Seeking Vengeance: Possessive Mafia Romance (Hunting - Mafia Romance Book 1)

by Eden Summers

  “Yeah.” He jerks his chin and gives me a quick finger wave. “See you next time.”

  I should hug him goodbye. I should at least walk out there to speak to him properly, but I’m the shortest step away from my breaking point. One inch in the wrong direction and I’ll drop this temperamental bag of emotions and cause a scene.

  A far bigger one.

  I keep my sham of a smile in place for Stella’s sake and wait patiently at the front door for her to say her farewells, my animosity bubbling below the surface.

  Cole and I always disagree. We fight. It hurts. This isn’t a first.

  What derails me, though, is how I’d become used to the idea of me being the Costas’ downfall. That I’d be the one to gain vengeance for my daughter being abducted and my husband’s murder.

  I wanted that accountability.

  The atonement.

  I need it.

  I battle the panic of approaching failure as I escort Stella to my car parked out front and drive us both home. I don’t allow her to see how my world is crumbling. How I’ve let her down again.

  While she’s busy packing for her return to school, I do the same, grabbing clothing and toiletries. I also arrange store-bought debit cards and stockpile cash for a longer-than-usual escape. And when it comes time to drop Stella at the airport, she has no idea a suitcase of my own is stashed in the trunk.

  I kiss her goodbye in one heartbeat and stride my ass to a check-in counter to book a flight to D.C. in the next.

  I don’t spare more than a thought at not knowing Matthew’s surname, or where he lives, or even works for that matter.

  I fly across the country on impulse, arriving after nine at night with absolutely no clue where to go once I climb into a cab.

  Layla: Tell me about these clubs of yours. What are their names?

  My text to Matthew spits in the face of the anonymity we’ve tried to maintain. Our contact since Denver has been mostly seductive or complimentary, and my stomach twists with the possibility of him ignoring me entirely.

  Matthew: Why, amore mio? Searching for skeletons?

  I should be. By now, an extensive background check would’ve been done if Cole was involved. But I haven’t snooped. Instead, I’ve fallen deeper, and allowed trust to blossom where skepticism should.

  Layla: One day I might make a surprise visit. But I can’t do that if I don’t know where you work.

  His reply is instantaneous—Don’t tease, woman.

  Layla: Me, tease? Never. Just tell me where you’re likely to be if I arrive in D.C. unannounced.

  He doesn’t respond. Not for several long minutes that turn my stomach into a bile pit.

  I glance out the cab window, my teeth gnawing my lower lip as I watch the illuminated skyline pass by.

  This can’t be a mistake. I won’t let it be.

  If I misjudged Matthew’s interest I won’t allow the rejection to sting. He may have wanted me here days ago, but those were his terms. His timeline. Now could be different. There may be another woman on his arm. And God knows we’re far from claiming exclusivity.

  If things don’t work out, I’ll take this as an endeavor to gain breathing room from my family. I’ll indulge in spa treatments. Get my hair done. Dine in fancy restaurants.

  Three dots appear in the text chat, the anticipation of his response forcing me to hold my breath.

  Matthew: Mon-Tues, I’m usually on the coast. Wed-Thur, in Richmond. Fri-Sun, I’m in DC at Trend or The Mill.

  I exhale in relief.

  In appreciation.

  He’s opening up to me. Trusting me. And he’s also in town.

  Layla: You know what they say—all work and no play makes Matthew…

  The dots appear again. This time, the reply comes quicker. It makes Matthew preoccupied with work so he doesn’t fall victim to thoughts of the woman he’s obsessing over.

  I smile, big and bright enough for the lingering swelling in my injured cheek to make itself known.

  Layla: Does this woman know about us?

  I bite my lip, hoping for a flirtatious response.

  Nothing comes.

  I’m driven further and further into the heart of D.C. Closer and closer to the hotel I booked last minute, yet those three dots never reappear.

  It’s hard not to take it as a sign. Maybe he does have another woman. Maybe I’m the mistress this time.

  I refuse to dwell once I’m delivered to the front doors of my accommodation and check into my room.

  I change clothes, pulling on a tight black dress that leaves little to the imagination, before perfecting my makeup. The bruising on my face is now easily hidden, but that’s no longer all I’m striving for. I don’t merely want to cover up.

  I want to slay.

  When I’m as flawless as I’m going to get, I grab my purse and make my way toward the first club he mentioned—Trend.

  I don’t tell him I’m coming. I don’t even message once I arrive at the front of the building to find an illuminated white script sign of the club’s name elegantly placed above an entirely black brick wall, the lone door framed by two hulking bouncers.

  This needs to be a surprise. Not only so I can judge if he’s excited to see me. It’s to cast aside any lingering concerns. I don’t want him to have time to prepare or hide those skeletons.

  If he has secrets, I need to know now, while I can still walk away with my head high.

  “You can drop me off here.” I unclasp my belt and pay the cab driver in cash before getting out.

  I join the end of the small line of people waiting to get inside, show the ID stored on my cell when it’s my turn, and then walk into the darkened entry, the carpet beneath me barely visible as loud music thunders from the dance floor up ahead.

  I reach the main area without drama and stop at the railing that sets me apart from the dance floor a few steps below.

  For a Sunday night, the interior is swarming with people bopping and drinking along to the techno beats.

  The place is massive. A two-level rave fest with a glowing purple bar in the center of the ground floor with more along the side walls, and a glass-encased room upstairs.

  I can’t help being impressed. But it’s not the hyped crowd or glistening bars that steal my attention. It’s Matthew, who stands on the middle landing of the metal staircase leading to the upper level, both hands gripping the banister as he scrutinizes the crowd, the flash of lights making him look hardened and devilish.

  My heart flutters.

  He’s wearing another stylish suit, his stubble now thick along his chiseled jaw. His hair falls around his eyes, framing the perfection, while his lips are pulled thin.

  God, he’s attractive.

  My body reacts as if he were made for me. Born to the exact requirements that stoke my libido to its highest peak.

  I don’t know how it’s possible to be this captivated. This magnetized. But I am.

  All the way down to my curling toes.

  He remains a statue of confidence before the crowd as a woman climbs the stairs toward him, her long, dark hair plaited over one shoulder, her attention intent as she sways her hips in a skirt that has to be giving those on the dance floor an indecent view.

  My throat dries the closer she gets, my heart taking on a panicked rhythm.

  She stops at his side, placing a hand on his arm, the touch seeming sexually familiar even from this distance.

  Shit.

  I step back, wanting to shrink into the shadows.

  Matthew stands there without reaction, still eyeing the crowd as she inches into him, her breasts brushing his bicep as she speaks close to his ear.

  They’re together.

  They have to be. A woman wouldn’t approach a man with his current icy demeanor unless she had carnal confidence.

  I retreat another step, apologizing as I bump into someone behind me. But I can’t take my eyes off him. I can’t quit staring at the approaching car wreck that will knock my feet out from beneat
h me.

  I can already feel it. The impact of heartache. The collision of fantasy and reality.

  I fell too hard, too fast.

  I’m stupid for thinking our tryst had depth when even our conversations didn’t.

  I shake my head, attempting to dislodge the self-loathing as he continues to eye the crowd, the woman now leaning in to press her mouth to his neck.

  I’m such an idiot. We’ve only spent one goddamn weekend together and a handful of texts, and here I am, shattered.

  Matthew jerks back from the dark-haired woman and turns on her, a flash of overhead light illuminating a face filled with anger. He says something, his words unkind if the way she straightens and balks is any indication, while my pathetic ass clings to hope.

  They’re arguing.

  Fighting.

  He remains cold as he speaks, his confident posture unwavering until she raises a hand to slap his face.

  I jostle with the impact more than he does, and blink in shock as she storms back down where she came from. I don’t realize I’m panting until she disappears into the dancing crowd.

  All the while, Matthew remains unfazed, pivoting back to grasp the railing like nothing happened.

  I’m more stunned than he is, and I don’t know whether I should leave or stay. The flighty flutter of my heart has no intention of letting me escape without answers. The brutal twist of my stomach makes me question if I want to learn the truth.

  I’d thought of him as a gentleman. A sly, devious gentleman, but a gentleman all the same.

  Now I’m not so sure.

  And still, I crave.

  Even after witnessing that drama, I can’t stop wanting him. Can’t stop making excuses for what just happened.

  The woman obviously couldn’t take no for an answer.

  His body language had been clear. Hell, I could see his lack of interest and I’m ten yards away.

  What unsettles me, though, is the difficulty in aligning this severely frosty man with the flirting and smoothness of the one I’m accustomed to. This side of Matthew doesn’t fit the person I’ve been fantasizing about.

  This guy is different.

  I’m about to turn on my heel to rethink my options at the hotel when someone else climbs the stairs. A hulk of a man this time—Bishop.

  The temperamental offsider leans in to say something to his friend and this time, there’s an immediate reaction.

  Matthew stiffens, his face pinching as his attention glides in a straight line right to where I stand. Those eyes take me in, holding me immobile while his harshness evaporates with a sly grin.

  Goddamn. Gorgeous.

  I swallow over the desert claiming my throat and curse my fluttering pulse.

  He maneuvers around Bishop and descends the stairs to the ground floor. I can’t see his face as he parts the dancing crowd like a warrior destined to decimate.

  His eyes don’t meet mine again until he’s a breath from the few steps in front of me, his confident stride jumping them in one fell swoop to stop before me.

  There are no words. No niceties.

  He wraps a hand around my neck and hauls me in to steal my mouth with his.

  I gasp against his lips. My doubts vanish. Self-control disappears.

  I’m breathless, my mind spinning as he awakens my body with his kiss. Then, just as fast, he pulls away and instructs me to follow him.

  He grabs my hand, leading me back to where he came from. Through the crowd, up the metal stairs, to the glass-encased room.

  My palm is at home in his. The tight hold. The possession consuming.

  He escorts me inside the soundproof area, the noise still loud but from chatting people this time, and takes me to the bar, the counter illuminated by a dark blue glow. Then he kisses me again, one hand clutching mine, the other tangling in the hair at my nape.

  I lose myself in him. The concerns disappear, too.

  Despite the crowd around us, it’s only me and him. The two of us in our own little world.

  “This is a nice surprise,” he murmurs against my lips.

  “Not as much of a surprise as I wanted.” I keep my eyes closed, our noses touching. “Did Bishop see me arrive?”

  “You’re hard to miss. Especially in that phenomenal dress. How the hell do you keep knocking me off my feet?”

  I meet his hungry gaze and fight a needy whimper.

  He evokes so much animalistic ferocity it’s agonizing. I’d give anything to be alone with him. One-on-one. Naked.

  “You have the same effect,” I admit, raising my hand to trail my fingers over the red mark on his left cheek. “Who was that woman?”

  His expression doesn’t falter. I don’t catch the slightest glimpse of guilt. “Do you really want to know?”

  Yes. No.

  I sigh. “Unfortunately, I can’t unsee what happened and my imagination isn’t kind.”

  He straightens his shoulders. “Let me get you a drink first.”

  Shit. Is it that bad?

  “Wine?” He raises a brow and steps away to walk around the bar. “Vodka? Maybe a cocktail?”

  “Surprise me.”

  He smiles as if appreciating my trust, and begins making my concoction, swirling bottles, deftly adding shots while the bartenders ignore his liberties.

  He needs to quit impressing me, otherwise I’ll never return home.

  Never ever.

  He snatches a bottle of gin and pours the liquid into a tall glass, his gaze downcast. His confidence bolsters mine. I don’t get it. In a new city, in an unknown club, I should be cautious and concerned. Instead, his presence empowers me, turning me into a wildcat, my claws barely hidden below the surface.

  The only thing decreasing my self-assurance is that other woman. I’m not sure I want to hold his gaze while he tells me about her. I’ll be a slave to my emotions. How I feel will be written all over my face. Then he’ll know exactly how much power he has over me.

  “Who was she?” I take the opportunity to have the unwanted discussion while he’s occupied.

  He grabs for the vodka, adding a nip of alcohol to the glass. “Obviously someone who doesn’t appreciate my charm.”

  I swallow the dryness building in my throat. “Is that all you’re going to give me?”

  He looks up at me, stray strands of hair shading one eye. “She’s someone I almost slept with.” He holds my gaze for a beat, then returns his attention to the drink, adding juice, before stirring with a plastic swizzle.

  I don’t want to ask. It makes me nauseous thinking about it, but the question slips free. “Almost?”

  “Yeah.” He pours himself a scotch, then rounds the bar, placing my drink in front of me before raising his own to his lips. He holds my attention over the rim, his focus intense in its honesty. “Things got heated. But I didn’t follow through.”

  Jealousy eats me from the inside out, the sharp teeth burrowing deep. “When?”

  “A few weeks ago,” he admits.

  A few weeks?

  After we’d met, but before we’d kissed.

  “What else do you want to know?” His question isn’t angered, or a taunt. He’s offering genuine transparency and I’m no longer sure I want it.

  “Do you like her?”

  His mouth kicks up as he takes another sip. “Did it look like I like her?”

  “It looked like she liked you up until the second before her hand slapped across your face.”

  He shrugs. “She wanted to finish what we started. I didn’t.”

  His candor grates me. Will I be the next woman who wants more when he doesn’t? Is my heart his next victim?

  “You’re judging me again,” he drawls. “I thought we were past this.”

  I thought so, too. I really did. Now I’m not sure.

  “Fine.” He sighs, his brows pinching. “I guess you want the full story?”

  I don’t know. Part of me needs to understand how he could be unabashedly cruel. The other doesn’t want any more knowledge o
f him with another woman.

  He leans in, dominating my personal space and grazing the stubble of his cheek along my jaw, his lips near my ear. “The truth is, I got back to Washington after meeting you for the first time and I couldn’t get your fucking phenomenal body out of my goddamn head.”

  I shudder. Hold my breath.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” he continues in a seductive murmur. “Couldn’t think straight. So I found someone to replace you. A woman with the same hair. A similar figure. A pretty face.”

  My skin erupts in goose bumps, my nipples beading for reasons unknown.

  His nose nuzzles the sensitive skin below my ear as he says, “I wanted to fuck her while pretending it was you. But no fantasy could live up to the hype.”

  I shiver, every inch of me tingling.

  “Less than an hour spent with you, Layla, and I was obsessed.” His lips brush my neck, the graze of his stubble providing the most deliciously contrasting friction. “Seeing you again only heightened the infatuation.”

  My breathing labors. My core tightens. “But you didn’t sleep with her?”

  “No.” His response is instant.

  “Have you slept with anyone else since we met?” The need for answers is pathetic. I can’t help it.

  “No.” He tastes my skin with a minuscule slide of his tongue. “And I won’t.”

  I believe him.

  I believe his words. His vibe. The hunger in his mouth as it delicately devours my neck.

  Lust bubbles in my belly, seeping out through every nerve.

  I don’t understand this yearning. This desire. It’s all-consuming. Mind-numbing.

  I slide a hand around his neck, grazing my nails along his scalp to hold him close. “How long until we can get out of here?”

  He snickers, the sound devilish enough to make my pussy clench. “As soon as you’d like.”

  17

  Layla

  He leads me back downstairs, my hand in his, then through a staff door, along a shadowed hall, and out into a gated parking lot.

  Matthew directs me to a black Roadster nestled between a line of sedans and compact vehicles, and opens the passenger-side door.