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

by Eden Summers

  “I can’t.” I’m too ashamed.

  “Layla.” His voice drops in warning. “Emmanuel has nothing to do with this. Neither do you. So whatever it is you’re worried about, don’t.”

  He’s in denial. About me. About Emmanuel. I step back, needing to leave. To end this before I drown in him any further. But he holds me captive with his palms, matching my retreat with a bigger advance. He keeps us toe-to-toe, hip to hip, almost heart to heart, weakening me with his savior complex.

  “The purse that was stolen from me in Denver had cyanide in it,” I blurt, needing him to let me go. “If it got into the wrong hands, along with my ID, and the Costas caught wind of it…” I cringe, hating the shocked scowl peering back at me. “They’d know they were my target. They’d want to strike first.”

  He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move.

  It’s only harsh eyes and harsher energy bearing down on me.

  “Now will you let me go?”

  “No,” he repeats with steadfast conviction. “Downstairs had nothing to do with you. Lorenzo was the target. He’s always the target. So if anyone is to blame, it’s me for placing you in danger.”

  24

  Matthew

  This moment has been destined. It’s only ever been a matter of time. And even though I’ve known it’s been approaching since the moment we met, I’m far less prepared than I was the night she walked into my life all confident and magnificently mysterious.

  “How do you know?” She blinks back at me, confused.

  “He’s a powerful man.” I release her cheeks and retreat, needing a break from her scrutiny.

  “How powerful?”

  I wipe a rough hand down my face, becoming less ready for what’s to come with each passing second.

  I don’t want her to deal with this now. I was meant to tell her in my own time. In my own way.

  I huff a deep breath. “Powerful enough to—”

  A pounding knock sounds at the door. She startles, gasping at the noise, exposing just how fragile my decisions have made her.

  “Who is it?” I bark.

  “Bishop,” comes the mumbled reply. “Open the fucking door.”

  I stalk for the entry only to be stopped by Layla scrambling in front of me, her eyes stark with determination.

  “Tell me.” She splays her hands on my chest, her heavy palms feeble at best against my strength. “Who is he?”

  I stiffen against the pent-up air in my lungs, the pressure of a lifetime’s worth of bad decisions caging me behind tightening ribs. “Let me get rid of Bishop first.”

  Stall. Stall. Stall.

  That’s all I’ve fucking done with her.

  Delayed the truth.

  Delayed her disgust.

  Delayed the end of us.

  I step around her and stalk for the hall, checking the peephole to find Bishop’s scowl before I yank the door open. “You’re meant to be taking Lorenzo home to see his doctor. Why—”

  “The old prick is still downstairs. He told me to take a hike. I’m not going to baby him.”

  I clench my teeth, battling against rage. They’re both as prideful as each other. Both pains in my fucking ass. “He needs a doctor.”

  “He needs a lot of things, but mothering ain’t my strong suit.” Bishop juts his chin toward the inside of my suite and lowers his voice. “Nice mood lighting. It’s almost as if you anticipated needing the romantic seduction to stop her from running.”

  I lash out, grabbing him by the throat.

  I don’t know if it’s his audacity or the reaffirmation of her leaving that makes me snap.

  He doesn’t flinch. Not even when I shove him backward, walking us down the hall, away from her listening ears. The door clicks shut seconds later.

  “Watch your goddamn mouth,” I snarl.

  He tilts his chin higher in defiance. “You need to get rid of her.”

  “I’m not doing that.” My voice is barely a whisper as I keep stalking us farther from the suite, my fingers digging into his neck, my aggression impatient for him to retaliate so we can take this exchange to the next level. The one where I get to dispense all my anger through a mindless pummeling of fists and decimating impact.

  “Then at least tell her the truth so she can see herself out.”

  “She won’t leave me.” I release him with a shove and step back, needing space from his smug grin.

  We both know I’m full of shit.

  She’ll leave. She’ll fucking sprint.

  “We need to get back to D.C.” He yanks at his lapels to straighten his jacket. “I’ll get the helicopter organized—”

  “No.” I stand tall, denying him the most logical response to a targeted shooting. Now, more than ever, I need this isolation with Layla. These hours are necessary to explain everything she’s going to demand to know. To convince her to remain at my side. “I’m not changing our plans. We’re staying the night.”

  He scoffs. “And I’m supposed to what? Sit in the hall like a guard dog?”

  “We don’t need protection. We won’t leave the room.”

  His eyes harden to conniving slits. “You’re losing it, you know that, right? Everything we’ve worked for is going straight out the fucking window because of a piece of ass.”

  “You’re wrong. She makes me better.”

  “Better?” He raises a taunting brow. “Is that what you call threatening to kill Lorenzo’s guards if they don’t listen to you over him? If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you were gearing up to take the helm.”

  “Fuck you.” My words thrash against clenched teeth.

  “Touchy subject? Have you been thinking about it, BB?”

  I see red, the hint to a forbidden nickname acting like a fire poker to my rage. “Do you want to die today?”

  He grins. “There he is. The villain I know and love.”

  “Walk away,” I warn.

  “I’d fucking love to. Unfortunately, your dumb ass refuses to carry a gun. So I’m stuck protecting you. Protecting her.” He steps forward, getting in my face. “You need to tell her the truth. Tell her what she’s getting herself into. Tell her all the things you’ve hidden just so you can keep her like a fucking pet.”

  I’d been trying to. I’d had the confession on the tip of my tongue. I never envisaged misleading her this long. I just didn’t plan on wanting her this much when I exposed the truth.

  The tiniest squeak of a door filters down the hall. I turn to see Layla inching out of our suite, her wary eyes finding mine.

  I step back from Bishop and cringe at my instinct to shield things from her. She deserves transparency—honesty—even though she hasn’t offered it in return.

  “Go back inside.” I leash the aggression in my tone. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  The wariness grows in her stare as she glances from me to Bishop then back again.

  “It’s okay, amore mio. I won’t be long.”

  Her chest rises with a deep breath beneath the tempting red sundress before she silently slips back inside, the door closing with a barely heard click.

  “She may have a pretty face, but don’t forget she’s as fucked up as you are,” Bishop mutters. “We don’t need that shit in our lives.”

  A storm rages inside me. The energy batters my veins. Sneering. Demanding.

  I close my eyes, reining it in, mastering the aggression.

  He chuckles, the briefest breath of sound. “Look at you, trying to battle the inevitable. This is a waste—”

  I lunge, grabbing his shirt in my fist. “Shut your fucking mouth.” I struggle not to lose myself to the insanity. Fight not to shove my knuckles into my best friend’s throat.

  He doesn’t retaliate. He’s the only one armed, and all he does is raise his chin as if reiterating his point.

  Fuck.

  I retreat, releasing his shirt. “I’ll fucking tell her.” I turn my back on him before I do something I’ll regret, and start for the suite. “Check on Lorenzo. I don’
t want to see your face again until he’s been looked over by his doctor.”

  I reach the door and grab the key card from my jacket to swipe over the lock. I stalk into the shadowed room flickering in candlelight, the fury following me.

  “What’s going on, Matthew?”

  Layla’s voice increases my struggle, her trepidation creating guilt that whirlpools with my anger.

  She stands in front of the sofa, her cell in her hand, the screen lighting up her face in the darkness. “What’s Lorenzo’s surname?”

  Shit. She’s searching for him online?

  I stalk to her, stepping around the coffee table, making her stiffen as I get within reach.

  Jesus fucking Christ.

  She’s questioning me again. Judging. Fearing.

  Rightly so.

  “What are you doing?” I slow my approach, cautiously reaching for her hand to tilt the cell screen my way.

  Lorenzo Virginia Beach is typed into the search bar with a page of irrelevant results about some specialist doctor listed below.

  “I want to know what’s going on.” She pulls the phone back toward her and locks the screen, the snuffed glow making her face shadowed. “I tried googling him but there are too many results in Virginia Beach.”

  I nod, teeth clenched, limbs thrumming.

  Her gaze weighs heavily on me. Every blink of her lashes acts like a physical blow. “There’s a lot to explain.” But the explanation doesn’t come. The truth refuses to slither from the darkest depths of my soul.

  And this room isn’t helping.

  With the closed curtains and the mass of flickering candlelight, it feels like I’m in Satan’s dungeon. And I’ve already spent too much time there to want to return.

  I march to the window and yank back the heavy drapes, the burst of sunlight searing my eyes. Yet it’s not enough to assuage my darkness. Not the beach or the sun or the sand.

  I lunge for the closest candles and snuff them out. One after another, after another, after another. The scent of smoke wafts in the air, the threat of the fire alarm merely adding to the shitstorm inside me.

  “Matthew…”

  I pause with my back to her. Straighten. Succumb.

  “Please tell me.”

  Her plea undoes me, my knotted threads unraveling.

  I turn, finding her chin raised. She already knows the impending increase of seriousness in this already fucked up situation, and she’s preparing to take it head on.

  I wish I could laugh at the naivety of her conviction, but there’s nothing funny here. Things between us never should’ve gone this far. I wasn’t meant to get entangled.

  Bishop knew she would be my undoing. He even explained the psychology behind why I’m drawn to her. Obsessed with her. And yet I still can’t push past the mental trickery to let her go.

  “Matthew?” Her eyes beg for me to ease her suffering. To break the torturous suspense.

  She’s such a fucking maze, some paths leading to dead ends, others harboring threats and misdeeds. I applaud her strength. Her tenacity. Her viciousness. But the cyanide admission threw me for a loop.

  I guess we’ve both got bigger secrets than either of us led the other to believe.

  “Please, Matthew. Tell me what’s going on.”

  I release the toxic air eating at my lungs and slump my ass onto the coffee table, letting her tower above me. Rule over me.

  “Before I met Lorenzo, I was homeless.”

  Her lips part at my admission, her stunning eyes widening.

  “Through mistakes of my own, and sabotage from others, I lost everything. I had nobody. Not a penny to my name. Only the clothes on my back and a shitload of emotional baggage.”

  “How old were you?”

  I scoff. Too young to be without a family and too old to be a sorry son of a bitch. “A few months from my eighteenth birthday.”

  Pity floods her expression. “Matthew, I—”

  “Don’t say anything. Just let me speak.” Let me explain all the things you’re going to hate about me. “Lorenzo took me in. Gave me a home. A purpose. An income. He provided an outlet for my teenage anger. Introduced me to Bishop. And helped me get where I am today.”

  She shuffles closer as if drawn by my pathetic story, her sandals bumping my shoes, her eyes filled with compassion.

  “Everything I have is because of him,” I continue. “Without his intervention, I have no doubt I would’ve died on the streets.”

  She remains quiet, letting me bleed parts of my truth, her hands reaching out to slide through my hair in delicate strokes.

  “He became my father figure and treated me like another one of his sons—harsh when I needed it, but equally supportive when necessary. He invited me into his success and I helped him achieve more.” I lower my gaze, focusing on the carpet, running my palms around her waist to stop her from escaping when the truth hits. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t have done for him.”

  “He sounds like a wonderful man,” she whispers.

  “He is,” I say with conviction. “And he isn’t.”

  Slowly she stands taller, her spine straightening in caution.

  “To me, he’s a savior. A lifeline.” I look up at her. “He’s the reason I still have air in my lungs. But he’s not what most would call a wonderful man.”

  Her hands stop sweeping my hair. Trepidation ebbs from her.

  Quiet seeps in, curling around us with tight arms and sharp claws. Her breathing slows, long and pained. She knows where this is going. She can sense it.

  “You said you’re not a good person, Layla. But in my past, I’ve done things in the name of survival that would chill you to the core. And I’ve done them all for Lorenzo.”

  Her hands slowly withdraw from my hair to rest at her sides, the retreat emotional as well as physical.

  She doesn’t ask the questions I know must be eating at her. She lets the silence fester between us, its thorny spikes digging into my skin, her panicked thoughts flashing in her wild eyes.

  Maybe she no longer wants clarity.

  Maybe she’d prefer to remain ignorant and leave my life without the darkness of the truth haunting her.

  But it’s too late for that.

  I refuse to let her go.

  “My mentor is Lorenzo Cappelletti,” I admit, taking in the stark recognition that now stares back at me. “He’s Italian mafia.”

  25

  Layla

  I wait for the punchline. For the cruel prank to be laughed away so I can shed this second skin of shock and confusion.

  But no humor gleams in his expression. There’s not even the slightest sign of banter.

  Instead, his expression begs for understanding. For forgiveness.

  “You’re in the Italian mafia?” The question is wrenched from my drying throat.

  “No. I got out.”

  A mindless scoff escapes me before I can stop it. “You got out?”

  “Yes.” His shoulders slump, his handsome face losing the mask of confidence.

  “I may not know a lot about the mafia,” I lie. “But I’m pretty sure it’s not something you can simply walk away from.”

  “There was nothing simple about it. I earned my freedom. Bishop did, too. We’ve been out for years.”

  That’s not how it works. Is it?

  Could other parts of the underworld let their members walk free? Are there ways to safeguard family secrets once someone defects? A strategy to stop competitors from targeting turncoats?

  No, otherwise I would’ve fled long ago.

  I step back, only to be kept close by the cage of Matthew’s hands.

  He strengthens his hold on my waist, firmly imprisoning me. “Don’t walk out on me, amore mio. Give me time to explain.”

  “Stop calling me that.” I push him away and stumble backward, bumping into the sofa, almost falling into the cushions before I can right myself to stagger farther.

  He has no idea what he’s done.

  Being with him
—an enemy—will singlehandedly destroy the already tattered relationship I have with my family.

  They’ll never forgive me for this.

  “Why?” He stares at me through harsh hooded lashes, each bat of his eyes slaying me. “You are my love. My past doesn’t change that.”

  “Your past changes everything,” I whisper as madness overwhelms me. The questions. The stupidity. The shame.

  How could I have made more mistakes? Created more complications for my brother? More and more mess that continues to compile, stealing the air from my lungs? And yet through the gasps for respite, some sickeningly, stupid part of me latches onto the tiniest glimmer of hope in his story—he got out.

  He left the underworld.

  He created a new life.

  I walk on numb feet to the window, my gaze seeking the calm of the ocean. But the deep blue doesn’t soothe me. My mind is in chaos. The sharp claws of panic shred the inside of my skull.

  “I have more to tell you,” he murmurs. “So much more. I want you to know everything. I want—”

  “Why?” I beg, mostly of myself. “Why me? Why now? Why any of this?”

  How could he make me fall in love with him when we can never be together?

  How cruel can fate be?

  “We’re alike.” He slowly rises to his feet, seeming even more handsome and commanding now that I have to walk away. “We have common enemies. We’ve contemplated similar crimes.”

  I frown.

  “The cyanide,” he clarifies. “Were you really going to use it?”

  I snap my attention back to the ocean, wishing I hadn’t made the confession. Realizing he could easily use the information against me. Against my family.

  “Could you have killed someone, Layla?”

  I keep my mouth shut. My lips fused.

  He approaches, sidestepping the edge of the sofa in my periphery.

  “Stop.” I turn to face him, glaring. This is serious. I need to rewind time and remember all the things I’ve told him. All the clues I’ve given. All the insight I’ve shared. “Stay where you are.”

  His face falls. Plummets. And in the split-second of this powerful man’s pained rejection, I see myself reflected in him.