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

by Eden Summers

  “Business,” my brother answers. “It’s not a reunion.”

  Another body enters the doorway, the feminine greeting of, “Hi, brother,” brushing my ears before I turn my attention to Abri.

  She’s in perfect costume, accentuated makeup, figure-hugging clothes, immaculately styled hair. It’s the smile curving her lips that places a fault in the facade, the jubilation not matching the sadness she can’t hide in her eyes.

  “Abri,” I grate.

  I remember her as the heart and happiness of this family when I was growing up. Too pure and sweet to survive Emmanuel. Too young and innocent to be taken with me when I left.

  I was wrong, though. From what I’ve heard, she’s adapted to the changing environment, transforming into a snake who seduces wealthy married men only to blackmail them with their transgressions.

  “What’s going on?” She glides her attention over De Marco and his men, then focuses on the car before stiffening. “What is she doing here?”

  “We’re here to see Emmanuel. Who’s going to—” My words fall short as the front gates rattle open behind me.

  I glance over my shoulder, watching the heavy metal move as Bishop disobeys instruction and climbs from the car, his large frame moving to stand in front of Layla’s window, protecting her from the view of the approaching Maserati.

  “Good,” Salvatore murmurs. “Remy’s here to join the fun.”

  The vehicle accelerates, kicking up pebbles and dust to abruptly skid to a stop next to the Lincoln. In seconds, my youngest brother is shoving from the sports car, the engine still purring as he storms toward Layla’s door.

  “You brought that bitch here?” he accuses. “Didn’t I warn you?”

  “Back off.” Bishop braces for attack, arms tense, knuckles locked.

  De Marco does the same, closing in at his side.

  I remain in place, my demons screaming for action even though I know it would be a sign of weakness. “I’ll kill you myself, Remy. You know I will.”

  They need to see I’m in control. That I’m not mindless in my need to protect her, even though that’s far from the truth.

  I’d slaughter for her.

  And I’d do it too damn easily.

  Remy stops a few feet in front of Bishop. “Get her out of here.”

  “I will as soon as I see Emmanuel. Until then, keep your thoughts about her to yourself or risk becoming a folktale.”

  His eyes cut to mine. “She won’t make it out of here alive.”

  The hair at my nape prickles. “You kill her, I kill you, Salvo kills me, Bishop kills him. The list goes on until a generation is slaughtered. Not to mention the aftermath from Lorenzo if anyone survives. Is that what you want?” I glare. “Because I didn’t come here for violence.”

  Nobody answers.

  “I will kill for her.” I meet everyone’s gaze in turn—Salvo, Remy, Abri, Adena, then their guards. “Without pause or guilt. So if anyone has that on their mind, start preparing to meet your maker.”

  “You’re such a piece of shit,” Remy mutters. “Lorenzo really did a number on you.”

  “And look what your father did to you. Clearly, you’re not the pinnacle of virtue.”

  “He’s your father, too,” Adena corrects.

  “No.” I look at her in earnest. “Both of you gave up parental rights when you had Grace killed.”

  “What?” Abri stiffens, her mask of perfection slipping as her lips part in shock. “Is that true? Is that why he left?”

  “No. He’s stirring up lies from the past.” Adena crosses her arms over her chest, every wrinkle on her tired face growing deeper as she scowls at me. “Why are you being like this? You’ve become just like her family.” She turns her daggered stare toward Layla in the back seat. “Breaking the peace after years of silence.”

  “Peace?” I smirk. “You abduct a child of the Portland underworld and expect peace?”

  “Two children,” Abri murmurs. “There were two.”

  “For fuck’s sake,” Bishop mutters.

  I shake my head, scowling at Salvatore. How the hell could he let that happen?

  “Don’t judge me.” His jaw ticks. “You don’t know me.”

  “Evidently… and murder?” I raise a brow. “And still, you expected there to be peace?”

  “Nobody else was meant to be there,” he growls. “Everything ran smoothly until that asshole spooked us.”

  “Everything ran smoothly?” Abri’s hand tentatively climbs to her throat. “I disagree.”

  Salvo ignores her. Everyone does as silence falls, the hum of the Maserati the only sound.

  I knew they never had the picture-perfect relationship they projected on social media. The overheard conversations at Perfezione are proof of that. But seeing them like this shows the cuts run deeper.

  None of them are proud of their lives. They’re miserable here.

  Yet they still don’t leave.

  “I’m not here to recap your mistakes.” I pull my hands from my pockets, raising my palms to show I’m not here to fight. “I only came to make sure Emmanuel doesn’t repeat them in the future. So are you escorting me inside or am I entering by force?”

  Remy sneers. Their guards grip the handle of their holstered weapons.

  “Fine. Be my guest.” Salvatore smirks and turns to the house, swinging an arm toward the front door. “But it’s her funeral.”

  34

  Matthew

  I open Layla’s door, offering a hand to help her climb out only to fight frustration when she pushes away my hospitality.

  I make sure she stays at my side as we’re led into the house, Salvatore climbing the curved entry staircase, a guard marching close at his back when he enters the upper-level hall.

  We become a long line of temperamental fuckery as we stride into a wing of the mansion that didn’t exist when I was a child. Bishop and De Marco remain in my shadow, followed by Adena, Remy, Abri and their second guard, then Goodin and Whitby at the rear.

  “You sure you want to do this?” Salvo stops at a closed door at the end of the hall, his hand poised on the handle. “Times may change, Dante, but he hasn’t learned to listen.”

  I glower. “Open the fucking door.”

  He shrugs and does as requested, pushing the painted wood wide to continue inside, the guard on his tail. He exposes a sunlit room full of medical equipment, Emmanuel seated in the middle on an inclined hospital bed. The grey-haired bastard’s legs are covered by sheets and a knitted blanket, his torso draped in an oversized grey shirt with heart monitor cables snaking out from one of the short sleeves and neck hole.

  He’s lost weight since the last time I saw him at Perfezione, his cheeks now gaunt, his skin a pale shade of grey.

  “Son.” He greets me without surprise, the Italian accent lingering in his voice while he repositions himself to sit taller. “I was beginning to wonder when you would come inside. It’s good to see you again.”

  “Stay behind me,” I mutter to Layla and continue forward, looking down my nose at him with blatant scorn as the peanut gallery enter behind me to suffocate the space. “I heard you were shot. Too bad they didn’t have better aim.”

  Emmanuel chuckles, the sound morphing into a wheezing hack of a cough. “It was merely a scratch to the shoulder.” The hacking continues, his struggle growing. “Unfortunately, complications came with the recovery. Sepsis hasn’t been kind.”

  “What a shame,” Layla mutters.

  Emmanuel’s eyes narrow on her as he reaches to the side of the bed, retrieving an oxygen mask to place over his mouth. “Ahh, yes. The woman I saw on the security feed. Let her come closer so I can take a better look.”

  “She’s fine where she is.” I raise an arm at my side, making sure Layla isn’t tempted to oblige. “I’m sure you recognize her.”

  “I do.” He nods into the mask, dragging in breaths. “And I appreciate you bringing me such a gift.”

  I straighten to my full height, fuming at t
he taunt.

  Bishop clears his throat, hard, as if warning me to keep my rage under control.

  I struggle to comply. I fucking battle not to reach for his mask and wrap the rubber cord around his neck until the smug superiority vanishes from his face.

  “She’s no gift,” I snarl. “I suggest you treat her with respect if you don’t plan on giving more strength to your enemies.”

  “You’ll never be an enemy, son.” He waves me away, lowering the mask. “But I know you’ve been sleeping with her. That you lied about your name and withheld your legacy to win her over. The news actually brought a proud tear to my eye.”

  Layla mutters a curse.

  “And how do you know?” I turn my attention to Salvo, the asshole who promised Remy hadn’t spilled.

  “I didn’t say a damn thing.” He glances to his father. “We were going to tell you once Remy returned.”

  “Of course you were, son. But I have faster ways to gain information.”

  Faster?

  Emmanuel could only have learned the news from Remy. Bishop wouldn’t betray me. And Layla hasn’t left my sight.

  Unless… “You have someone listening in on their calls.” I grin at Salvatore. “I bet that’s comforting.”

  The muscles in his jaw tic.

  “I watch my children more than most.” Emmanuel drags in a deep breath and lowers the mask. “You’re never too old to need guidance.”

  “I bet. But the guidance you offered two years ago has placed your ass in a hospital bed with the Grim Reaper stalking your shadow. So maybe your leadership skills need a tweak or two. Don’t you think?”

  “I’m not scared of Cole Torian. Enemies are the price you pay for power and money. And he’s merely a pup. Nowhere near the type of cutthroat businessman his father was.”

  “My father was a sex trafficker,” Layla snaps. “Cole would never aspire to be anything like him.”

  “And that’s why he’s weak. Are you as pathetic, my sweet?”

  “I’ll show you how pathetic I can be.” She storms closer, but I block her path.

  “Don’t let him provoke you,” I growl under my breath. “You’re smarter than that.”

  “How smart can she be?” Emmanuel wheezes another chuckle. “She didn’t even know your real identity until this morning.”

  I grab her wrist as she takes another thunderous step, willing her to ignore him with my strong grip.

  “I can promise you, your daughter showed far more tenacity in the face of adversity than you are,” he continues.

  “Dad,” Abri warns.

  “She was a real little spitfire when we first got hold of her. We had a great time, though. In fact, I’d really love to see her again. I should—”

  Layla screams, yanking her arm from my grip to barge past me like wildfire. She charges for Emmanuel, her face turning red, her hand shoving into her jeans pocket in search of something.

  Shit. The fucking cyanide.

  I lunge for her, grabbing her upper arms from behind as guns are drawn by the guards, Salvo, and Remy. My men follow suit in opposition.

  “I’ll kill you, you fucking prick.” Layla thrashes and bucks against my hold. “I’ll kill every single one of you.”

  “I’d like to see you try.” Remy levels his barrel on her.

  “Come on now.” Bishop holds up a hand in placation, his weapon pointed at Emmanuel. “Nobody wants to lose blood over this.”

  She continues to thrash and scramble, rampant and manic. “Let me go, you bastard.”

  “Stop it.” I smother her against my chest. “Calm down.”

  I stalk her from the room, Bishop hot on my trail as he walks backward to cover his ass. My anger is barely bottled as I guide her into the far wall, pressing her chest into the plaster before closing in behind her.

  “What the fuck were you thinking?” I clamp both her wrists in one hand and use the other to delve into her pocket, retrieving the vial of fucking cyanide. “What was the plan?” I growl in her ear. “You’d sprinkle some magic fairy dust and try to kill us all?”

  “Yes.” She bucks. “At least then this would have been over.”

  “You would’ve been dead before you unscrewed the lid.” I release my hold, allowing her to swing around to face me, her eyes stark, her cheeks flushed.

  “You said it yourself—if they kill me, you kill them, and so on and so forth. At the very least, some of them would die.”

  I lean closer, glaring as our noses almost brush. “And you would’ve been the first.”

  “So be it.” Moisture wells in her eyes, the liquid born of rage. “He needs to pay for what he’s done.”

  “What about Stella? Do you think she deserves to lose another parent?”

  She recoils, her gaze shooting daggers, each blink sending a scathing wave of hatred my way. “Did you hear him? He’s going to go after her. I know he is.”

  I remain in her face, her mouth a breath away. “I’ll fucking kill him before I let anything happen to either of you. Do you understand? Love me or hate me, Layla, I’ll still keep you safe.”

  She bares her teeth, vicious and pained as footsteps approach from Emmanuel’s room.

  “Dante?” Abri murmurs.

  I flinch at the name and glare over my shoulder to see her blocked from the hall by Bishop’s large frame.

  “It might be best for her to wait in the room across the hall.” She glowers at the man guarding me as she pushes past. “You can keep the doors open. You’ll be able to see her at any time.”

  “No.” Layla rasps. “I want to hear every word that motherfucker has to say.”

  “And I want to get us all out of here alive,” I murmur under my breath, leaning into her, taking liberties with her personal space. “Get yourself under control, amore mio. Or I’ll do it for you.”

  She squares her shoulders, her rage smoldering.

  “That’s right. Keep that anger directed at me. Not him.” I press my hips into hers, our cheeks brushing as I guide my mouth to her ear. “Hate me. Loathe me. Curse my fucking name for playing you the way I did, because I will never hurt you, Layla. But he will.”

  I’m so fucking tempted to kiss her. To steal a gasp and make her moan, just in case this is the last chance I get.

  “Now move your ass into the other room.” I force myself to pull back, my restraint threadbare, my gaze brooking no argument as our eyes meet. “And make sure you stay there.”

  She continues to glower, the only sign of fragility coming from her heavy swallow.

  “I’d die for you, amore mio.” I retreat and turn for Emmanuel’s room. “But for the love of God, I’d prefer not to do it today.”

  35

  Layla

  I remain propped against the wall, humiliated at being barred from a conversation I deserve to be in.

  “Stay with her,” Matthew instructs Bishop, then returns to Emmanuel’s room, leaving me to fight against crumpling to the floor.

  I should’ve tried harder.

  Should’ve stolen a gun and pulled the trigger without a second thought.

  Maybe I would’ve died. Who’s to say I won’t anyway?

  Emmanuel has it out for me. I could see it in his eyes.

  He’ll go after Stella. He’ll destroy my family.

  “Come on.” Abri gives me a sad smile and opens the door to the adjacent room, allowing more light to spill into the hall. “Let them talk. It’s clear you’re a weakness where my brother is concerned, and that’s the last thing he needs when facing off with our father.”

  I don’t understand her sympathy.

  I don’t appreciate it either.

  She saunters inside, walking out of view.

  “That was a dick move.” Bishop closes in, intimidating me into following her with his evil glare. “Now he doesn’t have me in there to watch his back.”

  I reject the twinge of guilt sparking in my chest.

  “Get moving.” The aggression in his voice is next level. “I swear
to God, if he does something he’ll regret, I’ll hold you responsible.”

  I clench my teeth, refusing to let Bishop daunt me and walk into the unfamiliar room to stop a few feet inside. I keep my lips fused as I take in the cherry-stained wooden bed in the middle of the expansive area, a matching dresser along the closest wall, and sheer curtains covering French doors leading to what I assume is the balcony.

  I remain still as I search for weapon potential—the lamp on the nightstand, the ceramic female figurine on the dresser, the chair in the corner—while Abri watches my inspection from the open doorway of the adjoining private bathroom.

  “Are you okay?” She frowns at me as Bishop comes to lean against the closest bedpost, the conversation reigniting across the hall, the words skirting the edges of my consciousness. “You don’t seem to be here by choice.”

  “I’ve never had a choice when it comes to your family. I didn’t when you stole my daughter. And I had just as much when you killed my husband.”

  Her eyes soften. “I’m sorry for your loss. I didn’t—”

  “Save it.” I continue toward the French doors and inch the curtain aside, wishing I was anywhere but here.

  Time passes with the rise and fall of voices. Matthew makes threats. Emmanuel chuckles. His bitch of a mother chastises every now and again.

  “Can I speak to her for a moment?” Abri asks Bishop. “In private. There’s a few things I have—”

  “No way in hell, darlin’. I’m not letting her out of my sight.”

  “Beside the fact I’m not interested,” I add, “I’ve got nothing to say to you.”

  “Please.” Her brows pull tight. “It’s important.”

  The vulnerability is an act. The politeness, too.

  But I’m curious to know why.

  She’s not armed. Not with a gun at least. Her clothes are too tight to conceal a firearm. There’s potential for a knife, though.

  “We can talk on the balcony.” She starts toward me. “We’ll remain in sight at all times.”

  Bishop frowns, his gaze trekking her with agitation.

  “Please. It will only take a minute.” Her arm brushes mine as she opens the French doors, her long blonde hair dancing in the breeze. “I wouldn’t beg if it wasn’t important.”