by Eden Summers
Seeking Vengeance
Eden Summers
Copyright © 2021 by Eden Summers
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Contents
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1. Layla
2. Layla
3. Layla
4. Layla
5. Layla
6. Matthew
7. Matthew
8. Matthew
9. Layla
10. Layla
11. Layla
12. Layla
13. Matthew
14. Layla
15. Layla
16. Layla
17. Layla
18. Matthew
19. Layla
20. Layla
21. Layla
22. Layla
23. Layla
24. Matthew
25. Layla
26. Layla
27. Layla
28. Layla
29. Matthew
30. Layla
31. Layla
32. Matthew
33. Matthew
34. Matthew
35. Layla
36. Matthew
37. Layla
38. Matthew
39. Layla
40. Matthew
Hunter Preview
1. Her
2. Her
3. Her
4. Her
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1
Layla
I place a sweaty hand on the restaurant door, my fingers holding the slightest tremble of anticipation as skin meets glass.
I’ve waited two years for this.
No. It took two years to know I needed this.
The retaliation.
The validation of revenge.
Two years where I forced myself to believe I was a bigger person, when in reality I’m nothing but a carbon copy of the monsters I’m now determined to end.
I shift my fake glasses farther along my nose and push my way inside, the aroma of fresh basil sinking deep into my lungs.
I discovered Perfezione on my last excursion to Denver, my novice detective work leading me to this Italian masterpiece with immaculately polished china, pristine tablecloths, and sparkling chandeliers.
A last-minute no-show was the only reason I gained a reservation when I previously walked through these doors. And an insanely generous tip secured a seat for tonight.
This place doesn’t do walk-ins. It does millionaires and prestige. High-class and pomposity.
I give my fake name to the maître d’ and keep my expression impassive as a young, slim waitress escorts me to my table—the two-seater I requested in the far back corner, right next to the window.
She pulls out the chair closest to the wall, but that’s not where I want to be. I decline the offer with a polite smile and reach for the opposite seat, descending into the padded cushion with my back to the room.
There’s a beat of confusion in her expression. The slightest pause where she looks at me in judgment for picking this position instead of hers. “Is someone else joining you, Ms. Javernick?”
I give a subtle shake of my head, the strands of my fake blonde wig skimming my cheeks. “Not tonight. It’s just me.”
There’s another pause. Another perplexed glimpse asking why I wouldn’t want to stare at the restaurant’s opulence instead of the plain cream wallpaper. Then she nods and increases the wattage of her beaming smile. “Can I get you something to drink?” She hands over a leather-bound menu and grabs my cloth napkin to delicately place it on my lap.
“White wine, please. Pinot Grigio if possible.”
She inclines her head. “Of course.”
I’m left alone, the hum of conversation brushing my ears and adrenaline warming my veins. But it’s the intoxicating promise of vengeance that consumes my thoughts.
The past few months have been filled with one idea after the next, each potential strike against my enemy joining a long list of possibilities.
I’ve contemplated financial ruin, family destruction. I’ve even humored the idea of loss of life. Nothing is off-limits. Nothing can be if I want to sleep peacefully in the future. Because this isn’t just revenge. It’s also vindication. I need to earn back the respect of those I love.
My wine arrives while I scan the menu, my eyes reading the words despite my wild mind not letting them sink in. I’m too eager, my nervous energy ratcheting my pulse and feeding my vicious hunger.
I still have many questions to answer before I strike.
I haven’t decided if I’ll outsource the attack—physical or otherwise.
Mercenaries are an option, however trusting a stranger is an issue. I have the stomach to do it on my own, though. Murder won’t haunt my conscience. I already have a vial of cyanide in my purse posing as cocaine, the poisonous powder awaiting an unwilling victim. It’s the panic over a lengthy jail sentence that gives me pause.
Either way, I won’t reignite a war in the middle of a five-star restaurant. Tonight is merely reconnaissance.
I’m two sips into my alcoholic relief when a skitter of awareness shimmies down my spine, awakening my nerves.
They’re here.
I can’t see them. Can’t even hear them yet. But I know the Costa family has arrived.
I fight against the discomfort of having my back to the room and take another sip, making sure my shoulders appear relaxed as my waitress escorts them to the table behind me, just as I anticipated.
Goose bumps whisper along my arms, all the way to my nape. I feel naked, my little black dress suddenly nothing but a slip of material as the gentle breeze of the air conditioner kisses my exposed skin.
I’m hidden, though, unrecognizable beneath the colored contacts, fake glasses, and long-flowing blonde wig. Even if we do come face-to-face, I doubt they will recognize me.
I hold the wine glass to my lips and tilt my gaze to the window, discreetly watching them in the reflection as they sit at the round table, all of them exuding an air of snobbery.
There’s Emmanuel Costa. His wife, Adena. The younger men I know to be his sons—Salvatore and Remy. Then closest to me is Abri, his viper of a daughter, whose back is parallel to mine.
“We will have to make this a quick meal,” Salvatore mutters. “I have plans tonight.”
“Plans with who?” his mother asks. “A woman? Have you met someone?”
I listen intently, hoping for the details of his rendezvous, my heart beating heavy against my ribs. Lovers provid
e vulnerabilities. I learned that lesson the hard way.
The waitress approaches in my periphery, her increased proximity dragging my attention from precious seconds of information. “Are you ready to order, ma’am?”
“Can I have a little more time?” I keep my voice low, hoping she’ll allow me to drag out my stay for as long as possible. “If you could give me five more minutes that would be appreciated.”
She nods, her smile forced as she saunters away.
I spare a second to properly read the menu, picking a few items before I return my attention to the window, my ear cocked toward Emmanuel’s table as I drink in their secrets with each sip of wine.
“We need to tighten our distribution channels,” Emmanuel advises in accented English. “We have weak links that will cost us greatly if they’re not handled.”
“They’ll be handled,” Remy replies. “They’re always handled.”
“Not always. There was the issue with border security two years ago—”
“And you’ve never let us forget it. Since then, everything has been tight. We take care of any cracks that surface.”
It’s clear they’re not talking about distribution for items in their designer fashion label. When our worlds collided years ago, it had been because Emmanuel wanted to diversify from their clothing empire and force my brother into a partnership revolving around my family’s drug trade.
I guess they paved their own way. Or found a sucker to swindle to show them the ropes.
“How about you, Abri?” Emmanuel asks. “Have you done what was asked of you?”
“If you mean, have I sowed the seed for you to blackmail your latest target, then the answer is no.” Her voice is a velvety purr, the confident drawl holding the faintest undertone of resentment. “He’s proving to be a hard man to deceive.”
“Well, try harder. You don’t have the luxury of—”
“Can we please leave the topic of business for later?” Adena asks. “I want to hear about more important things like when my children will bless me with grandbabies.”
Someone sighs. There’s a groan, too.
“I’m happy to be artificially inseminated, mother,” Abri snips. “But it will become increasingly harder for me to extort and manipulate men if I have a child on my hip. And then what value would I have to you?”
“Don’t start,” Emmanuel mutters under his breath. “Your lack of gratitude is beginning to grate my last nerve.”
“And being constantly leashed by my father has long since grated away all of mine.”
Silence follows. Tense, palpable silence for several heartbeats.
I don’t need to search for Abri’s lethal glare through the reflection in the glass. I feel it.
Pretty little bitch can’t cut the parental ties. What a shame.
“Control yourself.” Salvatore snarls the warning. “You’re starting to make a scene and—”
“Have you decided what you’d like to order?”
Shit. I clasp a hand to my throat, startled by the waitress’s return. “I’m sorry.” I swivel to meet her waiting gaze from the corner of my eye. “I’ll have the beef carpaccio to start and then the corzetti. Thank you.”
“My pleasure. How about more wine?”
I swallow over my increased pulse and glance at the puddle of liquid in my glass. “That sounds perfect.”
“Great. I’ll return right away.” She beams.
I throw back the remaining alcohol as she walks away, needing the wine to smother the chastising voices in my head.
I’m slipping.
Faltering.
I’m better than this. Underhanded tactics are practically a birthright. I was born to scheme. To be devious and manipulative. The ability to drag the Costa family to its knees is in my genes and I plan to lean into those intrinsic skills to get this job done right.
Focus, Layla. Don’t get distracted.
I’ve worked too hard to mess this up now. I’ve tracked their fashion label on the stock market since February. I have online notifications set up for each property in their portfolio. I have files on all their legitimate employees. I’ve done background checks and rummaged around many skeleton-filled closets.
They will get what they deserve.
And I will be the one to dish out their punishment.
“…Well, I just don’t understand how the gardener can’t keep on top of the bug infestation that’s destroying the roses at the back of the property,” Adena whines. “What are we paying him for if the blooms are constantly ruined?”
I sag into my seat as the discussion diverts into menial topics that are of no use. The five of them discuss the weather, of all things. Then cryptocurrency.
I grow impatient as my first meal arrives and their conversation moves to Salvatore’s next car purchase—an Aston Martin that I hope he wraps around a pole.
When my main is served, they’re murmuring about an upcoming vacation, the parents requesting the company of their adult kids while Salvatore, Remy, and Abri decline with varying lackluster excuses.
Salvatore will be at their fashion label’s flagship warehouse, meeting with management. Remy can’t join the sun, surf, and sand because contractors are scheduled to paint his bedroom. And Abri gives no more than an “I’m busy” as she continues to sulk.
I finish my meal without another morsel of insight into their illegal dealings. No names to investigate. No meetings or locations to stake out.
I order another drink and force down a plate of tiramisu to justify my extended time at the highly sought-after table. But it isn’t long before the waitress brings my bill, subtly announcing her desire for me to leave.
Goddammit.
I’ve outstayed my welcome and I can’t risk not gaining another reservation in the future. I have no choice but to tip big and make my way to the bar for another glass of wine.
I refuse to walk away until the Costas do. It doesn’t matter that I’m now out of listening range. I can still watch through the mirror behind the wall lined with liquor bottles, hating every breath they dare to breathe.
I try to read their body language. Their straight shoulders and tight jaws. I attempt to decipher the reason behind the occasional scowls from the three siblings, but the distance between us slaughters the deeper levels of observation.
When they pay their check and stand, I gulp my last mouthful of wine and pull my purse strap over my shoulder as I slide from the stool.
They walk for the door, one after the other, Abri in the lead, Salvatore and Emmanuel at the back like the protecting wolves of the pack.
I wait until the old man is at the entry before I follow, my footsteps immediately halting when a bulky suit-clad man pushes back from the bar to block my path.
“Excuse me.” I attempt to walk around him only to have him pivot into me, countering my move, his hulking body deliberately obstructing my escape.
Hard blue eyes meet mine as his lips thin. “Take a seat.”
The bitter taste of panic soaks my tongue. “I’m sorry, I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else. I don’t know you.”
I do, however, recognize his vibe. The ruffled dark-blond hair and perfectly smooth skin do nothing to assuage the distinct edge of malice I’ve been surrounded by since birth.
“Sit,” he growls.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
“I’m confused. Are you a member of staff?” I raise a brow, feigning ignorance. “Did I not leave a big enough tip?”
He steps closer, his upper lip curling as he leans threateningly close. “Sit before you make your intentions more obvious, and tell me exactly what you have planned.”
2
Layla
Two years ago
I pace the carpet of the Sacramento hotel penthouse, every limb trembling, every thought brittle and panicked.
They took my daughter.
Abducted my baby girl as she slept.
Right from my brother’s home.
I can’t stop shaking,
can’t cease the bile-inducing mania that hisses through my mind on a loop of building desperation.
The things they could be doing to her… The things they could’ve already done.
I fight against the bile clogging my throat and shove my hands through my hair, tug, tug, tugging, wishing the burn of the pulled strands could distract from the madness. It only adds to my onslaught.
“It’s going to be okay.” My sister, Keira, approaches with caution. “They’re following the kids. Nobody will let them out of their sight.”
They—my husband, Benji, his brother, Luca, our enforcer, Hunter, and his woman, Sarah. Then there’s the Fed, Anissa, who seems to have worked her way under my brother’s skin to steal a heart I never knew existed.
“Is that meant to make me feel better?” I glare. “Have you spared a thought as to what could’ve already been done to them? They were sedated, Keira. Their babysitter murdered.”
My baby girl and my half brother, Tobias, who I’ve only just met.
Keira winces, stopping a few feet away as if scared to get within striking distance. “Maybe a sedative will help—”
“Fuck you and your sedatives.”
They forced enough of those pills down my throat yesterday, giving me no choice but to sleep through my daughter’s suffering. But I won’t take any more, not even when the allure of escaping this nightmare calls my name.