by Eden Summers
My mouth opens in protest. My heart races.
Is that what Cole had been hiding the last time I was home? Had he instigated war without warning me?
Jesus.
I force my chin high. “Turns out we both had secrets that could hurt the other.”
His gaze assaults me, scrutinizing, a cruel smile curving his lips. “You didn’t know.” He scoffs a laugh. “Your fucking brother didn’t have the sense to tell you.”
“Jesus Christ,” Bishop mutters. “She’s clueless.”
My fingers twist in my lap, my loathing skyrocketing.
Matthew stands taller. “That settles it then. You’re staying with me until this is sorted.”
“That settles it?” I dig my nails into my palms. “How does that settle anything?”
“You still want to run home to a brother who put you in danger?”
Cole’s frantic texts make more sense now. How he wouldn’t quit demanding to know my whereabouts and who I was with. If only he’d told me what was going on.
“You hate your brother,” Matthew states.
“No, I don’t.”
I despise him at times. Am sickened and beside myself with fury occasionally. But I’ve never hated him. Instead, it will be Cole who detests me for the complications I’ve created.
“No? He treats you like shit. Are you really in a hurry to get back to that?”
“As if you’ve treated me any bett—”
“I’ve treated you like a queen. Like my queen. Cole’s actions are the reason you found it so fucking easy to move in with a stranger.”
My stomach twists, the pain spreading.
“You don’t want to return to Portland, Layla.” He gentles his tone. “Once we sort out our differences, you’ll want to stay here.”
“Of course,” I drawl. “I’d much prefer to remain with someone who makes it their job to hide the truth. You even had the balls to introduce Lorenzo as your mentor.”
“He is my mentor.”
“He’s your uncle.”
He inclines his head. “He’s that, too.”
I growl in frustration, my nails embedded in my palms. I need to hurt him like he’s hurting me, but shooting or stabbing would never be enough. I have to reach inside his chest and wring the life from his beating heart, just like he’s done to mine.
I cut my gaze away, unable to withstand those deep, dark eyes anymore, and whisper, “My brother will kill you.”
“In that case, I better make the most of our time together.” He places the ice pack on the marble and rounds the counter. “Bishop, can you give us a minute?”
“Need me to do anything?” Bishop pushes from the wall, his arms falling to his sides.
“Call the charter. Have a jet placed on standby.”
“Destination?”
“To be determined.”
I keep my face cast in the opposite direction as Bishop strides for the entry, the front door closing seconds later.
The tension increases tenfold. My suffering, too.
I wish I still had the knife. Death by cyanide won’t be gruesome enough.
“Layla, listen to me.” Matthew hobbles closer. “Everything between us is real—I promise you that. But I understand I hurt you.” He reaches the sofa and continues to hesitantly sit on the coffee table before me. Knee to knee. “If it’s any solace, I can assure you my balls ache like a motherfucker.”
I keep my mouth shut, not finding solace at all.
The quiet stretches, his gaze haunting my periphery, his body entirely too close.
“The silent treatment isn’t an option either, amore mio. You’re going to have to find a way to push your animosity aside. Remy may have already told Emmanuel about us.”
I snap my head around to glare at him, wordlessly letting him know there is no us.
“Do you understand what’s happening?” His gaze leisurely rakes mine. Unfazed. In command. “Your brother’s shooting would be considered retaliation. An attempt at murder in response to your husband’s death. But this?” He waves a lazy hand between us. “This is personal. Depending on what information Remy shares, you might be held accountable for taking things further. For you, personally, levelling up the war all on your own.”
My throat turns dry.
“I don’t know if they have men in D.C.,” he continues, “or if Emmanuel is capable of arranging retaliation from his hospital bed. But do you want to risk leaving here and finding out how quickly they can strike a helpless woman on her own?”
“I’m not helpless,” I snarl.
“No?” He sinks to his knees before me, the show of submission in conflict with the sickening severity in his eyes. “Do you really think you can protect yourself?” He places his hands on my knees, the heat of his palms seeping through my jeans. “That you’d stand a chance?”
“Don’t touch me.” My voice shakes with the demand. With the disgusting thrill his contact provides.
He slides his fingers farther along my thighs and leans against my shins. “You’re in danger, Layla.”
I know. And not only from Emmanuel.
The man before me is my biggest threat.
His touch is impending doom. His gaze promises suffering of the most wicked kind.
“Get. Your hands. Off me.” I enunciate the words slowly. Violently.
“Admit it,” he murmurs. “You still want to fuck me.”
I raise a hand to slap him only to have my wrist captured in a vise grip. I try with the other and he steals that, too, dragging me forward by my forearms until we’re face-to-face, our breath mingling.
“What we have is real whether you like it or not,” he snarls against my lips. “I can see it in your eyes. You’re still hungry for me.”
“I’m hungry for blood.” I struggle to free my wrists, wriggling, tugging, hating not only the hold he has on my arms, but the one he has on my heart. “You’re going to regret what you’ve done.”
“No, I won’t. Because what I did brought us together.”
His confidence sparks insanity. I thrash, scream, attempt to kick at his thighs.
“Enough.” He stands, dragging my arms above my head. “Want me to prove how much you want me?” He swings me sideways, stretching me across the sofa.
I buck and twist and struggle, fighting and fighting while he climbs on top of me.
“No,” I scream. “Don’t you fucking dare.”
I stop breathing, stop moving as the heavy weight of him sinks against my hips, my hands trapped above my head, his eyes never leaving mine.
I hate this.
I hate him.
But he’s right. I want him, too.
I need him. Crave him. Can’t stop my nerves tingling from the lust-drunk memories of what it means for our bodies to be joined.
And his dick—oh, God—is erect, hard and adamant against my pubic bone, sending me into a world of tingles.
I despise him. I love him. I loathe him. I’m lost.
He leans in, attempting to kiss me, my mouth watering in response.
“Don’t.” I turn my face away, not willing to capitulate. I’m stronger than this.
“Amore mio,” he murmurs against my cheek. “You’re all that matters to me.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing down the pained cry that demands to be heard.
He nuzzles my jaw, my neck, his lips leaving gentle kisses along my carotid. “I will earn your trust.”
“Impossible,” I whisper. “I’ll never believe a word you say.”
The kisses stop. The nuzzling, too.
“We will see.” He rests his forehead against my shoulder, a defeated sigh brushing my ear. “But for now, you need to stay with me.”
“No.”
“Think of Stella. Think of what they’ll do to her.”
My fragile pulse becomes frantic. “She’s safe.”
Nobody knows where she is. Who she is. Stella was enrolled in boarding school under a different surname, her tuition paid from
an account that has no correlation to my family.
“Are you willing to stake her life on that? Because I’m not.” He shifts on top of me, pulling back until I meet his gaze. “You don’t know enough about my past. Or what I mean to Emmanuel. I may be estranged, but that bastard will always consider me his successor. I’m his golden child. Your presence in my life won’t be ignored.”
“Which means I should get as far away from you as possible.”
“Distance won’t matter. He’ll find you. He won’t stop looking—not when his hatred for you will be more than what he holds for your brother. You infiltrated his family. You targeted a son who wasn’t involved.”
Goddamnit.
What have I done?
What has he done?
“This is your fault.” I wiggle beneath him, only endeavoring to tease my pussy against his shaft. “You did this.”
“So let me fix it.”
“How?”
The front door opens with a whoosh of air, footsteps following straight after.
I scramble, reigniting my fight to get this bastard off me. Unwilling to be seen as a victim. Especially a sexual one.
“Get off.” I buck. “Now.”
Matthew growls and releases my wrists, removing his weight from my body. “Have breakfast, amore mio. We leave for Denver in ten minutes.”
32
Matthew
Her eyes flash in fear at the mention of Denver. But she doesn’t protest. Instead, she sits up, straightening to her full height to accept her fate.
She doesn’t argue about leaving her suitcase in the penthouse.
Doesn’t fight getting on the jet.
She comes of her own volition, taking the lone seat on the far side of the aisle while I sit across the polished compact table from Bishop, scrutinizing her.
“I don’t have a good feeling about this.” He taps his fingers against the arm of his chair. “I’m assuming you have a plan.”
“I do.”
He raises a brow, waiting for clarification while I attempt to figure out why Layla came so willingly. Why didn’t I have to drag her alongside me, kicking and screaming?
“Well?” Bishop asks. “Do you mind telling me what it is, seeing as though I’m following you into the lion’s den?”
“Emmanuel is no lion.” I return my attention to the only friend I’ve had in ten years. The only man I’ve trusted apart from my uncle. “He’s a fucking hyena. An opportunistic scavenger and a coward. But the strategy is simple. I’m going to talk to him and get him to leave Layla and her daughter out of the war with her brother.”
He raises a brow. “Talk to him?”
“Yes. Talk.” I grind my teeth, hating the vow that keeps Emmanuel alive. “I won’t betray Lorenzo.”
“Do you plan on taking her with you?”
“Yes.” I can’t do this any other way. The man who spawned me won’t have her killed if I’m standing in the line of fire.
At least, he never would’ve in the past.
Emmanuel Costa has, and probably always will, see me as the one rightfully meant to take over the family business even though I walked away.
There’s a reason that fucker hasn’t retired despite the money piled in his bank, and I’m sure it has everything to do with him still wanting me at the helm.
Problem is, it’s risky to assume he hasn’t changed.
I don’t know him anymore.
Before today, I’d tried to kid myself about the lengths he would go to for success. For power. I’d prayed for the sake of my siblings that the rumors of blood on their hands hadn’t been true. But today, Remy alerted me to a callousness I’d been oblivious to. One Layla had painstakingly survived and her family kept hidden.
Emmanuel is more inhuman than I wanted to believe. More sick and twisted.
That’s where I get it from.
But as long as I stand between her and his vengeance, she’ll survive.
She has to.
Bishop clears his throat, subtly regaining my attention. “You’re going to take her right to your father’s door?”
The description punctures my chest, wielding a vicious blow.
I slam my fist against the table and glare. “He’s not my father.”
Layla startles in my periphery, her fear punching me with guilt.
“Biology disagrees,” she snips under her breath, settling back into her haughty posture of hostility, bratty even in the face of what’s to come.
“My apologies.” Bishop lowers his voice, the deep rumble of the jet giving us a modicum of privacy from her prying ears. “Are you sure you want to drag her into the heart of this? You’re not worried they’ll slit her throat in front of you?”
“Remy and Salvatore wouldn’t dare. And Emmanuel is supposed to be laid flat from complications of a bullet wound.”
“That part could be a trap. Nobody has heard a word about his injury.”
“Nobody heard a word about him abducting Cole fucking Torian’s niece and killing his brother-in-law either,” I snarl.
“True. But still…”
He’s right. This could be a setup. Emmanuel might have concocted the entire plan—a fake instigation of war, a pretend vulnerability.
Layla knew nothing about Emmanuel being targeted. Lorenzo hasn’t said a word about his brother-in-law being shot.
The fucker might have even paid the Virginia Beach gangbangers to do the hotel drive-by so Remy had an excuse to find me after all these years and claim to give a shit about my well-being.
“If they attempt to harm her in any way, I’ll break the vow to my uncle without a thought.” It’s a pledge. A fucking promise. “And if you’re forced to do the same, I’ll pay the price. I’ll take the blame.”
“Neither one of us are going back to that life. Not now. Not when—”
“I’ll deal with it,” I grate. “I just need to know you’ll protect her if I can’t.” I hold his gaze, conveying the importance of what I’m about to say with a hard look. “I have no right to ask you to guard her with your life, but—”
“Consider it done.” His face tightens, obligation and loyalty staring back at me.
“You know you don’t owe me. You don’t need to be here. Whatever happened in the past has been repaid over the years—”
“I haven’t paid for shit. My debt is still owed. And even if it wasn’t, I’d be here. I have your back. I’ll protect her.” He drags his gaze away to stare out the window.
If I wasn’t a selfish prick, I’d force him to walk. To get the fuck away from all of this.
Too bad I’m the most self-centered bastard he’s ever met.
I can’t risk losing her.
Not to a family I despise or because of the deceit I spun.
She’s mine. Has been from the night we met.
I show my appreciation with a nod, and retrieve folded pieces of paper from my jacket pocket. “These are the house plans for the property. I need you to commit them to memory.”
I slide the pages across the table and wait in silence as he scans the mansion, his concentration heavy as he frowns his way along the multitude of halls and rooms on the multi-level building.
“It’s fucking big.”
“I’ve heard that a time or two,” I drawl. “But it could potentially be bigger. These plans are what I had drawn up after I left Denver. God knows what renovations have been done since.”
He swipes a hand over his mouth as he continues to scan the pages, his focus gradually tracking from one side to the other, over and over until finally, he slides the architectural drawings back toward me. “How many men should we expect to be guarding the property?”
“I don’t know.” The admission annoys me. Weakens. “Emmanuel used to be protective of his solitude, so best-case scenario—none. Worst? God only knows.”
“And you don’t want to bring some of our own?”
“I’ve already made the arrangements. De Marco and two of his team will be waiting. But this is
n’t a show of force. It’s a negotiation. A conversation.”
He relaxes back into his seat, unconvinced. “Should I be worried about you reverting to your old ways while holding said conversation?”
The question stings. “I don’t know.”
He nods, unfazed by the complication. “I’ve got one last question, then I’m done.” I brace for impact as he turns his attention to Layla, his eyes callously narrowing. “We protect her with our lives—that much is clear. But who the fuck protects them from her? She’s out for blood just as much as they are.”
“You don’t.” She tilts her head to face us. “You stay out of my way, because I’m more than happy to take you down at the same time.”
Normally, I’d admire her strength. But now, instead of pride, I’m agitated by her tenacity. If she’s here for a misguided chance at revenge, she could get us all killed.
“See?” Bishop drawls. “She’s fucking crazy.”
“She wouldn’t be stupid enough to make a move.” I hold her gaze. “Would you, amore mio?”
Her eyes harden.
“This isn’t a game, Layla. We can’t risk messing this up.”
She rolls her eyes and returns her focus out the jet window, her arms clamping over her chest. But there’s something else I see in her expression before she hides her face from me. Something I hope isn’t pained resignation.
She can’t be willing to give her life to end those of the Costas. Can she?
Fuck.
The rest of the flight is spent relaying tactics for different scenarios, none of which are likely to come true. We land in Denver below a clear blue sky, the fall breeze rushing into the cabin with an icy edge of warning as soon as the door opens.
Bishop is the first to make for the aisle with Layla following.
“Wait.” I push from my seat.
She doesn’t listen.
“Layla, I said wait.” I start after her, lunging forward to grab her arm. “We have to talk. As much as I understand your enthusiasm for destruction, you need to be on your best behavior.”
She swings around to face me, yanking her arm from my grip. “No, I need to do what’s best for my family.”
Her brattiness chafes. The resolute conviction, too.
