by Eden Summers
I’d love to splay her over my knees and belt her ass. “You’re letting your anger at me cloud your judgment. You know full well you’ll get yourself killed if you start shit today.”
She makes an exaggerated attempt to bat her lashes and pout her bottom lip. “But you said you’d protect me.”
“I can only do so much,” I growl.
“Well, you should’ve thought about that before you brought me here.” She turns for the door.
“So you’re happy to make your daughter an orphan?”
She swings back around so violently, I stiffen on instinct. “I’m going to save my daughter. I’m going to take advantage of this opportunity and do whatever it takes to make sure your family doesn’t get anywhere near her. Now and in the future.”
“Layla—”
“Don’t Layla me.” She holds my gaze, her big blue eyes cutting to my ashen heart. “Don’t look at me in pity or reprimand. You have no right to do that anymore. You wanted me here, so I’m here—”
“I wanted you here because by my side is the safest place to be.”
“No, you did it to control me. To confine me. And I didn’t protest because it works in my favor. If I don’t end this, at least I’ll gain information.”
“You won’t end it, amore mio.”
“Oh ye of little faith.”
I itch to shake some sense into her. To kiss it. Fuck it.
“Let me call my brother.” There’s more demand in her voice than request. “Give me the chance to explain what’s going on. To warn him, for Stella’s sake.”
“Soon.”
She squares her shoulders, her throat working over a swallow. “Please.” Her forehead creases as if the taste of surrender is vile on her tongue. “I waited until we arrived to ask so you’d know there was nothing he could do to interfere. But if this is…” Her brows pinch, her eyes gaining a gleam of vulnerability.
“If this is what?”
“The end.” She regains her composure, the words snapped with a retreating step. “If I don’t make it home, I need to have spoken to my family first.”
She undoes me. Fucking kills me.
“You’ll speak to them again, my love. I can promise you that.”
She smiles, vindictive and cruel, yet still so fucking inviting. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Dante. However, despite your extremely comforting reassurance, I want that phone call. Now.”
My hackles rise at the name. But I understand the reason for the barb.
Amore mio, she can reluctantly stomach. My love, she can’t.
“One phone call right now.” She crosses her arms over her chest, plumping her breasts beneath the thin blouse. “You owe me that much.”
I owe her everything. I’ll give it to her, too. Just not yet.
I step toward her, my predatory side enjoying her continued retreat a little more than I care to admit as we make our way down the slim aisle, neither one of us stopping until her back bumps into the cockpit door.
She steels herself as I close in. Squares her shoulders. Clenches her teeth.
My limbs thrum with the desire to connect. To command. To fist her fucking hair and drag her forward until our lips mash and tongues tangle.
She wants it, too. I can tell by the way her gaze darts to my mouth, heated and hungry, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.
I inch closer, walking into her, my thigh parting hers.
Then, nothing.
I simply stand there, letting the chemistry between us do its thing. Allowing her to see without words or action that there’s no end to the attraction we’ve created.
We’re meant to be together. We won’t be separated.
She blinks back at me, stunned yet steadfast. Panicked and panting.
I ignore the pulse of my dick and lean closer, a bare few inches from those captivating lips. “This isn’t the time or place.”
Her eyes flare. “There will never be a time and place. Never again. Do you hear me?”
I smirk. “I was talking about the phone call.”
She thumps my chest, pushes and pummels, her cheeks turning red. “You’re a bastard. Of course I assumed wrong when you’re all over me.”
“I am a bastard.” I sober in agreement, remaining in her space as her attack dwindles. “But I’ll give you everything you need, Layla. I promise. I just can’t risk a phone call right now. Not with what I’ve learned of your brother’s reputation.”
She snarls and shoves past me to escape toward the stairs, mumbling, “Well, I can’t wait to learn the truth about yours.”
33
Matthew
“It’s only a few miles up the road.” I sit behind the wheel of a rental Lincoln Navigator, driving through the outer reaches of Denver.
I’ve come to this hellhole of a city too many times over the past ten years and not once have I returned to the home I fled as a teenager.
We pass farming houses and million-dollar estates with masses of cropped land in between. But everything is different now. The trees lining the streets tower higher. More homes scatter the countryside. The road has been widened and marked.
“De Marco is leaving it until the last minute to show,” Bishop mutters. “Where is he?”
I slow as I reach the last intersection before Emmanuel’s property, making sure there are no cars in sight when I veer onto the gravel at the side of the road. “We should see him any second now.”
I bring the vehicle to a stop, scrutinizing the nearby trees and bushes along the fence line, searching for the guys I’ve worked with on multiple sabotage tasks in the past.
“There are men running around the corner.” Layla shifts in the back seat. “I hope they’re yours.”
I check the rearview, recognizing De Marco’s bald head, Goodin’s neck tattoo, and the intimidatingly wide build of Whitby jogging toward us, all of them in long-sleeve camo shirts and pants.
“Yeah, they’re ours.” I press a button on the key fob, opening the door to the cargo area, the back row of seats already folded in preparation to stow the men inside.
Layla bristles when they climb in, their labored breathing filling the air as I press the button to close them into their cramped hiding place.
“I was beginning to think you weren’t going to show.” De Marco wipes the sweat from his brow. “How’s things, Langston?”
“They’ve been better.” I hold his gaze in the mirror. “Are you guys ready?”
“Always.” Whitby settles his back against the side of the interior. “We’re locked and loaded.”
“But this is only a conversation,” Bishop mutters.
“It is only a conversation,” I reiterate. “Do you all understand what we’re doing here?”
“You’ve sent more than enough messages to make it clear.” De Marco mimics Whitby’s seated position on the opposite side of the cargo area, Goodin doing the same at his side. “We keep our mouths shut. Back you up if necessary. And get the woman out if shit happens.”
I nod, my gaze flicking to Layla who stares at me through the mirror. “You can trust them.”
She scoffs. “Just like I can trust you?”
I’m not fighting with her again. The last thing I need is to battle my dick when her bratty attitude takes hold.
“We scoped the place while we were waiting,” Goodin adds. “Caught sight of two armed guards outside, but nothing else. There might be more in the house.”
“Doubtful.” I shake my head. “Emmanuel likes privacy.”
“Then it’s safe to assume there’s two.” Goodin shrugs. “But there could be fifty on standby at a moment’s notice just in case you’re thinking of getting cocky.”
“Nobody is getting cocky. If bullets start flying the battle won’t end until both parties are dead, and I have no intention of dying today.” I shoot a glance to Bishop. “You good now?”
“I’ll be good once it’s over.” He focuses out the windscreen, resting his arm on the window ledge. �
��Let’s get this done.”
I pull onto the road, increasing the pace to eat up the distance between us and imminent hostility.
“There’s to be no complications. Are we all clear?” Bishop reiterates louder than necessary. “This is a conversation. Nothing more.”
I don’t reaffirm it. He’s been given enough assurances on how this has to play out. His issue is that he knows me too well. Knows the old me and what that animal is capable of when cornered.
“This is it.” I jerk my chin toward the upcoming property with its head-high brick-wall perimeter stretching more than a quarter mile in the distance. Large decorative spikes line the top ledge, the glossy metal maybe intended as a decorative feature, but also offering intimidation and security. “You guys in the back need to get down. Stay out of sight until we’re through the gates.”
They do as instructed, slinking from view as I drive by the first security camera affixed to the boundary wall. The round black devices are positioned every ten yards leading up to the thick barred gates that never existed in my childhood.
“Nothing gets said or done without my say so.” I stop in front of the barrier separating me from assholes I despise, the intercom a foot outside my closed window, and shoot a glance to Layla through the rearview. “No comments. No actions. Nothing. You hear me?”
She smiles, batting her lashes in an innocent taunt.
“Don’t test me, Layla.”
“Don’t worry,” Bishop snarls. “If she fucks this up, they won’t be the only ones preparing to kill her.”
Her smile remains in place. “I’d like to see you try.”
“Enough,” I grate. “We’re on the same side.”
“You sure about that?” Goodin mumbles in the back. “You guys aren’t giving off a fuzzy sense of comradery.”
“We’ll be fine,” I force the misguided optimism into existence. “We’re only here for a fucking conversation.”
Layla rolls her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest. “We’ll see.”
“Yeah, we’ll fucking see,” Bishop mutters.
“Enough,” I repeat. “None of us are stupid enough to fuck this up, right? So show some goddamn restraint.” I lower my window and reach for the intercom to press the call button.
The inside of the car falls silent. There’s nothing but the rumble from the engine and the rustle of wind as we wait.
I’m sure our presence is already known. Either Emmanuel, my siblings, or a battalion-sized security team are hiding in the wings watching. Waiting.
“Hello?” A fragile female voice breaks the quiet, the fake innocence nudging my agitation.
Adena—the woman who birthed me.
I clench my teeth against my disdain. “I need to see Emmanuel.”
“I’m sorry but he’s currently in Italy. If you’d like to leave your name and number I can arrange for him to get in contact on his return.”
They don’t know it’s me. They weren’t expecting a visit. Why?
“Maybe Remy didn’t say anything,” Bishop whispers. “You might have been wrong about him.”
Bullshit. That fucker was beyond hostile. He would’ve told someone.
“I know he’s inside.” I speak to the intercom. “He’s going to want to see me.”
There’s a pause, the briefest blip in time where I picture her squinting at the live feed from the security camera pointing my way.
“Who is this?” she asks.
My anger rises at having to use the only name she’s familiar with. “It’s Dante. Now open the damn gate.”
The silence returns, creating a cavernous void where Layla’s loathing grows. I can feel her judgment from the back seat even though those five fucking letters were put behind me when I disowned this godforsaken family.
“Dante?” Adena’s voice fractures. “Is that really you?”
I glare at the security camera, reliving the last conversation we had and hating her more for it as the seconds pass. How she denied what Emmanuel had done to Grace. How she took his side over that of her innocent teenage son.
The gates rattle, the intimidating metal bouncing a moment before they begin to part.
I don’t answer her question. Don’t acknowledge her offensive excitement. I wait until the gate opening is wide enough, then drive into the heart of hell, pebbles crunching under my tires, disgust settling in my gut.
The gardens are different. The shrubs and flowers once littered in the front yard no longer exist. It’s now all perfectly manicured grass. Nothing but unobstructed view to ensure intruders are seen.
“Fucking big house,” Bishop murmurs. “More than enough room to confine our dumb asses for the rest of our lives.”
I ignore him and stalk my gaze along the two-story mansion as we approach, checking for signs of life behind the sheer curtains, both upstairs and below.
The balcony is empty. No potted plants to block the view. No siblings to welcome me home from the wrought-iron railing.
The only sign of life comes from the two guards Whitby spoke of, both of them wearing dark uniforms as they stand at the front steps of the mansion, each of them with a hand at the ready near their holstered sidepiece.
“De Marco, it’s time for you guys to shine.” I pull to a stop a few yards from the front of the house and cut the engine. “Everyone else, stay in the car. Let me get a read on things first.” I unfasten my belt and climb out, slamming the door behind me before Bishop can protest.
The cargo area opens as I walk to the hood, Whitby, Goodin, and De Marco all piling out to take different positions around the vehicle.
Emmanuel’s guards don’t show surprise. They don’t talk or scowl or move. They’re prepared. On alert. Adena might not have anticipated my arrival, but someone did.
I stalk toward them, jaw stiff, lips snarled, and poised to demand a meeting with Emmanuel when Salvatore opens the front door.
“Brother,” he sneers in greeting. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Believe me, I wish I wasn’t.”
“Then leave.” He approaches, passing his two guards to eye the Lincoln. “Is that her? You brought her here?” His hard eyes cut to mine. “Are you fucking insane?”
“Are you?” I counter. “Stealing a kid? Killing a major player in the Portland underworld? Who the fuck have you become?”
“Someone loyal to my family. Which is more than I can say for you.”
I smile, all teeth and anger. “I want to see him. So either wheel him out here if he’s in as bad shape as Remy claims, or we’re going in.”
“You don’t want to do that.”
“I agree. But I’m still going to.” It’s been a lifetime since we were face-to-face. Now, there’s a mere few feet of space between me and my closest sibling, who stands at the top of the three stairs leading to damnation. But the prankster kid I grew up with is nowhere in sight. The man who stares back at me is cold and calculating. “I won’t let Remy twist the situation and make her more of a target.”
“He hasn’t twisted anything.” Salvatore keeps his tone level, exuding a calm I can’t reciprocate. “Nobody knows. Neither me or Remy want to continue this war with her psychotic family. So the last thing we’re going to do is tell Dad you’ve hooked up with the enemy.”
“That’s not the impression he gave earlier today.” I slide my hands into my pants pockets, hiding the way my fingers twitch for a gun I no longer own. “Remy made it clear he wanted her dead.”
He scoffs a laugh and descends the stairs, the guards following a few steps behind him. He doesn’t stop until he’s squared up with me, shoulders broad and proud, chin arrogantly high.
As a teen, I towered over him, my growth spurt coming well before his, but now we’re equally matched in physical appearance as well as disdain.
“He’s always been more of a slave to his emotions than either of us,” he drawls. “So it’s only natural he reacted to yet another layer of your betrayal when he was the one who took the longest to unders
tand why the fuck you would abandon us in the first place.”
I bristle.
I hadn’t wanted to leave them behind. I’d been a kid when I made those plans with Grace. I’d been young and dumb and stupid. I’d thought things would change once I was gone. That Emmanuel would wake up to himself instead of doubling down on criminal decisions.
“Don’t resent me for getting out. You could’ve done the same a hundred times over.”
He laughs with derision. “Ignorance is bliss, brother. You have no idea what our lives are like.”
“Spare me the multimillion-dollar sob story. I’m not here to reminisce. Either bring him out here or tell your dogs to stand down so we can go inside.”
“Do you really want to make that mistake?” He steps closer, getting in my face, the shuffle of feet closing in behind me, Salvatore’s guards following suit. “Remy may have been driven by emotion if he spoke of killing her, but our father will be entirely collected when he gives the order for her death. You’re shortening her already precarious lifespan.”
“I’ll shorten yours if you don’t get out of my way.”
We stare each other down, neither one of us budging until the front door opens, the slight creak of a well-worn hinge dragging my attention to Adena paused in the entry.
“Dante?” She scrutinizes me with a cautious approach. “Is that really my boy?”
Salvatore steps back, his face bitter as she breaks into a run.
Fuck.
I brace for impact as she descends the stairs and throws her arms wide, barreling into me for a hug that snaps my muscles rigid.
I don’t remove my hands from my pockets. Don’t reciprocate.
Guilt is a punishing motherfucker as I imagine Layla’s thoughts as her enemy embraces me like the long-lost child I am.
“My son.” Adena’s face snuggles into my neck, the affection pathetic. “I’ve missed you more than you could imagine. I always knew you’d come back.”
“I haven’t.” I retreat, breaking the connection. “Once I speak to your husband, I’m gone.”
She blinks, her face falling as Salvatore comes to stand at her side. “Why? What is this about?”
