by Eden Summers
The response is short and sharp.
“It’s a business matter,” he clarifies. “I can’t give specifics. But I will warn you someone will be held accountable if the message arrives late. I’d hate for that to be you.”
I take the ramp onto the multi-lane highway, one eye on Bishop, the other on the road.
“Okay. Fine,” he mutters. “Pass on the message that the situation in Denver is critical. If he doesn’t call Matthew Langston straight away it will be too late.”
I scowl, knowing Cole will interpret the information as a threat.
“Thanks, Alesha. I appreciate the help.” Bishop disconnects and lowers the phone. “Now we wait.”
“We wait?” I contemplate reaching over and slamming his head against the window. “Did you have to be so fucking dramatic? You could’ve paved the way for a more amiable introduction. This asshole doesn’t know me.”
“It was a call to action.” He shrugs. “I bet he reaches out in minutes.”
I bet he does, too.
I bet he dials my number with rage in his veins and death on his mind.
Bishop scans the cars around us. “Where are we headed?”
“Centennial Airport. Her brother won’t get a jet near the international tarmac.” I coast us down the inside lane, gliding in and out of traffic.
No call comes through though.
Not in five minutes. Or ten.
I take the turn to Centennial with increasing pessimism, haunted by the last picture I saw of Grace and wondering if it’s already too late to save Layla when my cell vibrates in my jacket. The incoming call connects to the car’s Bluetooth, Private Number flashing across the dash display screen.
“Here goes nothin’.” Bishop sits taller.
I answer the call. “This is Matthew.”
“Is it though?” A superior drawl carries through the speakers. I don’t need to confirm it’s Cole. “I’ve heard you go by another name.”
“Not anymore I don’t. But that’s a conversation for a time when your sister’s life isn’t on the line.” I pull over to concentrate, letting the car idle on a random curb while I fight the need to rub at the pressure building beneath my temples. “I need you to help me find Layla.”
He scoffs a laugh. “You made the wrong choice, getting involved with her.”
“I didn’t know who she was when we first met.”
“But you stuck around to fuck with her once you did.”
I don’t answer. I bite my fucking tongue until I taste blood.
“What was the aim, Matthew Langston?” he asks with censure. “Did you want to get to me through her? To finish what your father started?”
“He hasn’t been my father for a long time, asshole. I want nothing to do with Emmanuel. Or you, for that matter. I don’t know what Layla told you, but I only want to protect her.”
“And are you usually this incompetent at the things you set out to achieve?”
“I’m incompetent?” I seethe. “I’m not the son of a bitch who shot a motherfucking psychopath after two years radio silence, then didn’t tell my goddamn sister about it to ensure her safety. None of this would’ve fucking happened if—”
The line disconnects, the barely heard hum of the radio kicking back in.
What the fuck did I just do? What the absolute fuck?
“Well… that could’ve gone better,” Bishop mutters. “I’m sure he’ll call back.”
I slam my palm against the steering wheel. Over and over. Harder and harder.
That heartless prick won’t call back.
I sure as hell wouldn’t.
He doesn’t know me. Need me. Trust me.
Layla, where the fuck are you?
“Calm your shit, Langston. We’ll figure this out.” Bishop thumps my chest. “Either we find her and everything is apples. Or your brothers do, then De Marco will retrieve her before she gets to Emmanuel. Or fucking Torian will get his ass here and pick her up.”
Maybe.
Or maybe my brothers aren’t the men Abri thinks they are.
Maybe they’ll kill her on sight. Or hand her off to someone who will do it for them.
“Come on.” Bishop taps the dash. “Let’s get to the airport and check the parking lot for the Bentley.”
“And if it’s not there?”
“We hustle and figure out another fucking plan. You can call your snake of a sister and figure out a way to convince her to relay the last known location of her car.” He bangs his fist against the dash this time. “We’ve got options, Langston. But for now you need to fucking move.”
“Since when have you cared so much about Layla?” I pull back into traffic, breaking the speed limit with my acceleration.
“I don’t. Abri made a fool out of me back there. It’s pride I’m fighting for.”
Sure it is.
He gives a shit about Layla. At the very least, he gives a shit about me giving a shit about her.
“Message our pilot.” I focus on the cars ahead. “Make sure we’re refueled and able to take flight at a moment’s notice.”
If Layla’s at Centennial, I’ll make sure we’re in the air within minutes. Willingly or not.
He does as requested, swiping at his device while mine begins to shudder against my chest, the incoming call reconnecting to Bluetooth.
Bishop glances my way. “Want me to talk this time?”
“If you open your mouth, I’ll fucking kill you.” I answer the call. “It took you long enough to wake up to yourself, Torian.”
“I suggest you check the tone and the attitude, you arrogant piece of shit.”
Not Torian.
Not a man at all.
The voice is female. Confident. Merciless.
“Forgive my assumption.” I frown at Bishop. “Who am I speaking to?”
“Keira. Layla’s sister. And I don’t have the patience to deal with self-serving motherfuckers right now, so shut up and listen.”
I raise a brow, grated by the attitude, yet fucking grateful for the contact.
“My sister told me she loved you,” she states simply.
The blindside hits me like a bus, the tension in my ribs exploding.
“She texted me,” she continues. “It was a few simple words, but she’s never sent me anything like that before. Not in reference to her husband. Not when she was dating in high school. Unless she’s talking about her daughter, those words haven’t existed in her vocabulary until a few days ago. So why did I just overhear my brother say you were playing her?”
“I didn’t play her.” My chest takes the onslaught of her accusations, the L-word knocking me down more pegs than I can stand to fall.
“So you didn’t hide your identity? You didn’t pretend to be someone she could trust instead of someone she would despise?”
The car falls silent, my ears ringing with my mistakes.
“I’m waiting,” she snips. “Explain what the hell you were thinking in targeting my sister.”
“I wasn’t,” I admit. “I was spying on Emmanuel the night we met. She was, too. And I wanted to know why. There was no malice or ill intent. I only wanted answers.”
“And?”
“And once I got them, I needed more.”
The line falls quiet, the silence making me focus on the dash display to see if she’s hung up.
“Do you love her?” Her voice softens.
“I’ve told her as much since the day we met.”
It’s a cop-out. My endearments have never been spoken in anything but playful banter. But do I love her?
I’d kill for her.
Die for her.
Keira sighs. “I don’t believe you.”
“Then believe this—the last time I saw her she’d stolen my sister’s car. One that’s sophisticated enough to have GPS tracking. She has no money. No phone. No identification. And your brother doesn’t seem to give a shit.”
“He gives a shit, you ignorant prick. We all do. Cole walked out of her
e as soon as he knew the jet was ready. He’s already on his way to Denver.”
“Has he brought a body bag? Or is he stupid enough to expect her to still be alive in a few hours?”
“Fuck,” Bishop mutters under his breath. “Bees and honey, champ. Bees and fucking honey.”
I close my eyes. Breathe deep. Force a patient swallow. “Look, I’m beside myself trying to get to her before they do, but I’ve got no clue where to start looking. Do you know where she is or not?”
The quiet returns.
I’m forced to stalk the display screen again. “Keira?”
“A hotel.” She sighs. “I don’t know which one or where exactly. Cole told Hunter it’s on the outskirts of the city. She was advised to stay there until he arrives.”
“Can you get me a name?”
“No. I already stole your number and am blindly trusting that my sister saw something in you that was real… At least, real enough to save her life. You’re going to have to do the rest on your own.”
“We’ll find the hotel,” Bishop mouths.
“Okay. Fine.” I wipe a hand down my face. “I’ll figure it out.”
“Good,” Keira responds. “Because if you don’t, I’m sure you know what will happen.”
39
Layla
I pace the carpet of the dirty hotel room for hours, only taking short intermission breaks to inch the cheap plastic blinds apart to see what’s going on outside.
Cars come and go on the busy street, the frantic traffic driving by like a thousand and one potential threats.
I’m hungry.
Tired.
And although it’s hard to admit, I’m scared, too.
Fear didn’t eat me like this when I was under Emmanuel’s roof. I’d felt protected. Stupidly immune because Matthew was by my side.
Now he’s not here, and I’m unsure what will happen if the Costas find me.
“Hey. Open up.” The reception guy knocks on my door. “I found that car of yours.”
I remain quiet, my heart trembling, my feet cautiously creeping me toward the entry.
“I said, I found that stolen car of yours,” he says louder. “Are you going to open up or not?”
“Keep your voice down.” I double check the security chain and open the door a crack, finding him an inch away, his acrid breath turning my stomach. “What do you want?”
He eyes me from face to feet and back again. “I hope you’re not bringing trouble my way.”
“I’m not.” I try to close the door only to have him lean his hip and shoulder into it.
“Well, you might like to know someone was calling about a woman fitting your description earlier. Said it was important they got in contact with you.”
My pulse skips a beat. “Who was it? What did you say?”
“They didn’t give a name.” He runs his tongue over a rotting front tooth. “And I told ’em nothin’, but that payment of yours is only going to go so far if I’m getting caught up in something that’s not my business.”
“You won’t.” I pull the door a smidge wider to chance a peek outside, then begin to close it again. “I’ll be gone soon.”
He thumps the wood with his hip. “How soon?”
“Any goddamn minute. Okay?”
I’m hoping Cole is already in Denver. If not, he has to be close.
“All right, Gucci belt. But just so you know, if I get another phone call, I might be tempted to sing like a little canary.” He runs a hand down his chest to his stomach. My gaze isn’t tempted to follow the path farther as he jerks his hips. “If you want we can come to an agreement on a cash-free transaction that will ensure my silence. What do you say?”
“Go to hell.” I shove the door shut and secure the flimsy handle lock.
I return to pacing, my fluctuating adrenaline having me hyped one minute and heartbeats from being comatose the next. I’m starving, scared, and nauseated. Helpless, hopeless, and horrified at what’s to come.
But it’s the familiar tone calling out, “Hey” ten minutes later that has every hair on my body standing on end.
I tiptoe to the window to peek through the plastic blinds, finding a black Mercedes pulled into a nearby parking space with Salvatore standing at the open door.
“I said, hey.” He focuses to the left of my room. Remy is nowhere in sight.
“What do you want?” the creep from reception calls back. “I’m busy.”
Oh, shit.
I slowly glide the blind back into place and sidestep to the door, holding my ear close to the frame.
“Have you seen a girl?” Salvatore asks. “Dark hair. Jeans. Blouse.”
“Pretty face?” the creep replies.
I backtrack toward the dilapidated kitchenette, my limbs heavy as I open the top drawer to find two plastic forks and a metal butter knife. There’s nothing else. No potential weapon. No cause for hope.
I’m going to have to escape through the bathroom window into the alley. Then what? Run for my life? Hide around the corner until Cole comes face-to-face with a man responsible for his brother-in-law’s murder?
They’ll kill each other.
“I guess,” Salvatore replies. “So, you’ve seen her?”
“No, but I’d like to.” The creep snickers. “If you find her, do you think you can give her my number?”
I don’t buy the act. Paranoia has me picturing the sleazy asshole blatantly pointing Salvatore toward my door.
“You sure you haven’t seen her?” This time it’s Remy’s voice, closer than his brother’s. “She isn’t hiding in one of your rooms, is she?”
A car door slams. A shadow passes my window.
I blindly trek backward toward the bathroom, my limbs growing heavy. I’m about to step into the tiled area when a skitter of sound carries from the alley, the subtle rattle of my bathroom window following.
My throat burns. The pounding beat of my heart threatens to crack my fragile ribs.
Did Salvatore run to the back of the building?
Now there’s nowhere to go.
I lunge toward the wall beside the open bathroom door, my back to the plaster covered in fingerprints, the butter knife clutched in my hand.
My head fills with visions of Stella, my eyes burning at the thought of never seeing her again.
I wipe my tingling nose with the back of my hand, measure my breathing, and raise the knife, preparing to strike. I won’t go down without a fight. Butter knife or not, I’ll cause injury.
Remy’s voice continues to carry from the parking lot at the scrape of the window opening. A light footstep against the tiles follows.
Salvatore is inside. He’s right there.
The ring of static grows in my ears.
I hold my breath, my raised arm throbbing, my heart frantic.
As soon as the suit-covered frame hits my periphery I lunge only to have the knife blocked, my wrist snatched, and my arm twisted behind my back before a rough hand clamps over my mouth.
“Quiet, amore mio.” Matthew holds me against his chest. “Save your screams for later.”
I hyperventilate, my breaths short and sharp as relief pummels me.
I hate him. But I hate even more that I love that he’s here.
“If they find you, you’re done,” he whispers in my ear. “Do you understand?”
I nod, grateful and angry. Panicked and indebted. Hurting and so goddamn confused.
“Good.” His palm falls from my mouth. “We need to get you out of here.”
I turn to face him, retreating a step. “Cole’s coming to get me.”
“He’s not here now, though, and my brothers are right outside your door.” He grabs my wrist and drags me toward the bathroom. “Come on. The car’s in the alley.”
I attempt to pull my arm free, but he tightens his hold.
“Don’t test me, amore mio.” The endearment is growled. “My patience is dead.”
“Please give me your phone.” I implore him, no longer cap
able of fighting. “Let me call and see where he is.”
“In the car.”
I pause, barely recognizing him through the aggression. Sweat beads along his brow. His eyes are wild. And that hold of his is restrictive—tight and confounding, like he refuses to release the tether holding us together.
I shake my head, wishing I could depend on him but knowing I can’t.
“You’d prefer to take your chances wasting time in here than trust me to save you?” He inches closer, his brows furrowing. “Do you hate me that much?”
My heart says no.
My head disagrees.
“Let me call him. It won’t take long.”
“I’ll throw you over my shoulder, Layla. You know I will. Stop using my mistakes as an excuse to risk your life. You’re smarter than that.” He releases me, his chin rising at the loss of contact. “I’ll make sure you see Cole, okay? I’ve already spoken to him once today. Your sister, too.”
I flinch in confusion. “How? Why?”
“I knew you had no way of getting home.”
I swallow, hating how useless and predictable I’ve become. “He knows what you did,” I whisper. “And who you are.”
“He told me as much.”
“He’ll kill you,” I add, gaining face the only way I know how.
“Yeah, he made that clear, too.”
“Can we get the fuck out of here?” Bishop mutters from the alley. “Save the foreplay for later.”
I scowl at the interruption. At the bullshit Bishop always provides.
“Look.” Matthew raises his hands in surrender. “I understand your hatred.”
“No, you don’t.” He couldn’t comprehend how my father did the exact same thing to me. How I was led to believe I was adored when I wasn’t. That I was appreciated when instead I’d only been used.
“If I’d known about your connection with Emmanuel, I never would’ve—”
“Deceived me for every minute we were together?” I accuse. “You knew I deserved to be told they were your family.”
“And you would’ve run.”
“Exactly.” I rub my wrist where his hand had just been, soothing the tingling skin. “If I’d been aware, I never would’ve been with you.”