by Eden Summers
The name snaps me rigid, every ounce of blood in my body siphoning to my feet.
The asshole shoots a glance over his shoulder, levelling me with a demeaning smirk. “Sorry, you referred to him as someone else, didn’t you? What name is my brother going by these days?”
I turn cold. Blood. Heart. Breath. “You’ve got the wrong apartment.”
This has to be a mistake.
A coincidence.
Dante Costa must live in this building. Matthew has to be watching him, too.
I inch toward the kitchen, destined for the knife block calling to me from the middle of the counter.
“Dante,” he raises his voice. “Get out here.”
“Leave.” My tone sounds like a beg as I reach the marble counter, my ears thunderous with my frantic pulse. “Before I call the police.”
I’m ignored. Entirely dismissed as he strolls toward the dining table, picking up last week’s mail. “Matthew Langston.” The name rolls off his tongue with heavy criticism. “I guess it’s no surprise he chose a variant of his middle name. He never liked Mateo.” He swings back to face me. “So where…”
His question falls short as I slide the knife from the wooden block, his gaze narrowing on the sharp blade. “Planning on stabbing me, sugar?”
“I plan on doing whatever necessary to get you out of here.” I cinch the robe tighter around my middle with my free hand, my nakedness beneath the silk making me feel far too vulnerable.
“How long has he been playing you?” His expression turns into mock sympathy.
Black dots assail my vision.
Matthew isn’t playing me. He can’t be. Not for weeks. Not after he demanded my honesty.
I would’ve sensed the treachery. Felt the deceit.
Wouldn’t I?
“Get out.” I thrust the knife toward the entry. “Now.”
“Damn.” His brows rise. “He’s been doing this for a while, hasn’t he? You poor, sweet thing.”
His derision undoes me, unraveling the binds of loyalty that tie me to the man I’d fallen for.
“Dante,” he calls toward the hall. “Get the fuck out here.”
“He’s not here,” I scream. “It’s just me. And if you dare to do anything to me, I swear my family will return the favor tenfold.”
“Dare to do to you?” He frowns. “Why the fuck would I want to do anything to you?” He looks me up and down again, the frown deepening. “For starters, you’re out of my usual age bracket. No offence. And I’d never lower myself to stick my dick where my brother has already been. Especially if that brother is Dante.”
He doesn’t know who I am?
I cling tighter to the knife, my palm beginning to sweat.
This son of a bitch doesn’t recognize me? He dared abduct my daughter. Was vicious enough to participate in the death of my husband. But didn’t bother to learn the faces of the lives he’d torn apart?
Fuck him.
“Look, I’m sorry he’s been playing games.” He crosses his arms over his chest with a look of chagrin. “But I need to speak to him about the shooting. I assume you were the one with him.”
No.
I shake my head, refusing to understand the reality taking shape around me.
“I get that you’re pissed.” He ignores the knife as if it doesn’t exist. “But don’t women usually snoop for shit like this? Aren’t those tactics in your DNA?”
My DNA is currently made up of rage and ruin. Devastation and destruction.
And I had snooped.
I’d checked the mail minutes after first walking into the penthouse. I spoke to people Matthew works with. People he knows. Not a single soul addressed him as anything other than the name he gave me. Not helicopter pilots. Not waitresses. Not one single motherfucker on the face of the Earth.
I’d also done a thorough check on his clubs. All are owned by Matthew Langston. All of them legitimately structured without shell companies or dodgy dealings.
There’d been no indication. No inkling I’d been played the entire time my heart and soul had succumbed.
“Obviously his bills aren’t anything to go by.” Remy shrugs. “But surely you would’ve thought to go through his wallet. Or his drawers. He’d have something lying around.”
He’s right.
If Matthew isn’t who he says he is, there has to be evidence.
I drop the knife, the metal clinking against the marble as violence floods my veins. I reach for the nearest drawer, scavenging for anything to ease the sickness in my stomach.
I go through cupboards, below the marble counter and above. I search for anything with a name on it. With a hint. With a clue. And come up empty.
“Maybe try the bedroom,” Remy drawls. “Go on. I’ll wait.”
I glare and snatch for the knife.
Admissions bubble in my chest. The confessions of where I plan to drive my blade and why, all begging to be heard.
I could kill him and claim self-defense. But the pain of possible betrayal by a man I love punishes me far more than my need to decimate Remy Costa.
I trek his every move while I stalk across the room. Then keep one eye on my back as I enter the hall.
When I reach the bedroom, where pleasure and bliss had been awakened after years of drought, I pause, hating myself with or without evidence.
If Remy’s claims are true, I’ll never recover.
There’s no going back from this type of mistake. Not after the ones I’ve already made.
God, please don’t let it be true.
I step inside, slam the door behind me, throw the knife to the bed, and fall to my knees at the closest bedside table.
I yank the top drawer from its holding and dump the contents on the carpet.
There are coins and buttons. Receipts and innocuous tidbits, too.
Normal things. Innocent things.
I pull out the second and the third drawer. Socks and underwear fall to the floor. Stupid typical items that deny me the proof of Remy’s claims.
I scan under the bed. Nothing.
I scramble to the adjoining bathroom, checking the cupboards and drawers to no avail.
I run for his wardrobe, shoving aside hanging shirts. Kicking away shoes. Throwing and heaving sweaters. I move from one row of shelves to the next, yanking everything from its neatly folded place. The jeans. The gym tanks.
Row after row.
Shelf after shelf.
I don’t stop until a pile of clothes lay strewn on the floor. Then I climb, reaching for the stack of blankets lying dormant on the top ledge. They sail through the air behind me, one after another until my fingers no longer feel material and instead skim cardboard.
I stretch higher, struggling on the tips of my toes, my robe gaping, my sanity failing.
My fingertips brush the corner of a box and I hold my breath as I strain to inch it into sight. Shift by incremental shift, I edge it toward me, my arms straining over my head, my body aching from the uncomfortable pull of muscle.
Once it’s close enough, I wiggle it, the light weight sliding onto my palm. I descend, dragging it with me until one foot slips its perch on the shelf and I jostle to remain upright.
I lose my hold on the shoe box, the lid slipping free before the items inside topple to the pile of clothes on the floor.
“Shit.” I jump down, determined to find what I’m looking for when my gaze catches hold of the contents scattered before me.
My pulse thunders in my ears. My throat. My stomach.
I feel it everywhere, the booming beat pounding through every inch of me.
But it’s not evidence of Remy’s accusation that litters the carpet around me.
It’s worse.
My ID.
My credit cards.
My lipstick and pens and hair ties.
All the things that had been in my purse when I’d been mugged in Denver. Even the small vial of cyanide.
29
Matthew
I juggle t
o hold the tray of takeaway coffee cups and the oversized bag of food as I shove into the penthouse. “I’m back.”
I should’ve stayed outside longer. Should’ve taken more time to chill the fuck out and strategize my next move. But Layla had already been suspicious when I left, her eyes reading the mood I couldn’t hide.
I kick the door closed behind me and start for the kitchen, stopping dead in my tracks at the sight of the asshole sitting on my sofa, one leg crossed over his knee in relaxation, his arms spread along the headrest.
Fuck.
I scan the room, looking for her, praying she fell back asleep while he somehow broke inside.
“Where is she?” I force calm as I continue to the counter, dumping my haul from the cafe.
He raises a brow, smug. “You mean the woman you’ve been playing?” He jerks his head back toward the hall. “I assume it’s your bedroom she escaped into, Matthew.”
I snarl, my worst fears realized, but it’s his choice of words that give me pause.
He doesn’t use her name. Doesn’t address her as if they have history.
Why?
“I sincerely apologize for ruining the fun.” His voice drips with sarcasm. “If I’d known you were pretending to be someone else I wouldn’t have used your real name.”
“Matthew is my real name.” I stalk across the room, needing to get eyes on her.
“Matthew is who you wish you were. Unfortunately, you’ll never be anyone other than Dante to those who know you best.”
Anger stabs through my skull, blinding in its efficiency.
I stop my progression to the hall, unable to escape the rage fighting for control.
“What is it, brother?” Remy drawls. “Does the truth hurt?”
One second, I’m determined to find Layla. The next, I’m cocking my fist as I reach the sofa and launch my knuckles at his face.
My punch connects with his chin, the impact screaming through my bones.
I launch again and again, pounding, pummeling. Seeing blood and tasting fraudulent victory.
But he’s already won. I know he’s ruined everything as he uses both feet to kick me backward, sending me tumbling over the coffee table, my head hitting the tiles.
“That was a fucking cheap shot.” He shoves to his feet to tower above me, that smug expression now wiped from his face. “You may be older than me, but I’m no longer a kid you can push around.”
I shove to my elbows, then rise to stand in front of him. “I bet you’re still your daddy’s little snitch, though, riding his dirty coattails all the way to the bank.”
His eyes flare. Nostrils, too.
I tense for retaliation and don’t have to wait long for his fist to swing for my face.
I block the strike with my forearm. It’s the swift kick to my ankle I don’t expect. I stumble sideways, grabbing his shoulders in the process, then punch him in the gut.
We grapple and shove. Swing and charge.
I ram him into the sofa. He pummels my head with his knuckles.
The little fucker is right. He isn’t easily pushed around anymore. It takes a good two minutes to pin him beneath me before I grab him in a choke hold.
“I told you not to come here.” I spit blood to the tiles.
“And I told you we needed to talk.” He bares his teeth, the vicious smile covered in crimson.
“It’s been fifteen years.” I add pressure to his throat, clamping down on his carotid. “There’s nothing we could possibly discuss.”
“You were fucking shot at. Excuse me for caring.”
Caring?
My hold loosens without my consent, my intuition searching for the real reason he’s entered my life after more than a decade apart.
The swoosh of an opening door steals my attention. Footsteps patter toward us.
I raise my gaze to the hall, finding Layla standing there in my thin silk robe, knife in hand, face pale, eyes wild.
I release Remy and scramble to my feet. “Let me explain.”
She storms toward me, blade raised in threat, while her other hand reaches into the robe pocket. “Explain this.” She throws something at me, the small projectile hitting my chest before ricocheting to the floor. “And this.” She grabs something else, throwing that, too.
I drag my gaze from the pain I created, the anger I deserve, and take in the items she continues to launch at me.
Lipstick.
Concealer.
A packet of tissues.
“Explain, you fucking son of a bitch.” She holds up her ID. “How did you get this?”
I close my eyes, stealing the briefest second of respite from her suffering before I return my gaze to hers. “It’s not what you think. I didn’t—”
“You didn’t what?” Her eyes spark like the devil. “You didn’t play me from the moment we met, Dante?”
I clench my fists, wanting to slaughter Remy for what he’s caused.
“Oh, shit.” The fucker snickers. “The cat’s really out of the bag.”
“Listen to me.” I step closer, needing her to understand. To think clearly. “This is what I wanted to discuss.” I grab her wrist, hoping touch will help her remember our connection.
“Let me go.” She fights my hold. Twisting. Tugging.
Fuck.
I loosen my grip.
She yanks to free herself, her hand sliding through mine. The ID gets caught as she tussles, falling to the floor.
“Goddamnit.” She stabs the knife toward my face with a glare and bends to pick it up.
Remy’s closer. He rolls onto his stomach and snatches at the flimsy plastic.
“No,” she warns. “Don’t.”
I step between them, ignoring her weapon, willing to endure a stab wound if it means keeping that prick away from her.
“Stop.” She barges into me.
“Layla Hart… Portland, Oregon,” he murmurs to himself. “Why do I feel like I should recognize that name?”
I’d like to know, too.
“Give it back,” she screams. “Now.”
For weeks, Bishop has attempted to discover the connection between them, every turn coming up empty. There was no lead toward a romantic relationship with either of my brothers. No evidence of business ties, either.
“Layla Hart,” Remy repeats, his scrutinizing gaze rising to her as he lumbers to his feet. “Layla from Portland, Oregon.”
She stiffens. Swallows.
“Jesus Christ. You’re a Torian.” He stalks forward, his shoulders straightening in menace. “You fucking bitch.”
“I’m a fucking bitch?” She lunges forward with the knife. “How dare you?”
I turn my back toward her blade, certain she wants to embed it between my ribs, and shove at Remy’s shoulders. “Get the fuck away from her.”
He glowers at me, then her, his fury finally settling on my face. “How could you be with her after what she’s done?”
“What I’ve done?” she screeches. “What I’ve done?”
“Tell me what this is about.” I shove him again. “How do you two know each other?”
“It’s none of your business.” Layla attempts to move around me, the knife slicing the air.
“As if you don’t know.” Remy’s eyes narrow, then he scoffs a laugh. “Or do you really not know?”
“Know what, asshole?”
“Don’t,” Layla snaps.
“You’re fucking her.” Remy laughs with spite. “And you have no clue?”
Pressure bears down on my chest, punishing me.
“Stop it.” This time her request is a plea.
“Looks like she wasn’t the only one being played.” His eyes gleam. “This bitch is using you to get to us.”
“She isn’t using me. I’ve known of her hatred all along. I just haven’t known why.”
“Well, brother, let me provide you with the insight—”
Layla charges around me, slashing the knife toward him. “I’ll kill you.”
S
hit.
I grab her around the waist, hauling her off the ground, the robe gaping, the knife slicing.
“Will you kill me like we killed your husband?” Remy smirks.
Fuck. Me.
I hold her tighter, feeling the second his words make an impact. She stops fighting, her inhales vicious as she pants, the slightest whimper accompanying each breath.
“We abducted her daughter, too.” He meets my gaze. “It was two years ago, but as you can see, our family made a lasting impression.”
She screams, reinvigorating her fight, kicking, thrashing.
“Stop it,” I snarl in her ear, ready to kill him myself. “Calm the fuck down.”
She doesn’t listen. Doesn’t settle. She’s all rage and pain and frenzy.
“Nice tits,” he adds, focusing on the space where the robe gapes across her chest.
“Shut your fucking mouth.” I swing her toward the hall, dumping her on her feet at the start of the carpet. “Get back in the bedroom,” I demand of her, seconds away from reverting to the man I promised myself was dead and buried.
The past reignites in my veins.
The dark savagery begs to be freed.
“Go to hell.” She stumbles away, then turns on me, her knife held at the ready.
“Now, Layla,” I warn. “I need to speak to him alone.”
“Listen to him, bitch,” Remy sneers. “Because if I get my hands on you before he does, it’s going to take more than a knife to save your life.”
I fight against the animalistic need to defend her. To lash out and strike him down for daring to even glare in her direction.
“Go,” I grate through clenched teeth. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
“Fuck you.” She straightens to her full height, her chin regally high, her shoulders broad. “You’ll pay for this.” She backtracks toward the bedroom. “You’ll wish we’d never met.”
I’ve already had many of those moments. Too many times to count where I regretted getting involved—for her sake, not mine.
“Go.” I stare her down.
She sucks in a strangled breath, belying her strength, and it fucking kills me.
If only we’d cleared the air sooner.
She retreats into the bedroom, slamming the door in her wake, the deafening vibration crashing through the entire penthouse as I stand staring into the darkened hall.
