by Eden Summers
Sometimes they converse in English, the sentences holding just as much insight as those spoken in Italian when there’s no prior context.
And through it all, Matthew’s hand remains on my thigh, no longer a sexual taunt, but a companionable reminder that I’m not alone.
I sip my coffee between their laughter and hostility. The ups and downs come thick and fast until Lorenzo heaves a heavy sigh to focus on me with fatherly kindness.
“Alas, bella, I fear my boys aren’t to be convinced.” He clucks his tongue. “Who raised such stubborn fools?”
I grin. “I could make a wry comment about all men and their stereotypical stubbornness, but now probably isn’t the time.”
He chuckles. “I think we would all appreciate your restraint.”
Matthew squeezes my thigh again and I take the gesture as encouragement. His appreciation settles in the air between us, our building bond tightening around me.
“You’ve barely eaten.” Lorenzo frowns at all the untouched food spread across the table. “None of us have.”
“It doesn’t help when you’re trying to tear us a new one.” Bishop reaches for a pastry and takes a bite. “I’m fucking starving.”
Matthew grabs a croissant. “Me, too.”
I admire his strong hands, eager to find out how they’ll be put to use later as the roar of a motorbike rumbles in the nearby intersection behind me, loud enough to momentarily deafen.
I wince, sipping the last of my latte, but hesitate in placing it back on the table.
Bishop sits taller, his attention cutting toward the sound. He stiffens as the thunder continues, the roaring muffler coming closer.
“What is it?” Matthew places the croissant on his plate and turns to look.
There’s no response. Nothing other than a poised hardening of Bishop’s stare.
I glance over my shoulder to the traffic lights, my gaze catching on the red that turns to green, but it’s the motorcycle cutting away from the street to mount the bicycle lane that raises my hackles.
“We’ve got trouble.” Bishop shoves to his feet.
Matthew’s quick to do the same.
I’m unsure whether I should follow, the latte glass now frozen in my hand.
I glance between the men surrounding me, all of them on edge. All now standing, including the two bodyguards at the farthest corners of our secluded area. Both of them rush forward as the leather-covered biker howls toward us, face unseen below the darkened visor.
“What’s going on?” I brace to stand, only to be stopped by Matthew’s steely grip clasping my shoulder to hold me in place.
“Stay down,” he barks.
I scramble to figure out what’s going on, glancing from one man to the next, then back to the biker who reaches around his back to swing an automatic weapon toward the hotel.
Screams ring out. Chairs scrape and scatter.
“Get down.” Matthew slams into me seconds before the ratta-tat-tat of gunfire rings out.
I topple backward to the cement. My elbow takes the brunt of the fall. The latte glass shatters on impact, splintering around me.
I cry out as he smothers his body over mine, covering me head to toe. But the reverberation in my throat doesn’t make a dent on the nearby sounds seeking supremacy.
Women scream. Footsteps scramble. Glass smashes. More gunfire blasts the air. Closer. Louder. More threatening. Someone is returning fire.
Lorenzo is taken to the ground by his men. Shouts ping-pong around me.
“Lay flat,” Matthew demands. “Straight against the ground.”
I don’t comply. I can’t. I cling to him instead, wrapping my arms around his neck, burrowing my head against his shoulder as splinters of glass dig into me from all angles.
The bike grows louder. So close I feel the vibrations in every nerve.
I’m going to die.
I’m going to be shot while plastered to the cement, and my daughter doesn’t even know where I am. I’ll never get to speak to her again.
“I’ve got you.” Matthew keeps me pinned, every inch of him holding me in place as the gunfire recedes, the hacking rumble of the engine speeding into the distance.
Then silence.
There’s only the rasp of my fractured inhales against the ringing in my ears.
“Are you okay?” Matthew inches off me, his gaze frenzied as he scans my face.
“Yeah… I think so.”
“I’m getting you out of here.” He raises to his haunches. “Don’t get up until I tell you.”
I nod, but nothing fully penetrates the shock.
Men snarl and snap above me, the Italian words attacking with none of the beauty they held before.
I turn onto my side and hiss from the broken glass poking through my dress to my ribs, quickly discarding the hazard only for it to be replaced by ten more. I brush my arms, the shouts and screams from strangers rising above the bell tolling in my ears.
Diners slowly drag themselves to their feet in the distance. Others peer over the waist-high hedge from the bike track to take in the destruction. There are offers for help. Calls for the police.
Matthew. Is he okay?
I rake my gaze over him as he snaps words in Italian, scrutinizing the way he stands, how he holds himself, the way he moves his arms, needing to make sure he’s uninjured. Then I focus on Bishop who clutches a gun at his side, and Lorenzo’s guards who do the same, their weapons at home in their grasp as they shield their employer.
The show of defense brings another wave of apprehension.
I assumed they were armed. It’s their job to protect.
But the air of calm under pressure is far too familiar, enough to inspire déjà vu. This snapshot is like so many others in my life. The shattered glass. The screaming women. The men with guns poised to retaliate on an unseen enemy.
“Were you shot?” Matthew demands of his mentor.
My attention snaps to the parting guards who expose Lorenzo sitting on the ground behind them, his hands clutching at his chest.
“No,” he wheezes. “I’m good.”
I push onto shaky hands and knees, needing to see for myself.
“Stay down.” Matthew steps closer, towering over me as he plasters his phone to his ear then barks foreign garble.
“I’m fine, bella.” Lorenzo gives an unconvincing smile, his face starkly pale. “It’s nothing more than the temperamental heart of an old man.”
“We need to leave.” Bishop shoves chairs aside to squat before Lorenzo, helping to pull him to his feet. “That fucker could come back.”
“Who was that?” Questions slam into me. “Who were they targeting?” I look to Matthew, the man who previously told me he had enemies.
He glances away, shoving a hand through his hair as he sneers more Italian into his phone.
My scrambled thoughts turn inward, the need for answers overwhelming.
What if I was the target?
I choke on an inhale, struggling to breathe.
Emmanuel has to know my family don’t forget an injustice.
What if he found out I’d been in Denver? What if news got back to him that a stolen purse had been discovered with my ID and a vial of cyanide that all but had his name on it?
“Who the fuck knows? This could be anything from terrorism, to attempted assassination, to sabotage against the hotel chain.” Bishop jerks his chin toward the restaurant. “But from the look of those bullet holes, it was either a warning or the person taking aim reads braille.”
I follow the direction of his chin to see the shattered windows and the pockmarked facia above the frames. All the holes are well above head level. Too high to be life-threatening.
“Get Lorenzo out of here.” Matthew pockets his cell and leans down to glide his fingers over the back of my arm, gently coaxing me to my feet.
“No,” the old man growls. “I’m not leaving until I have answers.”
“Don’t be a stubborn fool.” Matthew keeps me clos
e at his side as he narrows his eyes on Bishop. “Go with him. Take him home to see his doctor. Make sure he’s okay.”
One of Lorenzo’s guards holsters his weapon beneath his jacket. “Or at least wait inside.”
“You’ll take him home,” Matthew demands, his face contorting with aggression. “Now.”
He’s barely recognizable. The sophistication is gone, replaced with lethal authority. Feral fury. I don’t know this man.
“I dare you to defy me,” he warns. “You may gain his anger for dragging him out of here, but I’ll kill you if he gets hurt.”
I stiffen.
He walks into me, hustling us from the outdoor dining area by the crook of my arm, not allowing them a rebuttal or me a chance to think.
I’m hurried through the restaurant and into the hotel reception, my feet numb, my ears still ringing, my panic making thoughts unclear.
“Where are we going?” I struggle to keep up as he increases our pace, dragging me past staff who run in the opposite direction, their blurring faces rushing toward those yelling for help from the restaurant. “Matthew?”
“It’s best if we get to our room. You’ll be safe there.”
I stop, needing the stillness to settle my foggy mind.
If the attack was targeting me, I’d be more safe at home. With my family. Where security is part of our genes.
With siblings already sick of your complications.
What’s more important is that I need to get to Stella. To make sure she’s all right. To ensure I haven’t put her in harm’s way.
“Layla, we need to keep moving.” He pulls me toward the bank of elevators.
“No. Wait.” I tug my arm from his grip. “I can’t stay here. I have to get to my daughter.”
“Your daughter is fine. You’re fine.” He leans close, his beseeching eyes demanding me to understand. “Once we get to the room, the quiet will help.”
The confidence he exudes makes it easy to believe him. To at least trust mindlessly while my thoughts remain scrabbled.
He reclaims my hand and drags me to the elevators, my fear making me pliable. I blink in a daze as he presses the call button. I breathe shallow while more shouts reverberate off the walls and the blare of sirens approach.
We just walked out of there. A crime scene. A possible attempt on my life. Or was it his? Or Lorenzo’s? Maybe the target was the hotel and its owners.
So why does it feel like it was all me?
My mistakes.
My problems.
My life on the line.
The metal doors open and Matthew closes in behind me, guiding me forward with heavy hands on my hips.
The air around us grows thicker in the confined space. My chest tightens. I can’t get enough oxygen. I can’t fill my lungs.
“You’re okay.” Matthew presses a button to close the doors, then moves in front of me. Foot to foot. Eye to eye. “It’s over. You don’t need to worry.”
He has no clue.
This profoundly protective man has no idea I might have been the cause of this. That I would bring more untold danger into his life if we remained together.
“You’re in shock.” He presses a kiss to my forehead, the caress barely felt through my turmoil.
His affection is sweet… and caring… and something I’m entirely unworthy of.
I put him in harm’s way. If not today, then with my actions in Denver.
The elevator jolts as it starts to ascend, the whir of movement increasing my turmoil. “I don’t want to go to the room, Matthew. I want to go home. I need you to take me back to the helicopter.”
“It’s over, amore mio.”
I shake my head. “You don’t understand.”
Even though I’ve been careful—covering my tracks, using cash for every payment—Emmanuel still could’ve found me.
He may have got his hands on airport passenger lists… or tracked my phone somehow… or… Fuck. Could the Costas be watching Matthew like he’s been watching them?
“Breathe.” He cups my cheeks, his hard eyes demanding compliance. “I understand just fine. Trust me. I looked after you in Denver, right? And I’ve given you no reason to doubt me ever since. I’ll take care of you, Layla. I promise.”
His assurance crumples me. Sickens.
This is the exact drama I promised not to bring into his life. It has to be far worse than Bishop could’ve anticipated. My existence could ruin them both.
The elevator bumps to a stop, the doors open, and nausea overwhelms me when Matthew strides for the hall.
I can’t follow.
“I need to go home.” I inch toward the button panel. “I’ll find my own way to the airport.”
I don’t care about my belongings. They’re replaceable.
What I can’t handle is another death on my hands.
“I won’t let you leave on your own.” His voice is barely contained frustration.
“I’ll call my brother.”
I’ll tell him everything—my plans to take down the Costas, my stolen purse, the vial of cyanide. I’ll beg for understanding…
And then what?
I’ll become a bigger burden. A more despised part of the family.
A sob clogs my throat. “I have to go.”
“I said no.” Matthew storms into the elevator, hauls me off my feet, and lobs me over his shoulder. “I swore to protect you, and if that means from your own bad decisions, then so be it.”
“Put me down.” I wiggle with his booming steps, only resulting in him tightening his hold around my waist. “Matthew, I’m serious. Put me down.”
“And I’m fucking serious,” he growls. “You’re not leaving. I need you with me.”
I need you.
I. Need. You.
Each word slices at my skin, the unfamiliar sentiment tearing a sob from my scorched throat.
Nobody ever needs me. Not my family. Not my husband. Not even my daughter, who left for boarding school without a backward glance. The only person who ever claimed to need anything from me was my father, who used those words against me.
Matthew doesn’t stop his vicious pace until we reach an open suite door. I push against his back, moving high enough to see around his waist to the housekeeping trolley standing idle a few feet inside the darkened hall.
“Is someone in our room?” His question is a commanding boom.
“Oh,” a female replies, a scuffle of noise following. “Yes, sir. It’s housekeeping.” A petite brunette pokes her head around the corner, her face in flickering shadow. “I’m sorry, I haven’t finished preparing what was request—”
“We need privacy.” He storms forward, carrying me like a sack of potatoes.
I should fight. Run. Leave him to a life that would be less dramatic without me, but… I need you.
That declaration. That honesty.
God, I need him, too.
I need the assurance. The protection. The authority that quietens the screaming within.
“Please put me down.” I soften against him. “Please, Matthew.”
He trudges ahead, the scent of candle wax hitting my nose sweet seconds before we reach the open living area where he places me on my feet next to the sofa.
I pause in confusion, the sight not computing.
The housekeeper stands before the kitchenette, a silver wine bucket on the counter, a lighter in her hand. The room is emblazoned with dozens of flickering tea lights. The beauty steals my breath, the glow emanating from every horizontal surface.
Rose petals are scattered over the carpet, the sofa, the television stand.
Matthew requested this?
“It will only take me a moment to finish.” The woman’s gaze shifts between us. “The bathroom just needs—”
“Leave.” Matthew shoves a hand through his hair.
The woman winces, nods in apology, then rushes to a dark corner of the kitchen to retrieve a box of rattling candles. “The food you requested is already in the fridge. Again,
I apologize.” She scampers for her trolley in the hall, the rattle of shampoo bottles and cleaning supplies filling the room before she pulls the door shut behind her.
Then, more silence.
Thick, painful quiet which contrasts with the beauty of the dancing flames around me. Hell consumes my thoughts, yet heaven fills my vision. The opposites add to my instability.
I need something to make sense.
Anything.
“Do you want a glass of water?” Matthew begins to pace, both hands raking into his hair, his fingers clawing against his scalp. “Maybe wine is best. Or food? Do you need something to eat?”
His questions are fast and emotionless. Spoken without thought or follow-through.
I watch him, noting the sweat beading his brow, the rapid rise and fall of his chest. He’s spiraling. Descending into shock as he trudges back and forth along the carpet.
“Matthew…” Guilt consumes me. “I need to leave.” It’s harder to say this time. Harder to admit the truth in the face of his torment. “This has to end.”
He stops abruptly, his hands falling to his sides as he scowls. “What did you say?”
I cringe against the surprise in his eyes. The rejection.
But I made a promise. I said I wouldn’t cause drama.
“I never should have come here.” My heart squeezes with the admission. With the lies and secrecy and unending mistakes. “I think I caused this.”
He straightens. “Why would you think that?”
I don’t want to tell him specifics. To ruin the fairy tale. To witness his opinion of me disintegrate like so many others have before.
“Layla, why would you think that?” His eyes narrow in confusion.
“I’m not who or what you think I am…” I backtrack toward the door, each syllable pulled from me like a deeply rooted tooth. “I’m not a good person.”
“Hey.” He prowls toward me, eating up the space, reclaiming my cheeks in his palms. “Stop it. This wasn’t about you.”
“You don’t know that.” The truth sits like bile at the back of my throat, needing to be expelled. “I’ve put you in danger with what I’ve done with the Costas.”
His eyes scan me. Scrutinize. “Tell me everything.”
