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

by Eden Summers

  “Tell me one,” I urge.

  Just one. Any one. Even the briefest glimpse of the unknown will tide me over until we’re both comfortable enough to discuss this further.

  “Normal people don’t carry guns,” he mutters.

  “But normal people don’t have a past they need to be protected from.”

  He doesn’t respond. There’s only thickening silence between us.

  “Didn’t people come after you?” I pull back and raise onto my elbow, needing to see his face. “I assume you would’ve been a target for anyone wanting intel on the Cappellettis.”

  “Nobody came after me.” He rolls onto his back to stare at the ceiling, shutting me out.

  “Nobody? Not even one person? Not an enemy or a competitor? Not even someone who felt you abandoned your position?”

  His eyes harden, his nose wrinkling at my heartlessness.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t mean to say—”

  “No, you’re right.” He sits, my hand falling from his chest, his back turning so I can no longer read his face. “I did abandon Lorenzo. But just like Emmanuel, I’m off-limits. Nobody would dare to touch me unless they wanted a fast-track ticket to death’s door.”

  I grab at the bed coverings, dragging them to my chest in a makeshift shield against his sterility. “People always dare. Aren’t you worried about the one in a million who’s willing to cross the line?”

  “No. I don’t like guns and I don’t need one. I don’t know what else to tell you.”

  I cling to the covers.

  The floodgates on information are going to be harder to open than I’d thought. “What about the suicide comment from Bishop? What did he mean?”

  He huffs a sigh. “He was being a dick.”

  “I don’t think so. He said it for a reason.”

  “He’s jealous.” He pushes from the bed, gloriously naked, his ass perfectly defined. “We worked hard to build a new life. One without violence. And then you came along.”

  “And I brought violence?” I follow him to my feet, standing tall at the edge of the bed. “I thought we weren’t lying to each other anymore?”

  His nostrils flare. Fingers twitch.

  “Matthew?”

  “Jesus Christ.” He shoves a hand through his hair. “He’s pissed, okay? Pissed at me. Not you.”

  “Why?”

  Muscles flicker under his stubbled jaw.

  “Why?” I demand.

  “Because he knows I’d give my life to make sure you don’t end up like Grace.”

  I straighten. Stiffen.

  “He knows I would die for you.” His eyes harden with the admission. “Either by Emmanuel’s actions or by going back to work for Lorenzo, and he fucking hates it. But if that’s the price I have to pay, so be it. I won’t lose you.”

  28

  Layla

  “Did you grow up in D.C?” I stare at Matthew sitting behind the wheel of our luxurious rental, his sunglasses hiding his eyes.

  “No. I moved there to start over.”

  “Once you stopped working for Lorenzo?”

  He nods, keeping his gaze on the road.

  Yesterday came and went in a blur of emotional overload. After the shooting, then the sex, we spent the rest of the day in a weird state of hesitant conversation.

  Although the embargo on information has been trampled, it’s clear we both find it hard to open up. I’d share a tidbit about my life, something insignificant and trivial, then he’d do the same.

  He told me he had good grades in school. Lost his virginity to Grace. Played football. And planned to buy another club next month in Philadelphia. But I still don’t really know his past, and the same has to be said for him with me.

  I haven’t told him why I hate the Costas. He hasn’t divulged the work he did for Lorenzo. Secrets still linger between us. The only thing we successfully achieved was a strengthened physical bond.

  We laid in bed for hours, naked and sweaty, doing with our bodies what we couldn’t with our minds.

  He touched me everywhere, learning every curve, committing all my sensitive spots to memory. And I did the same with him. We showered and ate, then repeated the loop all over again, adding glimpses of insight when quiet sank in, and contemplating the future when the truth became too hard.

  Full disclosure will take time. And until that happens, there’s chemistry to rely on.

  I can’t even look at him without tingling between my thighs.

  That mouth has tasted every part of me. Those strong fingers have delved into parts I never knew existed.

  This morning, we left the hotel without police intervention.

  As Lorenzo promised, nobody questioned us about the shooting. Hotel staff didn’t mention the events, either. The only telltale sign that anything happened were the contractors working on the damage.

  It was Matthew’s idea to arrange the rental car and drive to D.C. without Bishop as a third wheel. And I’ve spent the long hours on the road staring at my lover’s profile, our fingers entwined on the gearstick, my heart fully owned by a man I know wholeheartedly and don’t have the slightest understanding of at the same time.

  “You’re always checking your phone,” he murmurs. “Have you spoken to your brother about us yet?”

  I slide the cell under my leg and glance out the windscreen. “You know I haven’t.”

  “Will you tell me before you do? I’d like to know when I should be pulling the Kevlar from the dresser.”

  I whisper a laugh, but pain stabs through me.

  Cole won’t understand what I have with Matthew. Not even when he fell for someone equally problematic.

  “I’ll call him tomorrow and feed him whatever information necessary to keep him off my back. But I won’t be telling him about us for a while.”

  He squeezes my fingers, giving me support in the most subtle of ways.

  “I want to keep you to myself for a little longer.” I drag our entwined hands into my lap. “Is that okay?”

  “It’s not only okay, it’s a preference. We should figure ourselves out before anyone else gets involved.”

  Figuring ourselves out means full disclosure.

  That could take days. Maybe weeks.

  I’m not sure I can ignore my brother that long. I’ll try though.

  As it is, Cole calls three times on the journey back to D.C. and texts twice. But the only person I reply to is Stella. I check in to make sure she’s doing her homework and eating properly. Then I ask about her nightmares and the latest visit with her counselor, because here I am, living wild and free, while she continues to suffer for my mistakes.

  When we arrive at the penthouse, Matthew drags our suitcase into his bedroom, discarding it at the door to his walk-in robe before pulling me against his chest. “You’re quiet.”

  “I’m contemplative.” I paste on a smile. “There’s a lot to think about.”

  “And we still need to talk.” He guides an errant strand of hair behind my ear. “We should’ve done it in the car, but you’ve been so damn quiet. One word from me and I expect you to run.”

  “I don’t have my running shoes on.”

  He flashes a grin at my lame humor, the expression quickly fading. “When are we going to do this, amore mio?”

  I don’t know.

  I don’t want to start counting down the minutes before he starts to look at me with judgment for my role in the Costas’ actions instead of the constant admiration I’m used to.

  He knows what our world demands of us. He, more than normal people, will understand how low I stooped to help my father.

  “Tonight?” I hedge.

  His brows pull tight. “I have to work. There are loose ends from the shooting that I have to chase up.”

  “What loose ends?”

  “I haven’t heard from Lorenzo. I need to make sure everything is under control.”

  “You can’t do that here?” I don’t want to be alone tonight. Tomorrow, maybe. But n
ot now.

  “This isn’t like you.” His eyes narrow. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing.” I step back, pasting on a smile. “I just assumed you’d be home, that’s all. We can talk tomorrow.”

  I ignore the hollowness growing beneath my sternum.

  I already understand the types of things Matthew would’ve done for Lorenzo. The intimidation. The threats. The violence. We both have a past that’s unkind. But will my sins outweigh his? What I did was personal. In comparison, his brutality would’ve been sterile and strategic. A necessity instead of self-fulfilling.

  “You’re worried.” His attention doesn’t soften. He stares, reading me, his intense observation sinking under my skin.

  “I’m tired.”

  “Whose fault is that?” He grabs my wrist and drags me back into his chest. “You do nothing to discourage my hunger. But you’re also lying because you still don’t want to talk, do you?”

  I contemplate another lie.

  “What part of it is the problem?” He holds me close. “You don’t want to discuss your family or your connection to the Costas?”

  I don’t want to discuss any of it. Not one single part of my existence before he entered my life.

  I keep my mouth shut, unsure how to respond when his cell vibrates in his jacket.

  “Shit.” He releases me and pulls out the device. “It’s Lorenzo. I need to take this.”

  A hard kiss is plastered to my lips before he strides across the room, answering the call as he shoves open the balcony door to step outside. He greets his mentor in pristine Italian, the words turning to murmurs once he closes the door behind him.

  I watch him pace, the late afternoon sun gleaming in his dark hair, the glow kissing his tanned skin while I unpack the suitcase. Every minute of conversation adds a new notch to his stiffened posture. An increased hike to the confident set of his chin.

  When he walks back inside, the placating smile he gives me is pitiful. “I need to get to Trend earlier than anticipated.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Just loose ends.”

  “I thought you didn’t work for him anymore.”

  “I don’t,” he grates. “Lorenzo heard there was footage of the shooting. Someone uploaded it to social media. It’s already been taken down, but I want to make sure there isn’t a trace left behind.”

  My pulse kicks. “What kind of footage?”

  “A blurry twenty-second snapshot. It isn’t a big deal.”

  “You’re pacifying me.” I can see it in his eyes. He isn’t giving me the full story.

  “No, I’m not. It’s been taken down. It didn’t gain traction and wasn’t picked up by journalists.”

  “But we were in it, weren’t we? You can see our faces.” There’s evidence I was with my family’s competition when a shooting happened. “I need to call Cole.”

  “What you need to do is be rational. Involving him will only cause complications.” He walks up to me, gliding an arm around my waist. “Let me handle it. If things escalate, which they won’t, then you can call him.”

  “If word gets back to him—”

  “Word won’t get back. Lorenzo handled the cops. He’s had the video taken down. People don’t care about another drive-by shooting, especially when nobody got hurt. It’s not big news.” He leans in, his lips close to mine. “I just want to make sure it remains that way. Okay? It’s only a precaution.”

  I close my eyes, letting his mouth ease my concerns as he kisses me possessively.

  “I’ll be home late. I’ll try not to wake you.” He walks from the room, leaving me in a silent penthouse that grows more desolate by the hour.

  I order takeout for an early dinner. Shower. Stalk my phone.

  When night falls, I help myself to Matthew’s liquor cabinet to ease the constant simmer of apprehension.

  I text him for an update before I go to bed. He placates me immediately, pretending everything is peachy when I’m certain nothing could be further from the truth.

  But when he arrives home after midnight, his naked body finding mine under the covers, the reconnection of our bodies makes the worries disappear.

  We make love in the dark. Slow. Silent. Sensual. There’s only heated eye contact through the shadows and possessive touches beneath the sheets.

  I don’t question the new depth of our passion, or how it feels like we’re both clinging to something destined to end.

  I fall back asleep with his body spooned behind mine like a perfect puzzle piece, his lips on my shoulder, his arm around my waist.

  The mattress doesn’t jostle again until the morning sun beams around the edge of the drapes.

  “Matthew?” I roll toward his side of the bed, finding him already dressed in another impeccable suit as he kneels to tie his shoes near the door.

  “I didn’t mean to wake you.” His focus remains on his laces. “I’m going to walk to the cafe on the corner and get breakfast.”

  “I’ll come.” I fling back the sheet.

  “No.” He stands with a frown, still not meeting my gaze as he fixes his lapels. “I’ve got calls to make. Stay here until I get back.”

  There’s no offer of clarification. No apology. Just dictatorship that doesn’t have the same appeal as it does when spoken sexually.

  “Is everything all right?” I cling to the sheets, wanting to give him space while instinct demands I pry. “Has something happened?”

  “We’ll talk when I get back.” His gaze finally meets mine. “It’s time we laid everything on the table.”

  He doesn’t glance at me with admiration. Doesn’t rake his attention over my body with his usual predatory hunger. He barely registers me at all before he pulls his cell from his jacket pocket to concentrate on the device. “I won’t be long.”

  “Wait.” I push to my feet, dragging the sheet along with me. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  “I’m paranoid,” he grates. “Word has spread about the shooting, and I want the two of us to be straight with each other before the world starts firing complications our way.”

  “The world or my brother?”

  “Either. Both. It doesn’t matter.” His jaw ticks. “Yesterday we said no lies and no secrets. We need to start living up to that promise.”

  There’s more to his change in demeanor. Something that sits heavy on my chest. Has he already figured out what the Costas have done to me? To Stella?

  “Okay.” I nod, my throat drying. “We’ll talk.”

  “Good.” He strides for the hall with no kiss in farewell, no heated promises. “Bishop will be here soon. You might want to get dressed before he arrives.”

  “Why is he coming?” I ask the empty doorway.

  “I’ll explain when I get back.”

  His footsteps don’t pause along the hall. They grow distant, the front door slapping closed moments later.

  I’m tempted to spy on him from the balcony. Just for the slightest hint of understanding at his temperamental mood. But I shower instead, quickly scrubbing the remnants of last night’s eroticism from my body while wondering if I’m doing it for the last time.

  It can’t be more than ten minutes later, when I’m drying myself in front of the wall-to-wall mirror, that a knock sounds at the front door. My stomach twists.

  I don’t want Bishop here. Not for this.

  I refuse to discuss my daughter’s abduction in front of his smug face.

  “Hold on a sec.” I pad into Matthew’s bedroom and steal his robe from the chair in the corner, shoving my arms through the silk as I continue down the hall. “I’m coming.”

  The knock sounds again when I reach the living room, my feet slapping against the cold tiles. “Have a little patience.”

  I reach the entry and check the peephole, holding out hope it’s Matthew with arms full of food. Only the shoulder of the shadowed suit I glimpse isn’t his. The size and shape are too damn familiar to Bishop’s frame.

  “I’m here.” I f
ight with the dead bolt, then twist the handle.

  When I fling the heavy wood wide, it’s not Bishop who swings around to face me.

  The man standing in the dimly lit hall turns my way in a tailored suit, dark thick stubble hugging a tight jawline, his posture holding an air of bulletproof confidence.

  He says something. Asks something. Yet the words don’t register. Nothing sinks past the panic rendering me speechless.

  It’s Remy Costa—Emmanuel’s youngest son.

  My heart sprints, my veins flooding with adrenaline.

  They did find the cyanide. They found me, too.

  Is that why Matthew was on edge?

  “Did you hear me, sugar?” He smirks, his gaze raking up and down my body.

  Our first meeting wasn’t meant to be like this. It was supposed to be planned. Strategic. Powerful. Being a few sharp breaths away from hyperventilating wasn’t in the manifesto.

  I white-knuckle the handle to slam the door closed only for the momentum to stop as he lunges forward to shove his hands against the wood.

  “Whoa, there. I didn’t expect a welcome party, but this is a bit dramatic, don’t you think?” He shoves harder against the barrier between us, overpowering me. “Where is he?”

  “Where is who?” I shake my head, my voice hoarse.

  He stalks forward, nudging me out of the way to continue into the living room. “Nice try. But he sent me a colorful text a few minutes ago, so I know he’s awake.”

  My pulse stutters, ricocheting through my chest with the force of jagged shrapnel. “You’re in contact with Matthew?”

  He stops in the middle of the open area and swings around to face me, continuing to walk backward into the penthouse. “Look, there’s no need to freak out. I’ll do you a solid and make sure he doesn’t blame you for letting me in. Okay?”

  I drag in a ragged breath, realizing the extent of what I’ve done. Not only am I face-to-face with my enemy while completely unprepared, I’ve also let the son of the man who murdered Grace into Matthew’s home.

  “Get out.” Venom enters my voice. “Get the fuck out.”

  “Not going to happen.” He swings toward the hall leading to the bedrooms. “Dante, where are you?”