Jessie Keane - Ruthless

She had promised herself she would never lose her temper. Never sink to that fool’s level. But she was sensitive about her missing finger. Something had snapped in her brain, and she had leaned in to Paisley, ignoring his foul breath, and hissed: ‘Why don’t you shut up, you fool?’

It wasn’t much of an outburst. Her mother would have said: ‘One more word out of you, shithead, and you’ll find your dick caught in a mincer. You got that?’

But all the same Layla had registered the shock in his eyes. It was there and gone in an instant, before he recovered his usual smirk.

She was, after all, quiet diligent Layla Carter.

As a rule, she never bit back. She did her job. She was punctilious, polite, efficient. She had to be all that and more, because of who she was, where she came from. She wasn’t her mother. She wasn’t Annie Carter.

Layla checked her watch again. Nearly eight o’clock. She turned and set off for the house at a fast walk that became a steady jog. Tonight, her mother would return from New York, where she’d been checking in on the club management in Times Square – and no doubt checking in on Alberto, too.

Alberto .

Layla felt her heart flip painfully at the thought of him. She could see his face in her mind as clearly as if he were right there in front of her. Her first real memory of Alberto was when she was five years old. He’d hoisted her aloft and into his arms, tossing her into the air, grinning up at her.

Her stepbrother, Alberto Barolli.

And yet, as the years passed, she had become more and more aware that he wasn’t related to her – or at least, not by blood, which was all that mattered. Constantine Barolli, the great Mafia don, had been a widower when he met Annie. His wife Maria had died in a hit, leaving him with three children – Lucco, Alberto and Cara – and no wife.

Enter Annie Carter.

Fabulously beautiful with her flawless olive-toned skin and her heavy fall of chocolate-brown hair. How could any man resist her?

And so Layla had become ‘related’ to Alberto.

Only not by blood.

Into her brain came another image. It made her frown. Annie and Alberto, together. Smiling and talking in that verbal shorthand they seemed to share. Layla could understand why her father was suspicious about the relationship. He had always been crazily possessive where Annie was concerned. Sometimes, the sheer heat between her parents had been so palpable it was embarrassing. Max had gone apeshit every time Annie insisted on shooting across to New York. Claiming it was business that took her there, not the fact that Alberto was in New York. No wonder Dad had ended the marriage and taken off abroad.

Their divorce had left a bitter taste for Layla. As a teenager she had half-blamed herself, and even now she desperately missed having Max here full-time. It had become a source of festering resentment between her and Annie, a solid wall that had grown higher, more impregnable, with each passing year. The fact was, Layla believed that if Annie hadn’t spent so much time in the States, her marriage to Max wouldn’t have ended. And Layla couldn’t forgive her for that.

Layla’s upbringing had at times been almost unbearably lonely, with no brothers or sisters and her dad half a world away. Only Mum had been constant in her life: and Layla had pushed her away.

She hadn’t offered to pick her mother up from the airport. Why should she? There was always a chauffeur-driven car, a private jet, a flotilla of minders, fixers and flunkies hovering around to attend to her mother’s every wish.

Layla was nothing like her mother.

Never would be.

She thought back to all the times her mother had abandoned her, just as she’d left Max, going abroad on ‘business’. Or the times Annie had sent her away, to stay with Auntie Ruthie or Jenny and Josh Parsons or anybody, so long as she was out of her mother’s way.

Growing up, Layla had always known that she came second in the great scheme of things. First came Annie’s career, the New York club she owned, the business. There was no doubt about it – her mother was a cold-blooded, controlling bitch.

But sometimes – though she hated to admit it – Layla wished she could have just a fraction of Annie Carter’s gloss and glamour, a little of her chutzpah .

She quickened her pace, broke into a fast run.

Fuck it .

She was Layla Carter. She was dependable. She was bright and honest.

Wasn’t that enough?

Layla ran hard, feeling exhilarated and by the end of it, very tired. And it was then that she saw the big man with the mop of flying red hair coming from the edge of the park towards her, running towards her. And the set expression on his beefy face told her his intentions were unfriendly.

For a moment she froze in total shock.

Then, gasping in a startled breath, Layla turned on her heel and fled.

‘Hey!’ he shouted.

She didn’t stop. Her muscles were aching, her chest was aching with effort, but she kept her legs pumping, making for the end of the park that led out on to the road that would take her home. She could hear his heavy footsteps pounding the ground behind her, could hear his breathing. He was gaining on her.

Shit .

What the hell was happening here?

Panic made her step hard on the gas. There was no one about, no one to help. She had no option but to keep running. She could feel herself flagging though. Could feel her energy draining away. Too much heavy food and too much alcohol last night. And fear was making her chest tight. She was struggling to breathe. Fighting to draw oxygen in, feed her aching, exhausted muscles.

Run. Just run dammit .

She was fit. She was young. She was strong.

Come on. You can do it .

Layla glanced over her shoulder – and felt a bolt of terror shoot up through her entire body.

He was only a couple of metres behind her, and accelerating. He was reaching out to grab her.

Layla jinked like a thoroughbred refusing a fence, swerving left, out of his reach. He stumbled forward, swearing, wrong-footed.

She ran on, fear giving her extra speed, a voice inside her head repeating, I can’t keep this up .

Would she make it home, get to her front door?

And – oh Christ – where was the door key? It was in her trainer where she always put it. She was going to have to stop, get it out, stick it in the lock, open the door… and he was so close. Too close.

Her pulse was hammering. She was sweating and straining and her legs felt like lead. She was tired. Nearly done for. And having been wrong-footed once, he had stepped up the pace, determined not to let her escape him next time.

This was what happened to people, they were snatched and never seen again.

A memory stirred: a cellar, a knife, hostile strangers who had hurt her.

No. Not again .

He was close behind her as she tore out of the park and on to the pavement, so close that she could hear his every breath. Any minute now, and he would make another grab for her. The road they were on was lined with parked cars. If he succeeded in dragging her into a car, that would be it.

She could see the house now, the big William and Mary mansion with its dark blue door. Lengthening her stride, she willed herself to keep going. Every step jarred her body, and he had closed the gap still further, his hand was snatching at her shoulder. Sobbing with panic, she was almost at the bottom of the steps, but he was snatching at her, she could feel his fingers on her shoulder, trying to get a grip.

Layla knew that she would never make it up the steps, would never get the key in the door.