“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.”