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

by Eden Summers

  I see the woman forsaken for the mistakes of her past. I see the person turned pariah due to circumstances out of their control.

  “Just…” I attempt to shake my head free from the emotional onslaught. “Just give me a second.”

  I need to think. To understand. To do damage control.

  “Layla, you’re bleeding.” His attention narrows on my hip, his expression transforming from devastation to concern. He strides forward, forcing me to scamper backward. “Don’t fight me on this,” he warns with an edge of malice. “Let me make sure you’re okay. You mean so much to me. I—”

  “You don’t even know me.”

  He stops a foot away, his nostrils flaring. “Yes, I do.”

  I shake my head and glance at my dress, trying to see where the hell I’m bleeding from. “No, you don’t.” I twist, finding blood splotches that match the red fabric, the material nicked with tiny cuts along my side. “You have no idea.”

  “So everything between us was fake? Was it all for sex? For the lifestyle? For attention?”

  I gape. “No, I never—”

  “Then I know you. I know how I feel when I’m with you. I know how good we are together. How we fit. How we’re perfectly matched. How we can hold a conversation for hours. And fuck until we’re exhausted, but far from sated, because being with you means I’ll never get enough.” He bridges the space between us in an adamant step. “That’s how I know you. And it’s the only knowledge that matters.”

  His admission shakes me. Grabs me by the arms and rattles me to my bones.

  I’d thought I’d known him, too.

  I’d thought the knowledge I had was all that mattered. Now I’m painfully aware that’s simply not true.

  What he kept from me changes everything. It bends and twists the already stretched limbs I’d stepped out on to have this secret relationship in the first place. It makes the already unattainable nauseatingly impossible.

  “Let me see why you’re bleeding.” He doesn’t quit holding my gaze as he reaches out, fingering the material at my waist, bundling it in his hands.

  My heart clenches, beating harder at his affection. At the weeks of deception.

  “Why did you bring me here?” I blurt, unable to contain the mania.

  His brows knit. “To Virginia Beach?”

  “To the meeting. To the hotel. Why introduce me to Lorenzo? Why risk my life?”

  “I didn’t think there was any risk. Nobody has dared to target him in years. I never would’ve brought you otherwise.” He keeps my dress bundled in his hands, his chin lifting. “I’m sick of the secrets, Layla. I wanted him to get to know you. I want you to know who I am.”

  My pulse weakens, my entire body withering.

  I return my attention to the ocean, unable to voice a protest when he bundles more of my dress in his grip. Unwilling to deny his cautious affection. Powerless to walk away even though I know I have to.

  I thought he was my safety vest in the midst of the pummeling waves of my life. Instead, he was nothing more than a mirage. Yet I still hunger to cling to the illusion. I continue to hope he’ll save me from drowning despite him being just another shark in the water.

  The hem of my dress rises from my ankles to my calves, then my thighs.

  I hold my breath against the exposure. I clench every muscle against the judgment of my family snipping in my ears. Their recrimination. The fury.

  But Matthew hasn’t lost the calming touch. He soothes me. Provides solace.

  How?

  How can his proximity dilute the devastation of my situation? How can he—a man now exposed as having underworld ties—comfort me?

  Because despite the darkness of his admission, he’s the only support I’ve got.

  The fabric creeps higher, exposing my lace panties, my bra. He keeps pulling the dress farther until it’s over my shoulders and head, then lets the clothing fall into a pool of crimson on the carpet.

  I close my eyes as he steps around me, his fingertips gently gliding from my shoulder to the ribs at my back, every inch of nurtured skin awakening in a blanket of goose bumps until his touch stops at my waist.

  “You’re covered in scratches,” he murmurs. “None deep enough to require stitches, but too many for me to escape more guilt over bringing you here.”

  I battle inner turmoil as his fingertips trail intricate circles along the sensitive flesh at the small of my back, the beauty of his soothing contact tearing me to shreds.

  “Forgive me.” He closes in behind me, one hand still learning my injuries, the other arm taking liberties to skim around my waist to my stomach, holding me to him. “I’ve made mistakes.” He speaks against my shoulder, his breath sending a shiver down my spine. “I’m not that person anymore.”

  A whimper tightens my throat.

  I’m not the person I used to be either.

  “Start a new life with me, Layla,” he whispers my wishes into existence. My dreams. My hopes. “Be with me for who I am now. Not where I came from.”

  “Where you came from just had us ducking for cover.” I turn to face him, finally able to ignore all the parts of me that want to disappear into the shelter of his arms. “You haven’t moved on, Matthew. That life is still a part of you.”

  “No. I walked away from their—”

  “How can you say that when Lorenzo was asking you to take over right in front of me? He was begging you to come back.”

  His jaw ticks with tension. “I’m next in line because his sons declined the offer. He’s growing desperate. But I’ll never go back.”

  “It seems to me that you’re going back every time you meet with him.”

  “I’ve been out for years,” he enunciates with slow adamance. “Bishop and I—”

  “Yes, tell me about Bishop.” I’ve never trusted that asshole. “If you wanted distance from your old life, why keep him with you?”

  For a moment he’s silent, perhaps biding his time.

  “Matthew?” I raise a brow and snatch my dress from the floor, huddling it against my chest.

  “He’s with me out of misguided obligation. He thinks he owes me for getting him out.”

  “And how did you do that?”

  “I did whatever I had to. I wasn’t leaving without him.”

  His words say nothing, but I understand regardless. I know the sins. The darkness. The bloodshed.

  The duties of underworld men aren’t unfamiliar to me. I’m aware of the atrocities my brother inflicts on our enemies. Hunter, Decker, and Luca, too. And all the underlings that follow.

  I was raised to believe an eye for an eye is for the nine-to-five crowd.

  My family is different. If someone betrays the Torian name, the cost is high and lifelong. Not merely an eye, but the breaking of one’s spirit. The shredding of their soul.

  I don’t want to see Matthew like that. I can’t picture blood on his hands and hate in his heart.

  I wrap my arms around my waist, unable to deny it any longer. “You’ve killed people.”

  His jaw ticks again. “I can admit I’m not without sin. Can you?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “What were you planning on doing with the Costas, Layla? Why were you carrying poison?”

  “This isn’t about me. We’re—”

  “Why not?” He cocks a brow. “We’re one and the same. You might not want to tell me who you are, but the fact you haven’t run a million times already says we’re from similar worlds. We understand each other. We can make this work.”

  “Our similarities are what I’m trying to get away from.”

  “Me too.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Me fucking too.”

  I hate this side of him. The frustration and suffering. It awakens a weakness in me I never knew existed.

  “I wish we were different people.” I drag my dress back over my head. “I wish for so many things, Matthew. A lot of them involving you. But—”

  “Then stop right there.” He decimates the space
between us to grab my wrists, the red fabric falling to huddle at my hips as he tugs me into his chest. “We’ll start fresh together. You, me, Stella.” He inches forward, and I’m not sure if it’s his words or his proximity that sends me into a tailspin. “I’ve never—”

  “No. You stop.” I splay a hand against his sternum in warning. “Don’t—”

  “I care too much to let you walk out on me, Layla.”

  I shake my head. Over and over and over.

  These reactions. This craziness. None of it can go on.

  “I didn’t grow up planning to take a path toward a man like Lorenzo,” he continues. “But every decision and every fucking mistake led me to the night we met. Every crime. Every unforgivable action brought me to you.”

  My veins hum with fear and anticipation. Panic and power.

  I’m torn. Severed in two.

  “It doesn’t matter.” I have to get home. To monotony and misery. Solitude and sadness.

  Another knock sounds at the door, rattling the wood against the frame. I snap rigid at the intrusion as Matthew growls a curse.

  “Who is it?” he barks.

  “Me,” Bishop yells from the hall. “Who the fuck else are you expecting?”

  Matthew doesn’t move. Doesn’t even loosen his hold. The only change is the flare of his nostrils as he glares at the entry. “I’ll get rid of him.”

  26

  Layla

  I scramble to right my dress as Matthew stalks for the entry, the whoosh of the door soon following.

  “I told you I didn’t want to see you until Lorenzo was taken to the doctor,” he growls.

  “Relax,” comes the arrogant reply. “He’s on his way there now.”

  I hustle across the room, taking in the sight of Matthew at the door and Bishop scowling over his shoulder at me from the hall.

  “Why didn’t you go with him?” Matthew asks.

  Bishop drags his gaze from me, his focus tight when he says, “Because I’ve got news.”

  There’s a beat of silence. Of non-verbal communication.

  “What news?” I interrupt. “I want to know what’s going on.”

  The quiet continues, their silent communication lasting a muted microsecond before Matthew steps back, allowing his friend access to the suite.

  My nemesis strides inside, his chin arrogantly high, his lips thin. He stops before the sofa and turns away from me to take off his suit jacket, exposing the gun buried in the back of his pants before he throws the item of clothing over the armrest.

  It’s a show. A deliberately theatrical intimidation.

  I’m not buying tickets.

  When he pivots to face me, I want to roll my eyes. To roll them so far in the back of my head I gag, but he doesn’t need to know men like him are a dime a dozen where I’m from.

  He descends to the sofa, spreading his arms along the headrest, crossing an ankle over his knee. He’s attempting to appear superior and relaxed while I’m expected to cower and hide.

  Not going to happen.

  I want answers.

  Matthew follows after him, his presence both comforting and daunting depending on whether I listen to my heart or my head.

  “So…” Bishop drawls. “What’s going on?”

  “I told her.” Matthew makes his way to the kitchenette, distancing himself as he scoots his ass onto the counter. He sits there, frustrated and remorseful, entirely focused on me while he leans forward in his immaculate suit, his elbows on his knees.

  “Told her what exactly?” Bishop remains imperious as he watches me. Both of them attempting to slither their way under my skin for different reasons.

  “That you’re in the mafia.” I cross my arms over my chest.

  His eyes narrow. “We were,” he growls. “That shit is ancient history.”

  Relief sparks a tiny flickering flame inside me. “You were in the mafia,” I correct. “You earned your way out of that life somehow, but decided to stay together afterward. Why?”

  “You didn’t tell her the reason I stick around?” Bishop glances over his shoulder to the kitchen, but my lover’s daunting attention doesn’t leave me for a second.

  “No, he didn’t,” I answer. Not really.

  Bishop scoffs a laugh. “It’s because Matty boy wants to receive his very own martyrdom status. I need to stay close so he doesn’t obtain his title.”

  I frown, glancing from Bishop’s smug expression to Matthew’s cold one. “What does that mean?”

  Are we talking about suicide?

  “That’s enough dramatics,” Matthew mutters. “He’s here for protection.”

  Bishop clears his throat louder than necessary. “If you were concerned about protection, you’d carry a gun.”

  “I said, that’s enough.”

  The questions in my head multiply. There are so many more now than the millions I had before.

  “Quit the look of defeat, darlin’.” Bishop uncrosses his legs to kick his shoes onto the coffee table. “Your bad boy fix isn’t going to end anytime soon. Not unless you finally start listening to my warnings. You should’ve walked when I pushed.”

  What? Had his aggression been for my benefit? To scare me away from all this?

  “I didn’t plan on dragging you into my life, amore mio.” Matthew pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re the last thing I expected to find in Denver.”

  “I can attest to that,” Bishop agrees. “Which brings us to the topic of the Costas and your association with them.”

  I cinch my arms tighter around my middle. “I think we have more pressing things to discuss, don’t you? Like being shot at?”

  “If you’d prefer to discuss blatant dangers first instead of those that are far more sinister in their subtlety, then that’s fine with me.” He shrugs. “Lorenzo sends his apologies. He understands the complications he must have caused between you and Matthew, and begs forgiveness.”

  “So he knew the attack was coming?” Matthew asks.

  “No. He underestimated how hungry the local biker gangs are for power. There’s a turf war over distribution, and Lorenzo refused to get involved. He wanted them to sort it out amongst themselves. Now he assumes this morning was a little nudge to let him know they’d prefer his involvement.”

  He relays the information as if it’s week-old news. As if we hadn’t just been in a life-threatening situation moments ago due to the drug trade.

  I see through the tough-guy act, though. He’d been the first to shove to his feet when the threat arrived. He’d feared for Lorenzo and Matthew’s lives, if not his own.

  “He wanted you to know he’s taken care of the police.” He talks over his shoulder. “He spoke to them while I was downstairs and promised he was leaving to go see his doctor.”

  “Bullshit,” Matthew mutters. “You know he won’t.”

  “You might be right, but I’m not going to cup his balls while he takes a piss. If he goes, he goes. If he doesn’t, that’s not my fault. He’s not our responsibility anymore.”

  Matthew takes the remark like a blow, his face momentarily sharpening as our eyes meet.

  He’s not out, no matter what he says. Maybe physically, but not emotionally.

  “I still care for his well-being, Layla.” He holds my gaze as he answers my unspoken thoughts. “That will never change.”

  “My boy has daddy issues.” Bishop winks at me. “But who doesn’t, right?”

  My heart thuds a painful beat at how right he is. At how Matthew and I continue to have more things in common.

  “Are you done?” Matthew pushes from the counter. “As much as I’m enjoying this provoking mood, if you’ve got no more information, it’s time to fuck off.”

  “Touchy much?” Bishop shoves from the sofa to pull on his jacket. “Am I calling in the helicopter?”

  “No. We’re staying.”

  “Are we?” I scowl, making it obvious I don’t appreciate the dictatorship.

  “We’re staying,” he repeats. “Yo
u still have questions and we’re not going anywhere until they’re answered. If you want to walk out on me, you’re going to do it with crystal clarity.”

  “I’m surprised she hasn’t walked already.” Bishop fixes his lapels and smirks at me. “Slow learner.”

  “Go to hell,” I snap.

  He snickers, breathing in my anger like a fine wine. Consuming it. “You’re far too lippy for a woman who’s just found herself in the middle of a gangland drug war.” He starts for the hall, his gaze turning to Matthew. “Make sure you ask some questions of your own. If she’s learning my secrets, I sure as hell want hers in return.”

  I fight against the need to stiffen as he continues for the door, leaving the suite without another word.

  I should follow. Escape. Cut ties with the thin threads of hopeful possibility that have me pondering whether I could start over, fresh and renewed.

  Matthew won’t want me when he finds out who I really am.

  Despite the instinctive connection between us, an enemy is still an enemy.

  “Ask, Layla.” Matthew approaches. “Whatever’s on your mind, let it out.”

  “Whatever’s on my mind?” I counter his steps, keeping the coffee table between us. “I can barely think straight.”

  He stops behind the sofa, clenching the headrest in both hands. “You’ve gotta start somewhere.”

  No, I don’t. I shouldn’t start at all.

  I should walk. He knows it. I know it.

  Lord knows my family would know it if they were privy to my latest phase of stupidity.

  But curiosity and yearning tag team inside my chest, demanding answers.

  I have to find out how far Matthew has distanced himself from his past. How he could’ve escaped the inescapable. And if he’s truly sincere about a future between us.

  If he’s asking me not to judge, then maybe he won’t judge in return.

  He might not despise me for who I am and what I’ve done.

  Then there’s Lorenzo. If I’m going to return to Cole with my tail between my legs, the best option is to go back with information. Insight on the Italian mafia might soften my latest blow of shitty decisions.

  The Cappellettis are a force.