Inferno Anthology (270 page)

There’s a pause. “Innocently walking in the park,” he mumbles, his voice dripping with playful sarcasm, the tone he used to use with me all the time. “I highly doubt that. You’re never doing anything innocently.”

He’s right, but I’m not about to admit that to him. “Where are you taking me?” I ask, slumping back in the seat, pissed off that I feel more relax about this situation now that he’s sitting here beside me. He’s always had that way about him; which was fine when we were friends, but now it just makes the situation more dangerous. It makes me more trusting towards someone who’s my enemy.
Remember who he is now
. “I’m assuming to Frankie, but I’m wondering why. Did he decide to finish the rest of my family off?”

“Lola, please don’t start with that,” Layton begs. “Your mother died of a heart attack. You need to accept that.”

“Keep her quiet, Layton,” a deep voice advises from the front seat.

It takes Layton a second to answer, the rhythm of his breathing surprisingly unsteady for him. “It has to do with your father,” he says quietly. “He’s in trouble.”

My entire body goes rigid, my already amped-up adrenaline skyrocketing. “What does Frankie want with my father this time? Money? Drugs? Revenge? More Anelli blood on his hands? Usually he’s more set on getting my father killed, not kidnapping his daughter, but I guess his many failed attempts have probably made him desperate.”

Another maddening pause from Layton, then I feel him slant closer to me, his body heat potently familiar. “It’s not what Frankie wants from your father, but what he wants from you, which is for you to pay your father’s debt.”

“Debt?” I’m thrown off by this bit of information and my voice comes out way louder than intended. “Since when does my dad owe Frankie anything?"

“Since he came to him to borrow money about six months ago.” He pauses while I try to wrap my mind around the idea, yet it doesn’t make sense.

“But we’re wealthy…” I try to argue. “What did he need the money for?"

“I’m not sure exactly.” His voice is tight, tense.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

He sighs heavy-heartedly. “Look, Lolita, your father’s in some serious trouble. And I mean really big trouble. ”

“Don’t call me that,” I mutter, loathing that he used the full name my mother used to call me all the time. Ever since she died, it doesn’t feel right for anyone to use it. “It’s Lola. And what sort of trouble? Tell me what’s going on.”

“Keep her damn mouth shut, Layton,” the same person warns again, and this time, I recognize the baritone voice. Tony Madman Makafee, one of Frankie’s guards, the one who does his “dirty work.”

Shit. I’m now officially dirty work. This is bad. Worse than what I originally thought. People who go with Tony not only never ever seen again, but get tortured in the most painful ways possible until they take their last breath.

“What does Frankie want from me?” I whisper to Layton, scooting closer to him on the seat until our shoulders and legs our touching.

Layton blows out a stressed breath, and I can almost visualize him running his hands through his hair, like he used to do all the time whenever I was making him anxious. “Lolita, please just be quiet.” He gently puts a hand on my leg. “This will all be over soon, and if you cooperate, then it should go smoothly.”

“I told you to stop calling me that.” I jerk my knee out from under his hand. “And I highly doubt this is going to go smoothly. In fact, I’m guessing this is probably the last time you and I will talk ever again. And the last time I’ll be breathing.”

“You think I’m going to kill you?” He sounds so shocked and appalled.

“Maybe not you, but I know that’s Tony up there, and he’s infamous for his whacks.”

“Lola, I would never let that happen to you. I swear to God, I’d kill myself before I’d kill you, and it hurts that you don’t know that.”

“You’re letting me be here,” I snap. “Bound and blindfolded in the backseat of the car. That’s not any better—”

“God fucking dammit, Layton! I told you to shut her the fuck up!” Tony growls. I hear the sound of fabric brushing against leather, then the light through the mask dims.

“Tony, that’s not necessary.” There’s an edge to Layton’s tone. His body heat is suffocating me as he slants nearer to me, our shoulders pressing together and his arm aligning with mine, our fingers inches apart. If I didn’t know better, I’d guess he was trying to comfort me. However I do know better. I won’t make the mistake thinking Layton will put me before his job and the duty he feels toward his family. “She’ll be quiet.”

“I already gave her three chances,” Tony replies. I hear him climb over the seat. Moments later, he plops down beside me so close his knee is crushing against mine. “This way’s a lot easier.”

“What way?” I flinch back, trying to get away from Tony and closer to Layton. “Don’t fucking touch me, douche bag, or I swear to God—”

Before I can finish the sentence, a needle pricks my forearm then enters my vein. Shit, this isn’t… good…

“Layton… help…” I hate the plea in my voice, but I have no other option at the moment. I’m slipping out of consciousness. I’ll be more helpless than I ever have… weak… “Please… do… something…”

And he does. He catches me as I fall back and black out.

When I open my eyes again, I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck, every single one of my limbs aching. The spot on my arm where the needle entered burns, too. I wonder what kind of drug they doped me up with and if it has any side effects. My vision is a little blurry and my head hurts, but I’m coherent enough to get my bearings.

I’m lying face first with my cheek pressed against the icy, cold, cement floor of a large warehouse filled with boxes and metal crates that make a perimeter around the walls. There are also a few large, stocky, bulky men—none of which I recognize, but assume are bodyguards—standing around me. There’s also a television and Frankie Catherlson. Just seeing him makes me want to strangle him as I think about that look he gave me the day I saw my mother dead.

He had to have something to do with it. I don’t care what anyone says.

Frankie is surprisingly a very short and stocky man who has these bushy eyebrows that look like two, very furry caterpillars. Despite his lack in body features, he always dresses to impress in designer suits and shoes, gold jewelry, and diamond encrusted watches. They are ways to scream that, despite his small demeanor, he’s still got his wealth, and how he got his wealth makes him important. He doesn’t want to be underestimated, and he’ll kill you if he gets a chance. And now just might be his chance to kill me, depending on how this plays out.

His black slacks match his button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, showing his aged skin. There’s a holster on each of his sides, both carrying guns.

As I push to my feet, I can’t seem to take my eyes off the guns. I wonder how many people he’s killed with them. I wonder how many people my father has killed. I wonder how many Layton has killed.

Where is Layton?

It’s not like these thoughts have never crossed my mind before. In the world I grew up in, death is common. It’s easy to lose someone close to you from death, and it’s equally as easy for someone close to you to cause the death of another. I’ve known this since I was four and lost the first person close to me. Dale, my bodyguard since birth.

We weren’t close, me being a child and him being an adult and big enough that, at the time, I believed he was part giant. However, I can remember crying when my father sat me down and told me Dale was never coming back. What made it worse was when I’d overheard my father and mother talking about how he died in a conversation they thought was private. He’d had every one of his fingers broken off, then he’d been shot simply because he worked for my father and my father had pissed some drug dealers off.

Right now, I am actually living it—the possibility that I could get shot right here—and it makes the reality my father has tried to protect me from all these years painfully real. It makes me regret ditching my bodyguards this morning, makes me regret a lot of things.

Frankie watches with delight as I struggle to get to my feet and gain my balance. “Lolita, it’s so nice to see you again,” he says with a stupid smirk on his face. “You’re looking as beautiful as ever.” His gaze sweeps me in, lingering on the section of my shirt that’s torn—God knows how it got that way. “All grown up, I see.”

“Don’t stand there and chat like we’re good friends,” I say as I clutch my throbbing head. “I don’t even know you other than you’re an asshole who likes to try and get my father into trouble.” And who grinned and winked at me when my mother died.

He cocks his head to the side, his forehead wrinkling as he assesses me. “Oh, how I love feisty woman.” He pauses, stepping toward me with his hands at his sides as if his fingers itch to take out the guns. “And you’re wrong about the friend’s part. We just haven’t seen each other in a while.”

I roll my eyes. “The only times I’ve,” I make air quotes, “’seen you’ are when you were either getting your ass kicked by my father for being a rat, and of course, the time you came over to my house and my mother…” Why can’t I just say it aloud? Confront him.
Just spit it out, Lola!

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.”