by Eden Summers
Cream, actually.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I keep my expression in check and return my attention to his.
Christ. That was a mistake.
His potent stare intensifies, his gaze starting a leisurely trek down my body. I feel his attention like a caress as he visually devours me, from my breasts to my hips all the way to my toes.
“I distinctly remember the shoes.” His voice reclaims the hint of a low whisper. “Because I imagined what they would look like crossed behind the back of my neck.”
I choke on thin air. “You’re quite forward aren’t you, Mr…?”
“Call me Matthew.” He reaches for the scotch the bartender slides toward him and jerks his chin in thanks. “Don’t forget that glass of wine.”
My eyes widen. “No. Don’t.” I fix the young bartender with a scowl. “I’m not going to—”
“She’ll drink it,” Matthew answers with an unhinged level of superiority.
To any other woman, this boldness from an excessively attractive man might be endearing. Unfortunately, I’ve been down this cocky, charismatic road before.
He thinks he’s catnip to my animalistic senses when in reality he’s merely a ticking time bomb in a cover model package. I should know—I married someone exactly like him.
“Are you always this arrogant, Matthew?” I need to get out of here. I should storm for the door without a backward glance. What’s this guy going to do? Tackle me to the floor in the middle of a busy restaurant?
“What’s the difference between arrogance and confidence?”
“Excuse me?”
“Why do you call me arrogant and not confident?” His brows furrow as if he’s truly perplexed and one hundred percent invested in my response while he takes another sip of scotch. “Because confidence is the self-assurance that comes from appreciating one’s abilities and qualities. While arrogance is an exaggerated sense of one’s importance and abilities. In which way have I been arrogant?”
That goddamn grin, for starters. The curve of those perfect lips wordlessly boasts how he could devour me in one sitting when that will never happen.
“For God knows what reason, you’re flirting with me,” I state flatly. “Not only that, you’re giving me the distinct impression you think you could easily seduce me. Which, my friend, is an exaggerated sense of your abilities, which, in return, is your definition of arrogance.”
His player smile doesn’t waver as he drawls, “Are you sure it’s not confidence?”
My pulse stutters. It’s not so much the question, but the smooth way he asks. The superbly adept way he seasons his masculine tone with the tiniest glimpse of a dimple in his left cheek.
“Yes.” I snatch the fresh glass of wine the bartender places on the counter and take a gulp. “I’m leaving. Good night.”
His smooth chuckle haunts me. “But I don’t even know your name. What am I going to write on our marriage license?”
Yet again, I’m caught off guard, all the pulse hammering and skin tingling colliding in a mass of hysteria that sends a shocked laugh bursting from my lips.
I can’t remember ever being hit on like this. Being the wife to a notorious criminal, within an already infamous crime family, tends to keep men distanced. Even if I was experienced, I’m sure this guy would still leave me unsettled.
He’s too damn good at this game.
“That right there.” I point a finger at his chest. “Pure arrogance.”
He takes another leisurely sip of scotch. “Is it, though? Really?”
I release another spontaneous chuckle, take a final gulp of wine before returning it to the bar, and then step back. “It was nice meeting you.” It’s an exaggeration, although, honestly, not a lie. I haven’t enjoyed a heartfelt laugh in years. “It’s too bad I’m not the woman you think I am.”
I swivel on my toes and make for the door, my neck awakening with goose bumps as soon as I turn my back on his charm.
“Come on, amore mio,” he calls after me, the Italian words spoken with a pristine accent. “We could help each other.”
I don’t stop.
“With the spying,” he adds, louder, drawing the attention of four nearby women who hush their table conversation to stare at us with curiosity.
I halt, my feet rooted in place, not only because he’s outing me in front of staff and strangers alike, but because he’s potentially offering me something I want. Something I desperately need—a way forward with my Costa plans now that I’ve been discovered.
Footsteps approach behind me and I suck in a ragged breath when his warm hand comes to rest on the small of my back, his woodsy aftershave teasing my senses. “I have a room at the Lydell Hotel two doors down. They’ve got a great bar. Let’s go there and talk.”
4
Layla
Two years ago
The silence is stifling as my husband’s casket is lowered into the ground, the descent of the shining steel box seeming to steal the gossip from the mouths of those in attendance.
Stella nestles closer against my side, my daughter’s tears soaking into the black material covering my hip, her lone sniffle sinking deep into my heart to stab at my composure.
I breathe it in. Her agony. Her suffering.
I take all the misery she releases into the world and make it my own because it’s what I deserve.
Then, all too soon, the service is over.
Benji is buried. Gone. His all-encompassing life was summed up in a few paragraphs.
Tissues are shared, words of condolence are given out like cheap candy, and the whispered rumors that follow once the guests walk away brush against the outer edges of my hearing, poisoning me further.
The entire scene plays before me as if through a stranger’s eyes, the depth of my grief barely felt over the strangling claws of guilt at my throat.
I killed my husband.
I may not have pulled the trigger, but I caused the lethal blow.
I stole happiness from those I love, replacing it with sorrow. And I’m not sure I can redeem myself to them, let alone forgive myself for the mistakes.
After the mourners leave the cemetery, Stella and I follow where my brother leads, Cole’s hand guiding me from the crook of my arm until we’re in his sports car. Nobody speaks. We barely breathe, the air around us now tainted by my callous decisions.
Once we reach his house I’m left to stand alone before the glass doors leading to the manicured gardens, a head full of unrelenting nightmares and a heart carved from jagged glass.
Stella and Tobias sit at the dining table, playing a subdued board game. Their similar ages have made them inseparable, which is nice. They’re thankfully both young enough to be easily fed lies to cover up the truth of Benji’s murder, but unfortunately, they’re old enough to be scarred by my actions regardless of the cover story they were told.
The people I call family are on nearby sofas, discussing mundane things I can’t fathom while my world collapses around me. I don’t deserve to be a part of their lives anymore. . . At least, that’s the way they’ve made me feel.
I don’t belong here even though I’d beg until my last breath to stay.
I’ve never been so lost. So alone. Without support. Lacking grounding. I’m loathed by everyone, despite how they hide their contempt behind sympathetic glances and sad smiles.
I’m no longer trusted or appreciated. Well, except by my daughter, who knows nothing of my loathsome betrayal.
My perfect little girl will be forever haunted by my actions but, God willing, she will never learn I sold out my own brother to a father who based his moral code on the devil himself, which caused a chain reaction resulting in my husband’s death.
A death that will forever weigh upon my shoulders.
Footsteps approach behind me and I stiffen, my lungs painfully tightening at the thought of company.
There’s only one person it could be. The heavy steps. The willingness to reach out. My suspici
ons are confirmed when I see Cole in the reflection of the glass door, the faint touch of my brother’s palm coming to rest on the back of my neck.
He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to. We both know words won’t change what I did. Nothing will.
There’s little comfort to provide a woman as pitiful and vile as me.
“Thank you for arranging the beautiful service. I think Benji would’ve been surprised at how many people attended.” I pretend as if most of those who came to mourn didn’t arrive merely to snoop. I’m well aware the majority only wanted to learn how a healthy, middle-aged man passed from a supposed heart attack.
“He was your husband,” he states flatly. “He received a family burial.”
“Even though you think he didn’t deserve it,” I whisper.
I can hear it in his voice. The thinly veiled resentment. The biting betrayal that still lingers.
“We both know he didn’t. But this lifestyle is nothing if not a masquerade to the masses. We all do what needs to be done.”
I wince, not only at the games that have to be played, but the ones I don’t want to participate in.
I turn to face him, my pride in my throat, my heart on my sleeve. “I need to ask you for something.” I have no right to request anything. I don’t even deserve to maintain my place in this family. But… “No, not just ask.” I shake my head. “I’m begging, Cole.”
He straightens as his hand falls from my neck. “What is it?”
The request scorches my throat leaving scars in its wake. “Nobody here deserves to be put through any more destruction. Our father and I have already caused enough damage. We need to think of Tobias and Stella’s future.”
His brows pinch, as if he’s waiting for me to inflict a verbal blow.
“I don’t want you to chase revenge over what happened to Benji.” I suck in a breath, strengthening myself against the increased judgment in his stare. “At least not now, while our wounds are still raw. I need you to promise there’ll be no more bloodshed. That the danger surrounding the children won’t intensify. Let the kids grow a little older first. Let them have some peace.”
Those brows dig deeper, his silent opposition settling between us.
“I’m pleading for you and Luca to let this go.” I clasp my hands in prayer, knowing Cole’s the only one able to persuade my brother-in-law to put this tragedy behind us. Temporarily or not. “We all know I’m to blame for what happened. Nobody else. There’s no reason to start a war.”
His jaw ticks, his nostrils slightly flaring. “You’re asking too much.”
“Please.” I glance at Stella, needing him to agree for her sake. For the safety of everyone under this roof. If he retaliates toward the people who shot my husband, more of us could die. And I’ll be responsible for those deaths, too. I won’t be able to live with the increase in blame. I can barely breathe as it is. “Don’t risk those we love because of my mistakes.”
His eyes harden, the pity vanishing. “That’s not how things work. We need to make it known that we don’t accept—”
“Please, Cole.” I grab his wrist. “I’m begging you. My daughter was already stolen from me once. I can’t spend each day thinking it could happen again.”
He keeps that hard stare on me, his judgment building.
“I’ll do anything,” I plead. “Whatever you ask, I’ll do it. Just don’t break this family more than it already is. Don’t risk their lives like I did. Please. I’ll never ask anything of you again.”
His lip curls in a snarl as he switches his attention to the backyard.
For long moments there’s silence between us, the murmur of conversation in the background becoming static when pitted against the punishing heartbeats in my ears.
“I don’t want to put those kids at risk any more than you do.” He addresses the glass, not meeting my gaze. “But if I don’t retaliate I’ll be seen as weak. We all will.”
“By who?” I step closer. “Nobody knows what happened.”
Spiteful eyes find mine, the palpable hostility daunting me. “They know.”
They—the family who pulled the trigger. The people who held my daughter and Tobias hostage.
“And they got away with murder.” I lower my voice, making sure the children don’t overhear. “They’ll never make it public knowledge. We all know they made a mistake in targeting us. They learned their lesson. If you let this go, at least temporarily, nobody will find out what truly happened. Our enemies won’t know how easy it was to bring us to our knees.”
“And nobody would need to learn how much of a snake you’ve been,” he hisses.
I snap rigid, every muscle pulled so tight the slightest touch could sever me in half. “That’s not what this is about.”
He scoffs. “It’s just a bonus, right? If I sweep this under the rug, nobody will learn the part you played.”
I crinkle my nose, willing the threat of tears away. I can’t deny that hiding my crimes is also part of my plea. If Stella finds out about my actions I’ll lose her, too.
I’ll lose everything.
“I’m begging you.” The words push their way through the bile rising at the back of my throat. “Please.” The first tear falls, burning a trail down my cheek.
Cole follows the path of moisture with his gaze, the muscles in his jaw flexing as he clenches his teeth. “If I do this, you’ll owe me. I’m not talking about a family-friendly debt either, Layla. You’ll owe me like everyone else. And when it comes time to pay, you’ll hate the price.”
Fear trickles its way into my chest, adding to the hollow beat of my heart.
It’s what I deserve. My penance.
I nod. “I understand.”
His eyes narrow in scorn. “Well, then, sister, I’ll think on it. But I’m not making any promises.”
5
Layla
Present Day
I attempt to convince myself I’m not making a mistake as we walk side by side along the footpath toward the hotel. It isn’t easy when his buddy follows behind us in the distance like an imminent threat.
“Ignore Bishop. Deep down, he’s a puppy.”
“He didn’t act like a puppy when he interrogated me.” He resembles the exact opposite actually. Broad and menacing. “Is he a bodyguard?”
“Of sorts.”
That means Matthew is someone important. Or a target. I can’t tell which.
I slow as we reach the hotel, my stomach filling with butterflies as the bellhop pulls open the towering glass door for us to proceed. “Who are you exactly?”
“We’ll discuss that inside.” Matthew returns his hand to the small of my back, adding slight pressure. “Don’t worry. You’ll be in public view at all times and can leave whenever you like. You’ve got nothing to fear from me.”
I’m not stupid enough to believe him. I am, however, intrigued enough to continue inside, remaining close to him and his intoxicating aftershave as he escorts me to the bar and pulls out a seat near the window.
“This is your favorite type of place to sit, right?” he drawls. “Near the window with your back to the room.”
I glare and sink into the cushioned leather. “Your thug already critiqued my choice of seating. I don’t understand why it’s such a big deal.”
He shrugs and claims the chair across the table. “Most people feel more comfortable with their back to the wall. It’s instinct. And when you add the way you stared into the glass reflection the entire time you were at the restaurant, your neck slightly craned, it made your intentions obvious to anyone watching close enough.”
My face heats with the failure.
“Are you a scorned lover?” His question is almost a purr.
I ignore him. I battle to ignore the building butterflies in my stomach, too, their fluttering wings now born from something other than curiosity.
“Or maybe you’re a reporter.” He rests back in his seat, seeming to shelve the playboy charm for a more serious, business-type approach.
“Cop? Fed? DEA?” Matthew asks.
“DEA?” I raise a brow and return my attention to his, appreciating the first piece of validation he’s given me. “I thought the Costas ran a reputable fashion label,” I hedge, despite knowing the truth. “Why would the Drug Enforcement Agency be sniffing around?”
“I’m merely guessing.” He shrugs. “You’re not giving me a lot of feedback.”
A waitress saunters toward us to place a tray on our table. “Excuse me for interrupting. The gentleman at the bar ordered these for you.” She places a glass of scotch before my handsome companion and a wine within my reach. “Enjoy.”
“Thank you.” Matthew claims his drink, inclining it in toast to the waitress before she walks away.
I’m not as eager to grab my gift. The warm kiss of intoxication is already gently caressing my senses, and although it’s becoming clear I’m not the master spy I’d hoped for, I’m not careless enough to be unaware of a potential threat hidden in the liquid.
“There’s no obligation to drink the wine.” Matthew stares at me over the rim of his glass. “But I assure you it isn’t drugged.”
His promise doesn’t provide comfort. All it does is bring me closer to the edge of unease.
Normal, everyday people wouldn’t accuse others of spying. They wouldn’t contemplate spiking a drink or assume that others in their employ could be accused of doing the same.
So, either this man is like me—living within sinister circles—or he’s badge-wearing scum. Neither option will have me spilling my secrets.
“Who are you, Matthew?” I cross my legs, attempting to appear in control. “Are you a cop? A Fed? DEA?”
That could explain Bishop. The burly guy might not be a bodyguard, but instead, a partner. Then again, cops don’t have the income for the expensive threads these men wear. So maybe something higher up the food chain.
