“Who was that?” Questions slam into me. “Who were they targeting?” I look to Matthew, the man who previously told me he had enemies.
He glances away, shoving a hand through his hair as he sneers more Italian into his phone.
My scrambled thoughts turn inward, the need for answers overwhelming.
What if I was the target?
I choke on an inhale, struggling to breathe.
Emmanuel has to know my family don’t forget an injustice.
What if he found out I’d been in Denver? What if news got back to him that a stolen purse had been discovered with my ID and a vial of cyanide that all but had his name on it?
“Who the fuck knows? This could be anything from terrorism, to attempted assassination, to sabotage against the hotel chain.” Bishop jerks his chin toward the restaurant. “But from the look of those bullet holes, it was either a warning or the person taking aim reads braille.”
I follow the direction of his chin to see the shattered windows and the pockmarked facia above the frames. All the holes are well above head level. Too high to be life-threatening.
“Get Lorenzo out of here.” Matthew pockets his cell and leans down to glide his fingers over the back of my arm, gently coaxing me to my feet.
“No,” the old man growls. “I’m not leaving until I have answers.”
“Don’t be a stubborn fool.” Matthew keeps me close at his side as he narrows his eyes on Bishop. “Go with him. Take him home to see his doctor. Make sure he’s okay.”
One of Lorenzo’s guards holsters his weapon beneath his jacket. “Or at least wait inside.”
“You’ll take him home,” Matthew demands, his face contorting with aggression. “Now.”
He’s barely recognizable. The sophistication is gone, replaced with lethal authority. Feral fury. I don’t know this man.
“I dare you to defy me,” he warns. “You may gain his anger for dragging him out of here, but I’ll kill you if he gets hurt.”
I stiffen.
He walks into me, hustling us from the outdoor dining area by the crook of my arm, not allowing them a rebuttal or me a chance to think.
I’m hurried through the restaurant and into the hotel reception, my feet numb, my ears still ringing, my panic making thoughts unclear.
“Where are we going?” I struggle to keep up as he increases our pace, dragging me past staff who run in the opposite direction, their blurring faces rushing toward those yelling for help from the restaurant. “Matthew?”
“It’s best if we get to our room. You’ll be safe there.”
I stop, needing the stillness to settle my foggy mind.
If the attack was targeting me, I’d be more safe at home. With my family. Where security is part of our genes.
With siblings already sick of your complications.
What’s more important is that I need to get to Stella. To make sure she’s all right. To ensure I haven’t put her in harm’s way.
“Layla, we need to keep moving.” He pulls me toward the bank of elevators.
“No. Wait.” I tug my arm from his grip. “I can’t stay here. I have to get to my daughter.”
“Your daughter is fine. You’re fine.” He leans close, his beseeching eyes demanding me to understand. “Once we get to the room, the quiet will help.”
The confidence he exudes makes it easy to believe him. To at least trust mindlessly while my thoughts remain scrabbled.
He reclaims my hand and drags me to the elevators, my fear making me pliable. I blink in a daze as he presses the call button. I breathe shallow while more shouts reverberate off the walls and the blare of sirens approach.
We just walked out of there. A crime scene. A possible attempt on my life. Or was it his? Or Lorenzo’s? Maybe the target was the hotel and its owners.
So why does it feel like it was all me?
My mistakes.
My problems.
My life on the line.
The metal doors open and Matthew closes in behind me, guiding me forward with heavy hands on my hips.
The air around us grows thicker in the confined space. My chest tightens. I can’t get enough oxygen. I can’t fill my lungs.
“You’re okay.” Matthew presses a button to close the doors, then moves in front of me. Foot to foot. Eye to eye. “It’s over. You don’t need to worry.”
He has no clue.
This profoundly protective man has no idea I might have been the cause of this. That I would bring more untold danger into his life if we remained together.
“You’re in shock.” He presses a kiss to my forehead, the caress barely felt through my turmoil.
His affection is sweet… and caring… and something I’m entirely unworthy of.
I put him in harm’s way. If not today, then with my actions in Denver.
The elevator jolts as it starts to ascend, the whir of movement increasing my turmoil. “I don’t want to go to the room, Matthew. I want to go home. I need you to take me back to the helicopter.”
“It’s over, amore mio.”
I shake my head. “You don’t understand.”
Even though I’ve been careful—covering my tracks, using cash for every payment—Emmanuel still could’ve found me.
He may have got his hands on airport passenger lists… or tracked my phone somehow… or… Fuck. Could the Costas be watching Matthew like he’s been watching them?
“Breathe.” He cups my cheeks, his hard eyes demanding compliance. “I understand just fine. Trust me. I looked after you in Denver, right? And I’ve given you no reason to doubt me ever since. I’ll take care of you, Layla. I promise.”
His assurance crumples me. Sickens.
This is the exact drama I promised not to bring into his life. It has to be far worse than Bishop could’ve anticipated. My existence could ruin them both.
The elevator bumps to a stop, the doors open, and nausea overwhelms me when Matthew strides for the hall.
I can’t follow.
“I need to go home.” I inch toward the button panel. “I’ll find my own way to the airport.”
I don’t care about my belongings. They’re replaceable.
What I can’t handle is another death on my hands.
“I won’t let you leave on your own.” His voice is barely contained frustration.
“I’ll call my brother.”
I’ll tell him everything—my plans to take down the Costas, my stolen purse, the vial of cyanide. I’ll beg for understanding…
And then what?
I’ll become a bigger burden. A more despised part of the family.
A sob clogs my throat. “I have to go.”
“I said no.” Matthew storms into the elevator, hauls me off my feet, and lobs me over his shoulder. “I swore to protect you, and if that means from your own bad decisions, then so be it.”
“Put me down.” I wiggle with his booming steps, only resulting in him tightening his hold around my waist. “Matthew, I’m serious. Put me down.”
“And I’m fucking serious,” he growls. “You’re not leaving. I need you with me.”
I need you.
I. Need. You.
Each word slices at my skin, the unfamiliar sentiment tearing a sob from my scorched throat.