument, Lolita.” When he then winks at me, the pain and anger I felt when my mother died and he did the same thing makes rage blaze inside me. If I’m going to kill anyone tonight, it’s going to be him.
Unexpectedly, he strides toward me, eliminating the space between us as he gets in my face. All I’d have to do is reach forward and wrap my fingers around his neck. Frankie grins as if he can read my mind and is daring me to try, daring me to go there, be like him and everyone else in this world I was just about to run away from.
Layton shifts toward me, his shoulder brushing mine, either protecting me or Frankie, I’m not sure.
“You will do it or you’ll never see your father again. Alive anyway,” Frankie sneers.
I start to inch toward him, but Layton pulls me back. “Even if I agree to do it, I don’t know how to kill,” I say, painfully realizing it’s the truth. I can act tough, however I’m not a killer. Even if I found out Frankie did have something to do with my mother’s death, I doubt I could get revenge for her.
The room starts to spin, and I’m worried I’m going to pass out. Breath in. Breath out. I fight it, standing my ground while telling myself I’m strong, despite how weak I feel inside.
Fear. It’s potent. And I’m overwhelmed by it.
As Frankie reaches out and grazes my cheek with his finger and strokes it like I’m his pet, I refuse to flinch, move back, or surrender. “Do you know what happens to people who don’t pay their debts to me, Lolita?” Frankie asks, his fingers lingering on my cheek. “I put them in a safe and drop them alive in the lake so they slowly drown and have a lot of time to reflect on their pathetic lives.” His voice deepens, carrying the threat perfectly.
My stomach burns along with my temper, anger simmering under my veins like liquid fire. “Why…? How does my father owe you?” I ask cautiously. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
His lips slowly curl upward into a wicked grin. “God, there’s so much you don’t know about your own family. Yes, even I like to keep my daughter secluded from this world, but you…” He glances over me with a look on his face, like he’s just tasted something sour. “You’re so out of the loop. So naïve. So… clueless. He thinks he’s protecting you when all he’s doing is putting you more in harm’s way, just like he did with your mother.”
A thousand questions burn at my tongue. “I know more than you think,” I lie. “Even about my mother.”
We exchange a look and it’s at that moment I know. I’ve been right. There’s more to my mother’s death than a heart attack.
“If you say so, then I guess you do,” Frankie says in a condescending tone. In the elongated pause after his words, it feels like my entire world’s falling down, about to crumble out from under me. Although, it’s probably always been cracked since I was born, and I’ve been dangerously walking around on it wi
thout a clue as to when it’s going to break.
“Now agree to make the hit and this will all be over. You’ll be free to go.” He motions at the television. “Your father will be free to go, and you can ask him all the questions you want.”
I grow more and more wary the longer I stare at the trace of a smirk on Frankie’s face. “Yeah, right,” I say. “Like it’s just that simple. I make the kill and then you just what? Let me and my father go, unharmed?”
He shrugs, crossing his arms. “Well, you will be responsible for the kill.”
Fuck me a thousand ways. I am clueless. Why didn’t I realize this the moment he said it? “So that’s what this is really about. I kill Anthony and that pretty much starts a war between the Anelli’s and Defontelles’. That’s what this is about, right?”
“Maybe, but would it really even matter to you?” he asks. “Technically, you’re not an Anelli but an Ander.”
That’s because my mother wanted me to take her name, I want to argue defensively. It’s always been a sore spot, but now it’s even sorer since I’m not quite sure where my bloodline lies. Therefore, instead, all I say is, “That’s for protection, if needed.”
He cocks a brow. “You think that’s the real reason? Or did it ever cross your mind that it might be something else? Like maybe he knew you didn’t have it in your blood to be an Anelli.”
The letter flashes through my mind and stops any words from leaving my lips. Maybe I was named Anders because my father knew I wasn’t a true Anelli. Perhaps he’s known all this time. But then, why take me on as his own? Why not leave my mother when he found out she was pregnant or whenever she told him? He has a temper, and I can only imagine how angry this sort of thing would make him.
“So what’s it going to be, Lolita?” Frankie asks. “Live or die? Brave or weak? Anders or Anelli?”
There isn’t much to say after that. I don’t verbally agree to do it, though I don’t have to. I don’t really a choice in the end. Either way, I’m going to be responsible for a death tonight, so it might as well be someone that isn’t my father.
Chapter 3
After I make the agreement, Frankie orders Layton to take me into the backroom to give me details about the hit and to let me change into something more club appropriate.
“Where the hell did you get these cloths?” I ask as I rummage through the pile that’s on a stack of boxes. I pick up one of the dresses and notice that it looks very familiar. “Wait? Did you get this from my room?”
Layton shrugs as he takes out one of his guns and pulls out the magazine to check the bullets. He has his jacket off, his holster showing over his black t-shirt. “I picked some up while I was there getting your father.”
I turn to him, astounded. “Wait? You helped with my father’s kidnapping?”
He pushes the magazine back into the gun then puts it back into he holster. “I had to, Lola. I work for Frankie now and have to follow his orders.” He doesn’t make eye contact with me, instead bending down to make sure he has his knife tucked in his boot.
I clutch the dress in my hand. “Were you there when I was being shoved in the car? When I smacked my head and then was assaulted?” I’m flabbergasted. I’d assumed he’d gotten in the car later on, but now I’m wondering if I was wrong.
His attention snaps up to me, his eyes wide. “No, of course I wasn’t.” He starts to reach for me, but then glances over his shoulder at the shut door and withdraws his hand to his side, his worried expression shifting to neutral. “Look, could you just get dressed?” He looks down at the watch on his wrist. “We need to be at the club in less than an hour if this is going to work.”
“If this is going to work.” I shake my head, pissed off. “Who the hell are you?”
“I’m the guy that’s going to make sure you see this through to the end,” he says with no emotion in his voice. “Now get dressed.”
I narrow my eyes at him, hating that I can’t actually despise him. “Turn around so I can get dressed.”
He presses his lips together. “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”
“Fucking turn around, Layton.” My voice is eerily calm as I struggle to keep the emotion out, the hurt out. If it had been any of Frankie’s other guys, I’d probably be beaten and raped by this point, so I should be grateful for Layton, however there’s too much pain from the betrayal.
When he doesn’t say anything but does what I ask and turns around, I quickly change into the dress, my fingers trembling the entire time. “There, you can turn around,” I tell him as I sit down on the boxes to put my boots on.
He slowly turns around and watches me as I slip my foot into the boot and zip it up. I’m about to put the other one on when he kneels down in front of me and reaches for my thigh.
“Don’t touch me.” I start to get up to move away from him, but he pulls me down; not roughly, but gently, like he’s still my best friend. Then he reaches for a hostler that’s on one of the boxes. Without saying a word, he straps it to my leg. The graze of his knuckles against my flesh cause unwelcomed bolts of pleasure, and I have to fight to keep the moans in. After he gets it fastened, he reaches for one of his guns and tucks it in my holster before pulling the bottom of my dress down to cover it up.
“There. I think you’re ready.”
I put my hand over the gun and stare up at him. “I could shoot you right now, you know?”
“But you won’t,” he says with indescribable pain, sorrow, and remorse haunting his eyes. It’s like we’re fourteen again and he’s getting into Frankie’s SUV while I stay with my dead mother. “You don’t have it in you.”
“Maybe I do,” I argue. “Maybe it’s just a side you haven’t seen before.”
He shakes his head with confidence. “No, Lola. You’re not a killer.” He reaches forward and brushes my cheek with his finger, sadness creeping through the mask he’s been wearing. There’s something haunting him, something dark, but what?
“If you really believe that, then what the hell do you think’s going to happen tonight?” I ask as I get to my feet. “You’re not telling me everything. I can feel it.”
“I’m not telling you a lot of things,” he mutters then sighs before giving me a quick kiss on the cheek. He then whispers in my ear, “I’m so sorry, Lola.” With that, he turns and walks out of the room, leaving me more confused than ever, something I didn’t think was possible.
Chapter 4
I’m having one of those moments when I’m reflecting on every single bad thing I’ve done in my past. Every bad decision I’ve made. The path I followed that led me to this moment in time. Wondering exactly who paved that path. Me? My mother? Father? Dammit, who am I?
My mind is racing, and my body still hurts from the sedative and the hijacking. While my pulse throbs, the music in the club pounding deep inside my body, my skin remains damp and my body numb from the multiple drinks I’ve consumed.
I have on a short, backless, black dress Layton took from my house. The sides are intentionally torn and show off a flower tattoo on the side of my lower thigh and an intricate dandelion one in the center of my back. A pair of lace-up boots covers my feet and half of my legs. And a thick, leather collar is around my neck. My long, black hair’s done up on the top of my head in waves and curls, and I have three studs above my eyebrows. My lips are stained a fiery red to cover up the cut I got while being thrown in the backseat, the vamped color matching my painted nails.
The real icing on the cake to my attire is the 9mm pistol in a holster strapped to my thigh, the one that’s been taunting me since Layton put it there. The metal is icy cold against my skin and sends goose bumps erupting all over my legs. I have a very intense urge to reach up my dress, pull it out, and throw it in the trashcan. However, it would probably bust the plan to shit, and a lot is riding on me not screwing this up, despite the fact that Layton thinks I’m going to. At least, that’s what I’ve decided since he walked out on me in the backroom without answering me.
&
nbsp; “Would you relax?” Layton places a hand on my knee to get me to stop bouncing it. “It’s really important that you keep calm, Lola.” It’s the same thing he’s been saying to me since we left the warehouse. “Otherwise, this isn’t going to work.”
“And how do you suppose I do that?” I tip my head and tap my lip, pretending to think deeply, sarcasm dripping from my voice. “I mean, I’m here, not under my own freewill, and all of this—what I’m about to do—all relies on something I don’t want to do nor do you believe I can do. Plus, I hate doing things I don’t want to do. And if I do go through with it, I could easily end up getting caught, go to jail or get shot, or get a hit put on me.”
I tear my eyes off the dance floor and focus on his hand that’s on top of my knee. “And touching isn’t part of the deal, just like watching me change wasn’t.” I elevate my gaze to Layton’s silverfish-blue eyes and arch my eyebrow. “So hands off.”
