by Eden Summers
I fucking know we don’t. But Abri’s unchecked show of emotion raises my hackles. “What does that mean? Are you looking to get out of here?”
She straightens, her lips parting a crack, her eyes widening. She surprises me by not shooting down the offer. By hesitating for long seconds.
“Abri?” Emmanuel yells. “What’s going on? Where’s Torian’s sister?”
“We don’t have seconds to spare.” Bishop glares at me.
“Abri?” I warn. “What’s—”
“Go.” She steps back from the threshold. “We’ll talk later.”
I keep looking at her, keep trying to read what she’s withholding while my pulse beats for Layla’s safety. “Let’s get out of here.”
“About fucking time.” Bishop storms for the hall.
I follow, De Marco stepping aside as I continue into Emmanuel’s room, fists clenched, pulse rocketing.
“Problems, son?” Emmanuel wheezes, clasping his oxygen mask as he smirks. “Did your pretty little thing run?”
I can’t bite.
I won’t.
A future with Layla can’t exist if I return to the Cappellettis. I won’t drag her into that. I need to find her before Emmanuel does.
I focus on Adena, glaring my hatred. “You betrayed me when I was a boy. You let him run loose, destroying the only happiness I had. You won’t go unpunished if you allow it to happen again.”
She stands taller, frowning.
“He’s your husband to control,” I sneer. “Your problem to solve. From now on, any action he takes will also be yours to absolve, and I don’t punish in halves.”
Emmanuel chuckles, the humming, wheezing noise growing.
I turn to my brothers, the muscles in my jaw aching from tension, my head pounding as I fight to ignore their father. “My hatred has always been for him. Never either of you. But so help me God, if you do anything to put her in harm’s way I’ll start a war you won’t survive.”
They don’t react.
Neither in spite or understanding.
Their faces remain emotionless. Impassive and detached.
“Let the race begin.” Emmanuel chokes as he laughs. “I’m sure we’ll see each other again as soon as we catch her.”
37
Layla
I force myself not to think of how Matthew will retaliate as I monkey climb down the trellis, my feet getting stuck in the thick vine weaving its way through the wooden slats.
I pretend he doesn’t exist as I run around the house to find the garage. And I focus on how the inside information on the Costas’ home will help my family as I scramble into the Bentley and drive my ass out of there.
I don’t think about how I’ll get home.
How I’ll survive.
I don’t contemplate anything more than the broad strokes of my escape plan until now when the desolate road is stretched before me, and I have nowhere to go.
I should’ve thought about how the hell I was going to get to Portland without a cell, money, and identification.
I should’ve focused on the issues that would arise if I attempted to escape in a car that had less than half a tank of gas.
“Shit.” I press my foot harder against the accelerator, eyeballing the rearview mirror, waiting for the first sign that someone is giving chase.
I need to find a phone. More importantly, I need to figure out how I’m going to tell Cole what I’ve done.
He’ll disown me. They all will.
I take deserted back road after deserted back road, using the car’s GPS to navigate an indirect route around the city.
I circle the outskirts of Denver, not knowing exactly where I am once farm road turns into suburban streets. All I can see are dilapidated homes with junk in the yard and old vehicles that make my current ride look like a carjacker’s dream come true.
I keep off the main thoroughfares, searching for a sign of life, finally slowing when I see three teenage girls walking along the street footpath, one of them scrolling on her cell.
I pull to the curb, slowing as I come up beside them, and lower the passenger window.
“Excuse me.” I raise my voice. “I need your help.”
The girls glance at me in unison, each of the teenagers sporting raised brows and expressions of disdain toward the Bentley.
“How could we possibly help you?” the closest asks, glancing from my face to the car and back again.
“There are men chasing me, and I have no phone or money. Can I borrow your cell to make a call?”
The one on the far end snorts, flicking her bleached hair behind her shoulder while she continues to walk ahead.
“Please.” I crawl the vehicle along beside them. “It’s only one phone call.”
“Get fucked, bitch.” The closest curls her lip, then turns to her friends, all of them breaking into laughter.
Goddamn teenagers.
I pull away from the curb and plant my foot, speeding farther along the street. I need to ditch the car, and fast, but I need security first.
I zigzag my way through the suburb, eventually coming to a four-lane street with heavy traffic, fast-food outlets on either side, and a hotel sign looming ahead that sparks hope.
I keep one eye on the road, the other getting a brief glimpse of the dark tan four-level building as I drive past, then take the next turn in the opposite direction. I continue down another street, then turn and accelerate along another, not pulling to a stop until I’m at least a few blocks from where I want to be. Then I ditch the car and start running.
I take shady back alleys and cut across house yards. I don’t stop looking over my shoulder or scrutinizing every car that passes, but none come close to the extravagance I found in the Costa family garage.
I make my way back to the main road, then continue into the hotel parking lot, my stomach bottoming at the full-frontal view.
What my split-second, drive-by glance didn’t ascertain is that this place is something out of a horror movie.
Windows are cracked with grey electrical tape holding them together. The cheap blinds inside are broken and disheveled. The balconies to the three upper levels are nothing more than a red metal fire escape, the staircase exposed to the elements and rusted in parts.
But it’s the man eagle-eying me from the third-floor railing, his wifebeater dirty and boxers loose that concerns me the most.
I recognize that opportunistic expression, and I have no intention of being a part of it.
I glower, letting him know I’m not in the mood to be fucked with, and keep jogging to reception, my skin prickling the closer I get to the chipped paint of the front door.
Inside is worse.
The scent of stale beer and urine hits my nose as I walk into the small room to find a middle-aged man sitting behind a counter, the sound of porn coming from his computer, his scuffed buttoned shirt crinkled, his hair thinning and skin pale.
He looks up at me, his blue eyes narrowing. “Lost?”
I contemplate retreat, but I have nowhere else to go.
“Can I use your phone?” I keep my voice strong. “It’s an emergency.”
He sighs and turns his attention back to the computer. “Five bucks.”
“I don’t have any money.” I raise my empty hands. “Not on me, anyway. But if you let me make a call I promise I’ll be able to repay you with more than spare change.”
“Promises come easily around here, Gucci belt.” He relaxes back into his chair, his gaze remaining on the screen. “Find someone else to buy your bullshit.”
“Please.” I cringe through the plea. “It’s one phone call. It won’t take long.”
“It’s always just one phone call. One extra pillow. One more towel.” He shoots me a two-second glare. “So unless you’ve got money, I’m busy.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, holding in aggression.
“Well? Get goin’.” He jerks his chin to the door. “If you hang around I’m going to assume you want to participate
in the finale.” His eyes meet mine as his mouth curves. “That’ll get you a free phone call.”
Fuck him. And every other motherfucker in this godforsaken city.
I start for the door, majorly pissed and equally helpless, until my palms press against the wood. “What about a Bentley?” I glance at him over my shoulder. “There’s one parked a few blocks from here.”
“And?”
“And you can have it.”
“A Bentley?” He looks at me as if I’m deranged. “You’re offering a car for a phone call?”
“I’m offering someone else’s car for a phone call.”
He raises a brow. “Stolen?”
“Borrowed.”
He crosses his arms over his chest, scrutinizing me. “And the person you borrowed it from?”
“Can afford to replace it without batting an eye.” I pull the car fob from my pocket and lob it toward him. “Just don’t get caught.”
He seizes the projectile with a grin and reaches beneath the counter to place a cell on the scuffed laminate. “I guess we have a deal.”
I wish I could slump with relief, but as necessary as a phone is, the resulting call with Cole isn’t something I’m looking forward to. If only I had the luxury to put it off.
I walk for the counter, about to reach for the cell when the man stands and recaptures the device.
“Hold up, Gucci belt. Where is this borrowed Bentley of yours?”
“A few blocks from here. Maybe a ten-minute walk. I can draw you a map.”
He flashes a mouth full of yellow teeth. “You can walk along with me.”
“That’s not going to happen. Just give me the goddamn phone.”
“Why would I? I already have the car key.”
“You also have a death wish if you plan to fuck me over. Up until this point I’ve been more than civil. I promise that won’t continue if you don’t hand over the cell.”
“They’re big words from a teeny, tiny woman.”
“A teeny, tiny woman who has family in some pretty dark places.” I smile, hoping the curve of my lips exudes equal threat and confidence. “Have you ever pissed off the underworld before, little man?”
His eyes narrow, the squint deepening before he finally pushes to his feet. “Fine. A Bentley for a phone call.”
“A Bentley for a phone call and a room to stay in for a few hours.”
He scoffs. “She comes in here a panting, skittish mouse, and now thinks she’s a ball-busting hustler.”
“Deal or no deal?”
He reaches beneath the counter, the clink of metal sounding before he slaps a key with a large wooden keychain on the laminate. “Take room 102. Ground floor. Two doors down. But if I walk away from here and there’s no Bentley—”
“There’s a Bentley. Now give me a pen and paper so I can draw the damn map.”
He complies, hovering close as I sketch the streets from memory. Once I’m done he snatches the scribbled paper and skirts the counter to stride across the small reception.
“One phone call,” he warns, pulling the front door open. “And there better not be no international charges on my account when I get back.”
I don’t wait for the door to close behind him. I grab the device and dial Cole’s most recent burner number, hoping I’ve remembered the digits correctly. My heart beats a rampant staccato as the chirping rings in my ear. Once. Twice. Three times. Then the message service kicks in.
Shit.
“It’s me,” I start as soon as the beep sounds. “I’m in trouble… I need you to call me back.”
Fuck. What if this cell number isn’t visible?
“Hold on a sec.” I scramble for a brochure. A business card. Anything that might have the contact number of this hellhole.
Goddamnit. What’s the name of this place?
“I’ll have to call you back in a minute. Please answer when I do.” I keep clinging to the cell, keep wishing for some spark of brilliance to blindside me until I concede defeat. “Please, Cole. I need you.”
I disconnect the call and pace through the panic, my Chucks trekking over threadbare carpet.
I don’t know if I’ve waited five minutes or mere seconds when I redial, but the line connects straight away. “Cole?”
“Yes,” his response is gruff.
I close my eyes, the regret and gratitude hitting instantly. “I’m sorry.”
“What have you done?”
I want to laugh. To scoff. To arrogantly inform him of his misconception that I’m responsible for anything. Only I can’t.
“The guy I met… he wasn’t who he said he was.” I wait for a reply that doesn’t come. “I need help getting home, and I need it in a hurry. I’ve got no money. No cell. No ID. I’m stuck here.”
“Where?” he growls.
I drag in a long breath and square my shoulders. “Denver.”
“Give me two seconds.”
There’s a rustle over the line, then muffled words. I hear biting anger. Snapped responses. Then the rustling clears.
“The jet is being arranged. Tell me your exact location.”
“A hotel. Some seedy, rundown place on the outskirts of the city. I don’t think I’m far from the airport.” I maneuver around the reception desk and crouch to look beneath the counter. There are crumpled magazines, discarded rubbish, and a filthy bong.
“I need a name, Layla.”
“I’m trying. Hold on.” I open a drawer finding tissues, a half-used bottle of lube, and condoms. “Jesus Christ. I’m going to have to take a look outside.”
“Is that a problem? Tell me what’s going on.” The annoyed edge remains in his voice, but this time concern lingers. “You said you’re in trouble. Are you in danger?”
I wince, my stomach twisting in knots. “Yes.” I move out from behind the desk and stride for the door.
“Explain. Everything.”
“I don’t know how much time I have.” I pull the handle and poke my head outside, making sure there are no fancy cars or men in suits nearby. “This isn’t my phone.”
“Fucking tell me. I need to know who to bring with me.”
My stomach bottoms.
Normally he travels with his wife, Anissa. Unless there’s a threat. Then there’s Decker or Luca who can provide a show of muscle when necessary.
But there’s one man who accompanies him when blood needs to be spilled.
“Bring Hunter.” The request burns my throat.
“If I’m dragging him out of state and away from Sarah you better tell me why.”
I jog a few steps into the parking lot to stare across the street at the motel sign. “I’m at the Flamingo Inn.”
There’s a pause of silence. A beat that I’m sure is filled with animosity, not frantic notation.
“Tell. Me,” he growls.
“Okay.” I run back to the security of the reception area, closing the door behind me. “I met a guy here months ago. We hit it off, and I’ve been staying with him in his D.C. penthouse for the last few weeks—”
“I don’t give a shit about how you met, Layla. Tell me what I need to know.”
My palms sweat. My stomach twists. “He told me his name was Matthew Langston. He owns nightclubs. Popular ones. I checked them out and they’re legit. Successful. By the book—”
“Layla,” he warns. “I’m not going to ask again.”
This is it. This is where he vows to disown me.
“He said his name was Matthew,” I repeat, needing to ease my way into the admission. “But that’s not his real name.” I swallow, not allowing the emotion to take hold. “Cole, I’m so sorry, but the man I’ve been with is Dante Costa, and him and his family are currently searching Denver to find me.”
38
Matthew
I run from the house, not stopping until I’m at the driver’s door of the Lincoln, unwilling to give Bishop control of setting the pace on our search.
He climbs into shotgun. I slide behind the wheel while
De Marco, Goodin, and Whitby sprint for the gates, already instructed to hide at the front of the property and use any force necessary if someone arrives with Layla.
“I was certain you were going to kill him.” Bishop snatches for his belt as I start the engine and hammer the car into drive.
“I should’ve.” I accelerate hard, kicking up pebbles and dirt to escape through the gates Layla left open.
I jet down the road, the farmhouses and tall trees passing in a blur, any chance of levelheaded thought left behind.
“Where are we going?” Bishop grasps the hand rail above his head.
“I don’t know.”
“But you know we have to get there like a bat out of hell?”
I clench the steering wheel tighter. “This isn’t the time to goad me, motherfucker.” I ease my foot off the pedal. Breathe. Try to think. “You realize they’d be able to track the Bentley, right?”
“Yeah. But she’s smart. She wouldn’t stick with a stolen car for long. I’m sure she’s already ditched it by now.”
“But they’ll still know her last location and we won’t. How far can she get without money or a fucking cell?”
“She doesn’t need to get far. She just has to hide. And she’s good at that, seeing as though she hid the shit with Emmanuel for so fucking long.”
I rerun his argument, focusing on the logic. The reliability. “She’d hide and wait for someone to get her.” I shoot him a glance. “We need to get in contact with her brother.”
He judges me harshly with a raised brow. “You’re going to call Cole Torian?”
“Just find the fucking number. Reach out to one of his restaurants.”
I press my foot back down on the accelerator and head toward the highway, creating a mental list of all the places Layla might turn to—airports, hotels—while Bishop raises his cell to his ear, the subdued ringtone trilling before a woman answers.
“Hey Alesha, I’m trying to get a hold of Cole Torian but I’ve lost his number.”
He pauses, the responding chatter mumbling through the line. “Yeah, I understand. But it’s urgent. There’s been a serious complication with a contact we share. I need to speak to him straight away.”