by Eden Summers
I walk on numb feet as a crowd of emotions seeks attention inside my chest.
Jubilation dances with twists and dips of hope and possibility. The kindness I’ve been welcomed with by these men is a blessing. I’m overwhelmed with gratitude to be so freely accepted. But the bitter edge of my shady upbringing still itches from the scars it’s left behind.
How darkly tainted is my life that this is the first time I’ve felt free from judgment?
With each passing minute, I want to settle more into Matthew’s world. To plant roots in soil that wasn’t made for me. But could it be?
Could I change who I am to remain with him?
Maybe I could be accepted for who I want to be if I’m willing to sever ties with my brother. With my entire family. With the crime and danger and lies.
Could I do that though?
Could I start over with Stella, placing her boarding school days in the rearview to live like a normal person?
“Tell me about yourself, Layla?” Lorenzo pats my hand as we step outside, the rush of waves crashing in the distance. “How did you meet my Matthew?”
I open my mouth, then pause, cautious at what to offer that won’t incriminate me. “We met in Denver.”
Lorenzo’s fingers twitch on my arm. “Matthew has been to Denver?”
“Stop plying her for information, zio.” Matthew continues to stride ahead, passing dining customers to enter a private cordoned off part of the seated area, making himself at home amongst the empty tables. “If you have questions for me, you know who to ask.”
“He’s always been touchy,” Lorenzo murmurs near my ear, his accent thick. “I don’t know how you put up with him.”
I grin as we reach a table in the far corner next to a waist-high hedge blocking us from the public bike track that’s busy with people exercising.
“Are more people joining us?” I take in the sea of emptiness around us, all the nearby tables bearing reserved signs just like ours.
“No, bella.” Lorenzo jerks his chin at the two men who came with him, sending a silent message that has them taking sentry positions at the farthest corners of the cordoned area.
Not business partners. Bodyguards.
“It’s for privacy,” the older man continues. “I can’t have everyone learning my secrets.”
Even though his comment is tongue-in-cheek, I’m tempted to ask what type of secrets could warrant reserving such a large area of the restaurant.
“Vecchio mio,” Bishop calls behind us, his stride long as he approaches to engulf Lorenzo in a hug with clapped backs and foreign greetings.
The two of them reunite like father and son, and for the first time, the man I’ve grown to despise doesn’t seem entirely feral thanks to a generous smile and sincere affection.
“Sit.” Lorenzo breaks the embrace and waves a hand toward the table. “Take the chair opposite me, Bella. Bishop and Matthew can protect us from the prying eyes of the world by sitting on the outside.”
I’m certain he’s more intent on keeping his prying eyes on me, but I comply, happy to have his attention.
“The room isn’t ready.” Bishop slides a plastic suite card across the table. “They said to give them half an hour.”
Matthew pockets the offering and we all take our allotted seats, Bishop and Matthew against the hedge, while I settle in front of Lorenzo, who clicks his finger in the air, gaining the attention of a waitress who hustles over.
Coffee is ordered. Cake and bagels and croissants, too.
Once the waitress is gone, Lorenzo sits back in his chair, his warm eyes fixed on me. “Tell me about yourself, cara mia. Spare no details. I want to know everything.”
“Lorenzo,” Matthew warns. “Don’t push.”
“I’m not pushing. Merely getting to know the woman of your heart, figlio.”
“It’s okay,” I lie, wishing I knew how to defuse this conversation respectfully. I don’t want to offend Lorenzo by staying silent. I also don’t want Matthew to think I’m willing to open up to a stranger when I’ve spent the duration of our relationship hiding. “I guess the thing that defines me most is that I’m a single mother.” I pause, hoping the usually disparaged label will end my time in the spotlight. “My daughter is eleven going on twenty-three.”
The older man laughs. “They’re all the same at that age.”
“You have children?” I latch on to the information, hoping to divert the conversation from me.
“Many. Some by birth. Others by fate.” He glances to Matthew and Bishop.
“You must be very proud.”
“I am. Now tell me more.” He flares his eyes with exaggerated excitement. “I want to know everything. I’m in awe of the way you’ve ensnared such a stubborn bachelor.”
“Zio,” Matthew growls. “You’re making her uncomfortable.”
“Se la metto a disagio, sicuramente me lo può dire.” Lorenzo frowns. “Isn’t that right, Layla?”
I balk, his words going completely over my head.
“I’m sorry.” He reaches across the table to touch my hand. “Do you not speak Italian?”
“No.” I wince, physically pained at the thought of disappointing him—a stranger—someone I shouldn’t care about. And yet, I do. I want his approval more than anything. “I enjoy listening to your beautiful language, though, so please don’t stop on my account.”
“Matthew will have to teach you.”
I glance to the man in question, my heart warming with the ease of the smile staring back at me.
“I agree.” There’s a teasing hum to his tone. “All I need is for her to commit to the long process.”
He’s not talking about a commitment to a language. His intent is on a pledge of another kind, and right now, I’m mindless to think of one reason to deny him.
“We can talk about this later.” I force my attention back to Lorenzo. “Is it my turn to learn more about you? Matthew told me you’re his mentor.”
“He did, did he?”
“You know it’s true,” Matthew mutters. “Stop fishing for compliments, old man.”
Lorenzo laughs, carefree and bold. “Okay, okay. I know it’s true. I taught Matthew everything I know about business.”
“And arrogance. You taught him that, too.” Bishop shoots me a glower, as if pissed I’m taking over the conversation.
“I assume you were there for that lesson, too.” I quirk a brow at him.
Matthew snickers. “Without a doubt.”
“So you’re in the club business?” I ask Lorenzo.
There’s an awkward pause as the fatherly figure holds his smile, his focus moving to Matthew. Nobody speaks. Or acknowledges the question as the two stare at each other.
I’ve said something wrong.
Bishop shifts in his seat, placing his arm against the hedge to watch the bike riders as they pass.
My question has made things awkward. And with the necessity for guards and a private seating area, I should’ve been less forthright in asking for information.
“I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to be—”
“Don’t apologize.” Lorenzo returns his gaze to mine. “Yes, bella, I own clubs. Many clubs. I only hesitate to discuss the topic because it’s become somewhat of a point of contention lately. Especially with Matthew.”
The awkwardness continues, prickling my skin.
Bishop glowers at the passing bike riders while the gorgeous man beside me turns impassive, his expression not giving a hint of emotion.
Footsteps approach behind me as the quiet stretches, the chatter from pedestrians filling the awkward void.
“Who ordered the latte?” The waitress stops beside our table with a tray filled with food and drinks, her smile beaming into the discomfort.
“That would be me.” I focus on the cream tablecloth, wishing I hadn’t siphoned the enthusiasm from our heartwarming arrival.
“Don’t worry.” Matthew leans into me, whispering in my hair. “We’ve been destined to have th
is unwanted conversation for a while.” He inches away to refocus on Lorenzo. “I guess it’s time we discussed your retirement.”
“It’s been time for months.” Lorenzo juts his chin. “Have either of you considered my offer?”
Matthew doesn’t move. Not even a flinch.
Bishop continues to stare at the bike track, or maybe even farther to the street traffic.
“Your offer is something that should be reserved for your sons. Your real sons.” Matthew reaches for his piccolo, calm and controlled as he takes a sip.
“You already know they’ve received the same offer. You’re also well aware that hard work never suited them.”
“It’s not the hard work they’re opposed to,” Bishop mutters. “They’re already successful in their own right, and so are we.”
“Il tuo successo non è niente in confronto alle profondità dell'impero familiare.” An edge creeps into Lorenzo’s tone. “Saresti uno sciocco a rifiutare l'offerta.”
“Then call me a fool.” Bishop returns his attention to the conversation. “As tempting as the offer is, I have no plans to return here.”
“Questo è un insulto alla famiglia.” Lorenzo glares. “You both know this.”
“It’s not meant as an insult.” Matthew sighs. “Don’t take your frustration out on us. It’s your sons you should be speaking to.”
“Fanculo i miei figli.” Lorenzo slaps a hand down on the table, startling me. “They don’t deserve to be part of this.”
“Calmati,” Matthew says, a warning in his tone. “If I’d known you were going to push the issue, I wouldn’t have brought Layla here to sit awkwardly through the exchange.”
I press my lips tight at his protection. Appreciating it. Loving it.
I’ve always hated when my brother did the same.
Lorenzo’s shoulders loosen, his face losing the harsh lines of irritation. “My apologies.” He drags in a long breath, regaining composure. “Forgive me, bella. As you can see I’ve grown frustrated at my children for turning their back on the family business. I didn’t raise them to be ungrateful.”
“Families are tough. I know that better than most.” I pull my cell from my dress pocket. “But please don’t censor the conversation on my account. I’ve got messages and emails to return. Pretend I’m not here.”
He holds my gaze, admiring me in silence for long moments before he says, “Non lasciarla andare. È una da tenere stretta.”
“Lo so.” Matthew shifts his chair closer to mine, sliding his arm over the back of my seat, the heat from his suit jacket sinking into my shoulders, the strength of his body settling in against me.
I glance at him, hoping for a translation. Our eyes lock, and without words, I understand the silent message he conveys.
Lorenzo approves.
I’m considered worthy.
The realization is enough to make my stupid throat dry.
He leans in, placing a kiss to my temple, a whisper to my ear. “You’re amazing.”
I flush, so much more than cheeks and chest. I feel the heat everywhere. Arms. Legs. Stomach. No place more potent than my heart.
“Enough of the PDA bullshit,” Bishop mutters. “I’m not here to watch soft porn.”
“If whispering in my ear is considered soft porn, I truly feel sorry for your lovers.” I give him a smug smile.
“Who says I’m talking about a whisper?” He gives me the same look in return. “Maybe I meant the helicopter flight.”
I stiffen, my temper flaring.
“Watch it,” Matthew threatens him while he squeezes my shoulder.
“It’s jealousy, bella.” Lorenzo claps my nemesis on the chest, a gesture that’s harshly shoved away. “I doubt poor Bishop has experienced love.”
Love?
I ignore the implication. “Nonetheless, I think I’m becoming a distraction. I should go for a walk on the beach—”
“No, stay.” Matthew’s hand remains firm on my shoulder. “Eat. Enjoy your coffee. Our conversation won’t take long.”
Bishop keeps his feral stare on me as I concede with a nod, clinging to the cell in my hand.
They continue talking without me, the Italian more heavily spoken than words of English. I sit there and stare at my locked screen as the sea breeze dances in my hair and Matthew’s accent plays havoc with my libido.
What if this is love?
We barely know each other… yet what I feel for Matthew holds a romanticism and tightly woven affection far more potent than anything I’ve experienced.
I yearn for him. All the time.
Even with him by my side, his arm around me, his voice in my ears, it’s not enough.
I want more.
Birds chirp, people ride past, waitresses clean tables, and all I can do is simmer in infatuation, my life shifting to revolve around the man beside me as if nothing else exists.
He’s becoming my world.
I swallow, attempting to alleviate my parched throat, and unlock my cell to swipe through numerous unread messages from my siblings. I make sure to keep the screen tilted from view as I scan Cole’s condemning texts, and those from Keira that are equally accusatory but cleverly intoned with concern.
Would either of them care that I’m at peace here?
Would they deny me this happiness?
I reach for my latte and take a sip, wishing I had someone to talk to, but my sister is the only confidant I’ve ever had.
I haven’t risked the luxury of friends since childhood. My family’s reputation has kiboshed the ability to trust anyone outside our inner circle.
There’s only Keira. A sibling who usually forgives but never forgets.
Matthew’s fingers brush reassuring strokes against my shoulder as I contemplate reaching out to her. I breathe deeper of his scent, sink further into the confidence in his tone. I become bolder in his embrace. Stronger.
My pulse pounds as I hover my fingers above a new text, Keira’s cell number the recipient.
If I tell her, there’s no going back.
I won’t be able to pretend this is a temporary fling. Our relationship will be real. Undeniable. I’ll have to commit to telling him who I am in the future and face the possibility of him walking away.
My heart plunges. My stomach, too.
I tilt my face to look at him, watching intently as he speaks flawless Italian, trying to hide my lust when he shoots me a knowing smirk before returning his attention to Lorenzo.
He leans in again, his heated breath tickling my neck as he murmurs, “Don’t look at me like that or I’ll be forced to fuck you on this table.”
I sit taller. Clear my throat. Pretend my sex isn’t already preparing for the actions of his threat, and start typing—Keira, I think I’m in love.
23
Layla
Her response comes thick and fast.
What?!
Where are you?
Who is he?
How long have you known him?
I could’ve maintained my elation if it weren’t for the last text.
Goddamnit, Layla, don’t do anything stupid.
Those six words hit hard, her judgment threatening to convince me I’m not worthy of happiness.
I fight against the potential downfall. Glare at the screen. Cling to the last vestiges of my pride until my self-respect slowly returns.
I’m tempted to reply. To tell her exactly how I feel about my despised position in the family with far more clarity than I did in our last conversation. I’m even inclined to answer the call she puts through seconds later just so she can hear the renewed confidence in my voice as I tell her about the possibility of me never returning to Portland.
But the allure isn’t worth instigating another fight. Or disrupting Matthew’s conversation.
I’m in love, not a masochist.
“You okay?” he whispers in my ear. “What happened?”
I lock my cell and shake my head. “Nothing.”
“It’s something.�
�
Lorenzo and Bishop continue their conversation as Matthew leans closer. “Is it your family again?”
I hate how he hits the bull’s-eye easily. I’m grateful for it, too.
My family has always been my destruction.
I never would’ve been painted a traitor if it weren’t for my despicable father using me in the first place. I wouldn’t have had the chance to drag my husband through the mud with me if we weren’t forced to marry. And I wouldn’t be here, ignoring the vibration of my sister’s continued calls, if my siblings didn’t make me feel like a leper.
But I guess that’s the silver lining.
Him.
Matthew.
They may be my ruin, but he’ll be my rise.
I won’t retreat from what we have because of Keira. I won’t continue to be conditioned to believe I’m unworthy of even a second of the heaven I feel when I’m with him.
“Talk to me, Layla. Tell me what’s going on.”
I turn into him, our lips a breath apart when I whisper, “You’re special to me.”
He inches back, his brows furrowing.
I’ve shocked him, and I guess it’s to be expected.
He’s spent all our shared time calling me amore mio, promising me his devotion, showing me his commitment. And this is the first I’ve given it in return.
“You’re going to do this to me now?” He places a hand on my upper thigh, his palm possessively sliding higher. “Here?”
Hunger ebbs off him, the fire beaming in his eyes.
I blush, my cheeks undoubtedly stained crimson as I turn away. “We’ll talk about this later.”
His fingers pause at the crotch of my panties. “We’re going to do a hell of a lot more than talk.”
“Stop it.” I shoot him a playful glare. “Pay attention to the conversation.” I jerk my chin at Lorenzo who talks to Bishop, the older man giving me a brief smile before asking Matthew something in Italian.
The three of them continue chatting while I ignore another call from Keira then turn off my cell. I won’t speak to her again. Not until I’m stronger. More immune.
Instead, I focus on the foreign debate around me, attempting to decipher the topic. “Ricchezza” and “Cruciale” are spoken numerous times. Matthew repeats “la mia risposta è no,” more than once.
