by Eden Summers
“They’ve found Cole.”
My head snaps to Decker on the sofa, my sister’s partner raising his cell in front of him.
“Where?” I ask. “Are they still following the children?”
I rush toward him and snatch the phone.
Found Cole. We’re out of town. Will keep you posted.
“Out of town where?” My hands ache from trembling. “I want to go. We should follow.”
“I know as much as you do.” Decker grabs the cell from me and slumps back into the sofa. “We’re not going anywhere. Just try to relax and let them handle this.”
Relax?
I fuse my molars. Clench my fists. Swallow.
I want to scream. To wail and sob and scratch the torturous emotions right out from beneath my ribs with my fingernails. They have no idea what this is like. They don’t understand how torturous your own imagination can be when your nine-year-old daughter is in the hands of monsters.
I return to my pacing, walking back and forth while my legs grow heavy and my mind paints blood-filled images narrated by little girls’ screams.
What if they’ve touched her? Raped her?
I shove a fist to my lips, demanding the howl clogging my throat to remain inside.
Emmanuel Costa has my daughter. A man who had ties to my now-deceased father.
Most people would grow comforted by the family history. But most people aren’t spawned from the devil himself.
Luther Torian was a despicable man and the worst part was his ability to hide it for most of my life.
Minutes pass. Hours, too. Silence blankets the luxurious penthouse even though my ears continue to ring with haunted screams.
I can’t handle this. I can’t.
I need to do something. Anything.
I shake my hands at my sides and breathe deep, the oxygen only stirring the bile pooling at the back of my throat.
It’s been too long. My little girl has been taken for almost forty-eight hours. More than enough time to emotionally scar her forever.
“Can you quit the pacing?” Decker mutters. “You’re giving me a headache.”
I pause, about to let out the torture congealing in my chest when the hotel door swings open and Penny rushes in, relief written all over her pretty face.
“What is it?” I run to her, gripping her upper arms before she can get a word out. “What happened?”
“Luca called. They’re coming back.” She smiles, the perfection reaching her dazzling eyes. “There was some sort of confrontation with the Costas, but we’ve got the kids.”
Time stops.
My breathing, too.
My hands drop to my sides as I retreat a step, and for a moment, there’s silence. Pure, euphoria-filled peace as I stare at her, anticipating the weight of my daughter returning to the security of my arms.
“And Cole?” Decker pushes from the sofa and limps forward.
“Him, too.” Penny’s expression infuses with more brilliance when she meets my gaze. Her cheeks are high. Her eyes are beaming. “It’s over. Stella and Tobias are both okay. The Costas have fled. Our guys are making their way to the cars to drive here right now.”
All the air leaves my lungs on a heave of relief but the shaking increases. My arms and legs tremble beyond my control as my pulse grows fractured and rampant.
She’s coming back.
My little girl is coming home.
“Oh, God.” Tears burn my eyes. Emotion sears my throat. “They got them back.”
I don’t care how it happened.
I’m sure I’ll relive it with Stella as many times as she needs to put the tragic events behind her. I’ll do whatever it takes to give her back a childhood that I’ve always endeavored to make normal even though she was born into a family of crime.
Keira walks to my side. Her arm wraps around my waist, a kiss presses to my cheek. “Everything is going to be okay.” She leads me to the sofa and helps me to sit. “I’m going to get you a drink. Something to take the edge off. The more grounded you are when the kids return, the safer they’ll feel.”
I nod, placing my hands between my knees, rocking back and forth while she walks to the liquor trolley on the far side of the room.
My daughter is coming back to me.
All those who were taken are coming back—Stella, Tobias, Cole.
I never thought my loved ones would return. The relief doesn’t seem real through the layers of certainty I’d piled upon their death. I’d been convinced karma had arrived, seeking payment for my mistakes. My many, many misdeeds.
“Here.” Keira kneels before me, placing a scotch glass in my hands with what I assume is a finger of vodka. “Sip slowly and tell me if you want more.”
“I just want to get out of here as soon as possible.” There’s a tremble in my voice. “I need to get Stella home.”
“We will.” Decker gives me a fleeting look, one that speaks of judgment despite his deep-seated relief at the good news. “If they’re coming here it means we’ve got time to spare. Otherwise, they’d want to meet us at the airport to make a quick exit.”
I ignore the silent guilty verdict he places on my shoulders and down the vodka, then push to my feet in search of more. I drink and pace, drink and pace until the penthouse door opens again, the tiny squeak of hinges and whoosh of displaced air assailing me with temperamental anticipation.
Anissa walks in first, the Fed’s face a picture of exhaustion, followed closely by Hunter. I stand rooted to the floor as those placed in charge of my child’s rescue pile into the room, Tobias shoving past Sarah’s hip to make a mad dash for Penny.
My heart squeezes painfully at the sight of him. His red-rimmed eyes. His dirt-stained clothes.
They embrace in a mass of clinging hands and relieved gasps while I remain still, my relief fracturing as my brother enters the room with my daughter limp in his arms.
“Oh, my God.” I rush for them, my arms outstretched.
She’s covered in blood. Her clothes. Hands. Arms. There are even marks on the normally smooth skin of her cheeks.
“She hasn’t been hurt.” Cole’s tone lacks inflection, his face devoid of emotion. “It’s not her blood.”
“Then what hap—”
“She was upset. I needed to sedate her.”
I hold his gaze, trying to siphon the information he’s keeping from me as sorrow plants its seed in my belly, the roots burrowing deep.
He hands Stella to me, her slim body pliant in my arms, her face so incredibly pure despite the blood stains. Everything else ceases to exist except her. The friends and family fade from my consciousness. The whispered words and mumbled conversation don’t breach my ears.
I sink to the plush carpet, unable to stop myself from squeezing Stella tight. I nuzzle my nose against her neck. Breathe the faint scent of her kiddie shampoo. She’s at home in my arms, her face peaceful with sleep, her head seeming to instinctively nestle into me as the slightest whimper leaves her lips.
The aftermath of tears is evident on her face, her skin red and puffy around her eyes. She survived a war. She was thrown into one of the deepest, darkest pits of this world and made it out.
God, I’m grateful.
I rock her in my arms, just like I did when she was a newborn—forward, back, forward, back—while the room grows quiet.
I don’t want to face our audience. Not yet. I need this moment with her. I need a lifetime of me and my daughter and nothing else. If only I didn’t have so many gnawing, clawing questions that demand answers.
“What did they do to her?” I raise my gaze to Cole.
His cold eyes are already fixed on my face. “We can discuss it once the children are settled elsewhere.”
“Why?” I frown, glancing from my brother, to Anissa, then Sarah and Hunter. All the people before me stare back without emotion. There’s no jubilation. No celebration. Not even anger over what must have happened to claim victory. “What did they do to her?”
I dr
ag my gaze farther to little Tobias who now stands at Penny’s side, his arms around her hips, his tortured gaze on me.
There’s no relief in his expression. Not even a glimpse of happiness at being returned to his family.
Something is wrong.
Something is very, very wrong.
“What the hell did they do?” I demand.
“Let me take her for a while.” Penny steps forward.
“No.” I cling tighter to the precious gift in my lap.
“Do it, Layla,” Cole mutters. “Penny can take Tobias and Stella into my room.” He jerks his head to the open door a few yards behind him. “This won’t take long.”
“This?” I haul myself to my feet, carrying my daughter with me.
“Just do it, for fuck’s sake,” Cole snaps. “Now.”
I balk at his viciousness, but I’m not surprised. I’d wondered how long it would take for his pity to wear off. I’d mistakenly thought I’d have more time. That maybe I could find my feet not just in this room, but in life, before he fed me the animosity I deserve.
I close my eyes, continuing to rock as I place a kiss to Stella’s forehead. I can’t let her go. I never want to let her go ever again.
“It’s okay.” Penny reaches for her, Tobias still at her side. “She’s safe. I promise.”
A garbled cry clogs my throat as I admit defeat and hand my daughter over. Releasing her soft body after everything she’s been through is akin to being gutted. Neck to pelvis. Hip to hip.
Nausea comes back with a vengeance as Penny cradles Stella’s limp form in her arms, carrying her to the bedroom with a subdued Tobias following close behind.
I watch every step. Every movement.
When the bedroom door closes behind them, I struggle against the impulse to collapse into a fit of hysterical tears. I don’t have that luxury though. I never have. Torians don’t show weakness. We’re not allowed to falter.
“Tell me.” I straighten my shoulders and suck in a measured breath as I turn to face everyone. Flakes of dry blood cover my top, the gore threatening to break me. “What the hell did those monsters do to her, Cole?”
My brother’s expression wavers, the animosity fracturing to expose something that holds a hint of sympathy.
Oh, God.
I scan the faces of those by his sides. Anissa lowers her gaze to the carpet. Luca’s eyes are bloodshot and glistening with unshed tears. Keira’s are, too. She knows something I don’t. Something that must have been shared while I was lost in the reunion with my precious baby girl.
“Tell me.” I glance from one person to the next—Sarah, Hunter, Decker—seeking out my husband. I reach the end of the semi-circle of friends and family without catching sight of his dark eyes.
“Benji?” I trek my attention back the other way—Decker, Hunter, Sarah, Keira, Luca, Anissa, and finally, Cole. “Where is he?”
Cole’s chin hitches as if he’s stealing himself for an upcoming onslaught.
“Where is my husband?” Icy dread slithers down my spine, catching on every nerve.
He has to be parking the car. Packing our things. Checking out at reception.
Keira whimpers, decimating my wishful thinking.
“Where’s Benji?” My voice fractures, emotion tightening my vocal cords. “Why isn’t he here?”
“He’s gone, Lay.”
Cole’s calm words steal the air from my chest in a massive upheaval, the oxygen stripping itself from my lungs with jagged claws.
“No.” I shake my head.
My husband and I were guilty of horrible things. Of traitorous, treacherous acts. But he wouldn’t have fled from his punishment. He wouldn’t have left me and Stella behind.
“You forced him to run?” It’s hard to get the question out. Even harder to understand him leaving without saying goodbye. “Where did he go?”
Luca lowers his attention to the carpet and sniffs with a hard swipe of his hand over his nose. His fingers are stained with remnants of blood. More faint splotches mark his dark shirt.
I shake my head again, fighting the whispers in my mind telling me that a hardened man like Luca wouldn’t cry over his brother skipping town.
“No.” I suck in gasps. One after another without relief. I’m suffocating. Drowning in the karma I knew would come my way.
“He’s dead.” Cole steps forward, his face bleak as he opens his arms and envelops me in his hold.
“No.” I batter his chest. “You’re lying. You’re doing this to punish me.”
How had I not noticed Benji didn’t return? I hadn’t spared him a thought. My focus had been on Stella. On our baby girl he went to rescue.
“They shot him. He couldn’t be saved,” Cole whispers the horror in my ear. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
A sob escapes, my eyes searing with a firestorm of tears.
I heave for breath, for understanding, pummeling and scratching at my brother’s suit-covered chest as my legs threaten to give out.
“Don’t cry.” He continues to hold me, but those words are nothing more than a formality. No warmth exudes from him—only sterility. “Don’t cry, Layla,” he whispers. “We both know tears are a privilege for those who lack guilt.”
3
Layla
Present day
I cross my hands on the bar and stare at the gloss scratched from the wood, wishing the crevices held the insight to get me out of here.
“All I want is answers,” the man mutters from the stool beside me.
“And I gave them to you. I like sitting near the window. Most people do.”
“Most people don’t eavesdrop on neighboring conversations the entire time. Most people would sit with their back to the wall, not the room. And most people wouldn’t hang around until the exact moment the patrons behind them left.”
My cheeks heat. No matter how hard I concentrate on measuring my breathing and remaining calm, my skin doesn’t stop burning, potentially exposing my guilt.
“You’d want to start talking, sunshine.” His endearment is far from kind. “Why are you here? Who do you work for?”
So much for being discreet. Turns out my presence held the blinding discretion of tractor beams. But still, I’ve done nothing wrong. I overheard a conversation. I haven’t broken any laws.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I slide from the stool. “And I’m done pandering to your paranoia. Like I told you, I have somewhere else I need to be.”
The man follows, his shoulders broadening, yet again blocking my escape route. He doesn’t look at me, though. He stares over my shoulder, those icy eyes focusing on something behind me.
“I can take it from here, Bishop.” A voice etched with smooth superiority and graveled confidence brushes the back of my neck.
I swallow, my pulse thunderous.
There’s no threat in the newcomer’s tone. It’s far less abrasive than his colleague’s. Maybe it even holds a hint of humor. But since my father’s schemes ruined my life, I’m not easily fooled by cadence and timbre.
Bishop glances from me to the unseen guy at my back, pausing a moment before inclining his head and swinging around to walk away. Just like that, the threatening ogre takes his leave, meaning whoever stands behind me is far more powerful.
“You can take what from here?” I turn, my pulse catching at the mischievous chocolate eyes that capture mine.
The handsome stranger grins, his smile subtle and exuding just the right amount of friendly flirtation. He wants me to feel at ease, and for the slightest second, I do, gently coaxed into his web of sex appeal.
Then intuition kicks in.
“You can take what from here?” I repeat.
His grin deepens, the slight flash of wicked intent catching me off guard. This guy is good. Manipulative. Everything about him is perfect. Too perfect. From the expensive designer suit, to the devilish graze of stubble along his chiseled jaw, all the way to his finger-tousled dark hair.
Charming ye
t destructive.
Attractive yet lethal.
“Join me for a drink.” He doesn’t wait for my response before he raises a finger to attract the attention of the bartender, ordering another Pinot Grigio and a scotch.
He’s been watching me. Closely enough to know what I’ve been drinking.
“You look concerned, but there’s no need to be,” he adds. “I only asked Bishop to keep you inside until the Costas were well and truly gone.”
Fuck. I’ve definitely been caught. The only question now is—by who?
“Did you also ask him to pepper me with accusations?” I raise my brows. “You didn’t want to do it yourself?”
“Maybe I was too busy spying on our shared target.”
I frown, in part due to how I can’t stop staring at him, but mainly because of his explanation. He’s admitting to spying on Emmanuel? To me? A stranger? “What is it with you two and this Costa family? I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“And I honestly know you’re full of shit.” His gaze holds mine, those playful dark eyes keeping me captive. “I never forget a beautiful woman. You were here a few weeks ago. In a flowing navy dress that plunged at the neckline and exposed an impressive amount of leg.” He leans closer and adds with a conspiratorial whisper, “A word to the wise—maybe wear something that doesn’t make you look like a goddess if you don’t want to draw attention.”
My throat tightens. I have to drag a hand to my neck to ease the building tension.
Not only is the blatant seduction entirely foreign after years of celibacy, but this man is right about the navy dress, meaning I wasn’t caught tonight.
I failed weeks ago.
I drag my gaze from his knowing smirk and focus on the bartender. “Thank you, but I won’t be needing another drink. I’m leaving.”
“Tell me I’m wrong.” The cocky stranger casually glides onto the stool in front of him. “You had your hair out, the same as it is tonight, the blonde strands hanging over your shoulders. And you wore the sexiest pair of two-inch pumps. They were white, if I’m not mistaken.”
