by Eden Summers
Guilt stabs between my ribs. Sharp and fast.
This business of secret spilling was always going to be one-sided. He can’t know about me. Not the real me.
“I’ve learned a few things about them that isn’t common knowledge.” I dilute my admission, hoping to appease him with tidbits. “And not all of it makes sense. I’m aware Costa has four children, but he only acknowledges three of them. Their oldest son, Dane, is in hiding, for reasons unknown.”
“It’s Dante,” he corrects. “And he’s estranged, not in hiding.”
My heart kicks with the insight. “You know about him?”
“Of course I do.” There’s the slightest edge of superiority to his tone. Or maybe it’s disappointment that I haven’t done thorough research. “They attempted to bury evidence of his existence years ago. But there are still clues if you look deep enough.”
“I also know Emmanuel’s wife comes from a long line of Italian mafia,” I add, hoping to redeem myself.
I don’t.
He doesn’t react to the meatier morsel of information either, making me question if he’s a master of schooling his expression, or if he knows all there is to know about my enemies.
“Were you aware of that, too?” I raise a brow.
“I was, but not many people are. They go to a lot of effort to keep that information from going public.”
“They should’ve tried harder.”
I’m boasting for no reason. Cole was the one who obtained the knowledge. Not me. I only had the good fortune of overhearing him relay the news to Hunter.
“You’re quite the sleuth, aren’t you?” His compliment is slight, even a touch sardonic, and yet my heart warms. My stomach tenses.
This isn’t good.
I’m succumbing to him. It’s ridiculous and uncalled for. Dangerous and entirely stupid. My siblings would despise the choices I’m making. The risks I’m taking. And they already hate me enough.
“I’m sorry, Matthew, but this was a mistake.” I hitch my purse strap onto my shoulder and brace my palms on the table. “I should go.”
“What? Why?” His brow snaps tight, concern taking over his entire face all the way to the thinning line of his tempting lips. “We just sat down.”
“I know, but…” The squeeze in my stomach increases, the war between want and obligation waging inside me. I came here for revenge. For redemption. Not for a romantic rendezvous.
“But you don’t want to share any more of your secrets,” he finishes for me. “You’ve decided you’ve got what you want and now it’s time to leave.”
Yes… No… Maybe.
I can’t tell him what he wants to know. I refuse to divulge who I am or why I’m really here.
He wouldn’t look at me the same way if I did, and I want his devouring attention to stay with me forever.
“I have a lot more information to give, Layla.”
My insides twist. Not only due to the potential intelligence I’m giving up, but because he wants me to stay. Nobody has ever wanted me to stay before.
“I know.” I swallow and push to my feet. “Regardless, it’s best if I leave.”
“Why?” The question is growled with delicious determination. “At least give me the respect of telling me an honest answer.”
Honesty is tough. It always has been. From my childhood years, when I had to lie to myself about how my family made money, to my adulthood, when those lies had to be fed to everyone else.
“I could lose myself in you, Matthew,” I murmur with a sad smile. “I barely know you, yet I’m well aware I could fall head over heels and never recover. And that’s not what we’re here for.”
“Says who?”
My heart flutters. “I need to go.” I walk around the bench only to be stopped by his hand grasping my wrist.
“At least take my number.”
I want to take more than that. So much more it kills me to deny us both.
“I’m no threat to you, Layla. I have to go back to D.C. tomorrow morning.” He pushes to his feet to stand before me, not letting go of my wrist. “I don’t even know your full name. I don’t know where you live. But if I give you my number you can at least reach out if you change your mind.”
I hesitate. Having a lifeline to him isn’t something I need. It will only act as an opportunity to succumb in the future.
“It’s just a number.” He steps closer and reaches for my purse.
I don’t stop him from retrieving my burner phone. I even reluctantly enter the pin code when he holds the device in front of me.
He messes about with the screen. Tapping. Swiping.
When he hands it back, I notice he’s sent a text message, the sneaky bastard, not merely giving me his number, but taking mine in return.
“I want to see you again.” He reclaims the possessive grip around my neck. “And I know you want to see me, too.”
I do.
God, how I do.
I want to touch, and taste, and breathe in more of his phenomenal aftershave. To strip him naked and kiss every inch of his perfect skin. To learn all about him—who he is, where he’s from, what he stands for.
Unfortunately, I have a job to do and there’s no place for distractions.
“Goodbye, Matthew.” I place a kiss to his cheek.
“For now,” he growls, his hand falling to his side. “We’ll meet again, Layla.”
10
Layla
He messages me before I leave the alley—I’m in suite 1309 of the Delcato if you change your mind.
Fate is such a tempting bitch.
Of all the hotels in all of Denver, we have to share the same one. But I’m not going to give in. Instead, I catch the closest cab and make quick work of hiding in my hotel room before there’s another chance of us crossing paths.
I send sweet messages to Stella to distract myself. When that isn’t enough, I call my brother. I make up a lame story about enjoying an out-of-town shopping spree to keep him off my trail. Then I shower and spend the rest of the night staring at my suite door, trying to fight the instinct to go in search of a stranger’s bed.
I toss and turn for hours. I even reach for my phone twice, debating whether or not to cave.
Thankfully, I pass out before I can succumb. The sun peeking through the curtains announces I made it through the torture to the other side. Waking up alone doesn’t feel like a victory, though.
I order room service for breakfast, not willing to see Matthew in the restaurant before his flight. Then I head out to shop my blues away, knowing he would already be on his way home to D.C.
I purchase dress after dress. Shoes. Makeup. Books.
Thoughts of him follow me the entire time. I even fantasize that he watches me from a distance. Stalks. I imagine his attention fixated on my body, and my skin shivers everywhere his make-believe gaze strays.
But he isn’t here. I make sure of it by glancing over my shoulder like a paranoid bitch every few minutes.
When my cell vibrates with a call after lunch, so does my pulse, because his name is the one displayed on my screen.
“You messaged me straight away,” I say in greeting. “Then call me the next day. I thought men weren’t meant to show interest for weeks.”
He laughs, and I close my eyes briefly to enjoy the sound. “If so, I’ve severely messed up because I ditched my meeting this morning and stayed in Denver, hoping you might change your mind about spending time with me.”
My stomach free falls, giddy greed consuming me.
“Where are you?” he asks.
Anticipation swirls beneath my sternum, my heart thundering like a drum.
“Layla?” His voice drops to a purr. “Don’t deny you spent all night thinking about me, because you already know I did the same damn thing.”
The reciprocation kills me. It eats away at my caution and makes me want to run to him. Just for a taste. Just one more kiss.
“I’m shopping. The mall is about a ten-minute drive from
the hotel.” My pulse thrums with the admission.
“Mine or yours?”
“Ours. We stayed at the same place.”
There’s a beat of silence. I swear, I feel his disappointment roll through the connection. It hits me right in the throat, stilting my breath.
“Tell me where you are,” he says. “I’ll come find you.”
If I give him my location I’m done for. There will be no more restraint. No more talking myself out of this. I’ll give in to temptation despite the risks.
But this could be my last taste of happiness. The one quick gulp before I return to judgment and resentment.
“I’m at the Cherry Creek Shopping Center.” My blood surges. My pulse, too.
“Give me an hour.”
He disconnects, leaving me to second guess if this is the most stupid decision of my life. And I’ve made some pretty wretched ones in the past.
I have to force myself to continue shopping as a distraction, but all I do is walk aimlessly from store to store, not taking note of the clothes or shoes or sales because all I can think about is him. He’s all I see.
Within ten minutes, I’m outside, needing fresh air to dilute the suffocating apprehension. The traffic makes things worse. All the hustle and bustle increases the noise inside my head.
This can’t be a thing—me and him.
Catching up is only to feed my curiosity. To answer the myriad of unspoken questions.
I pass unseen people and shopfronts, trekking in circles, getting lost. It isn’t until I’m standing at the mouth of an alley that I stop, my shopping bags limp at my sides as the looming walls remind me of the night before. How Matthew had shown me a slice of Denver I never knew existed. How his kiss made my soul ache.
This alley isn’t the same, though. Garbage bags are piled against the building walls. There are no hanging lights or laughing friends to lull me further into daydreams. The contrast to last night’s environment only acts as an added warning that maybe things won’t be as sparkling and shiny with Matthew in the light of day. That maybe catching up with him again is a mistake.
I continue into the isolation, seeking clarity, and the farther I trek, the more conflicted I become.
Matthew is an indulgence I’m not allowed.
Not after I spied on Cole for my father. Not when I contributed to Benji’s downfall and Stella’s abduction. And especially not with all the things I did in an attempt to keep my transgressions secret.
Happiness isn’t a part of my all-inclusive life package. Mine revolves around heartache, guilt, and regret. There are some bonus pride-filled moments that revolve around my daughter, but I don’t get to upgrade until I make amends.
I stop halfway to the street ahead and rest my shoulder against the brickwork, placing my shopping bags on the ground at my feet. The emotional drain of two years weighs me down. No, it’s been longer than that. The heaviness has been a growing constant since the day my father asked me to spy on Cole.
Now the pressure is unbearable.
Each breath is etched in pain. Each step is more grueling with all that piles on top of me.
I retrieve my cell from my purse, my heart hurting as I acknowledge the rendezvous with Matthew has to be cancelled.
If I see him again, I’ll kiss him. And if I kiss him, I’ll sleep with him. And if I sleep with him, I’ll never be able to get him out of my system.
Would the hours of bliss be worth the future filled with torment?
I have less than thirty minutes to decide.
“Give me your purse.”
I stiffen at the male demand coming from directly behind me.
“Now. Hurry the fuck up.” Hard metal nudges the back of my skull. A gun.
I slowly raise my hands, my fingers trembling, my mind on Stella and if I’ll ever see her again. “Take whatever you—”
He snatches at my purse strap, the aggressive yank tearing at my shoulder.
I scream, the noise adding to the deafening rush of my pulse in my ears. He yanks again, harder, pulling, wrenching my arm as the gun grates into my head.
“Stupid bitch.” He shoves me toward the wall, the side of my face hitting brick.
My muscles slacken with the impact. My arms fall to my sides. I become fluid, slithering to the ground as he claims his prize and snatches at some of the shopping bags on the ground.
I’m too stunned to move. In too much pain to think.
He runs for the far end of the alley, the clap of his footsteps a dull clip over the noise in my head, his black cap shielding his face before he disappears around the corner.
I crumple onto the remaining shopping bags, my left cheek throbbing, the bone beneath having taken the brunt of the impact with the wall. My shoulder burns from the assault from the purse strap, too. But what flames hotter is my blood, the rage flowing through my veins turning volcanic at my stupidity.
Not only did I daydream myself down a secluded alley with my arms filled with brand-name shopping bags, but I didn’t notice I’d become a target until that asshole had been right on top of me.
I can’t even figure out if it was luck or idiocy that I didn’t have my gun.
If my weapon had been stolen, I’d have to report this to the police, then Cole would find out and the reasons for my out-of-town trips would be unraveled.
I hadn’t even attempted to protect myself.
I didn’t have the instinct to fight. I’d stood there, statuesque. Still and fucking pathetic.
Cole would be ashamed of me. Yet again.
I press my head back against the cold brick and whimper. How am I going to get out of this without him finding out? I’ll have to cancel my credit cards. And my cell… What the hell happened to it?
The device had been in my hand. Now it’s gone. When did it go missing?
Oh, shit. The cyanide.
Bile creeps into the back of my mouth, threatening to spill onto my dirty blouse and scuffed jeans.
“Jesus fucking Christ.” I rest against the wall, my cheek tight from swelling, my pulse pounding through the tender flesh.
Why do I keep failing like this? My life has become a compiling stack of misgivings. One stupid move after another. Over and over again.
I’m not worthy of my family’s notoriety. I bring nothing but shame to our name.
My throat tightens with emotion.
All I ever wanted was to make them proud. To help build our empire. And instead, my every decision has worked against that goal. I’m a liability. The most despised part of what has always been a vicious environment.
“I’m worthless.” I cover my face with my hands, my nails digging into my forehead. I want to scream. To claw and scratch until the internal voices subside. But they never will. It never does.
The bags beside me rustle, the rhythmic vibration coming from my cell.
I straighten, riffling through the purchases worth far more than anything in my purse, and find my phone, the pink casing now cracked in the top corner, the screen alight with Matthew’s name.
I shouldn’t answer. Of all the things I should be doing right now, speaking to him isn’t one of them. Not when I have to figure out how to cancel my credit cards without Cole knowing, which is going to be goddamn hard when he’s the main account holder.
But my fingers work of their own accord, numbly swiping the screen. I answer without a greeting and sniff to dislodge the tingle in my nose.
“Hello? Layla?” He pauses. “Are you there?”
It’s sickening how those few words wash me in comfort. How a stranger can ease my suffering without even knowing it.
“Yeah.” I clear the fragility from my voice. “I’m sorry, I’m going to need to cancel catching up with you.”
“What’s wrong?”
I squeeze my eyes shut. He cares. The passionate concern in his tone takes hold of me and grips tight.
I don’t know why it matters. Why it affects me even in the slightest. Having my purse stolen is nothing in compariso
n to what life has dealt me. A throbbing face and sore shoulder aren’t in the same league as the threats I’ve endured as the sister to a drug boss. Or the heartache of the lonely nights spent in a forced marriage.
It doesn’t even hold a candle to the disgust that brought me to my knees when I found out my father was a sex trafficker.
This is nothing.
No-thing.
And still, frailty threatens to drag me under.
“Layla, talk to me,” Matthew demands. “What’s going on? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I scowl, willing the inner voices to quieten. “I’m fine. I just… My bag was stolen and I’m flustered. I need a minute to think—”
“Where are you?” he repeats.
“It doesn’t matter—”
“It matters,” he growls. “Tell me where you are.”
I’m used to protection. I’ve been shielded from hideous threats all my life. But never before has someone’s need to care for me hit this hard. Someone who barely knows me.
“Layla,” he implores. “I’m on my way to you. Just tell me your exact location.”
The disgust in my veins increases. The tightness in my throat, too. “Outside the mall. In an alley nearby.”
“Give me a name, amore mio. Do you know what alley?”
I look for the street sign and find nothing. “I don’t know. I can’t see—”
“As soon as I hang up you need to text me a pin on your location. Can you do that?”
I nod through the frantic emotions.
“Can you do that for me, Layla?”
“Yes.” My voice cracks.
“Okay… Good. Stay where you are. I’m on my way.”
11
Layla
I’m slumped against the wall, my heart and thoughts in Chicago with Stella, when a black Lincoln Navigator pulls into the alley, the glossy vehicle stopping in front of me.
Matthew flings open the passenger door, and despite not wanting it to, my heart squeezes in relief. He jogs forward in another stylish suit, falls to his knees before me, and cups my face.
