Muscles flicker under his stubbled jaw.
“Why?” I demand.
“Because he knows I’d give my life to make sure you don’t end up like Grace.”
I straighten. Stiffen.
“He knows I would die for you.” His eyes harden with the admission. “Either by Emmanuel’s actions or by going back to work for Lorenzo, and he fucking hates it. But if that’s the price I have to pay, so be it. I won’t lose you.”
28
Layla
“Did you grow up in D.C?” I stare at Matthew sitting behind the wheel of our luxurious rental, his sunglasses hiding his eyes.
“No. I moved there to start over.”
“Once you stopped working for Lorenzo?”
He nods, keeping his gaze on the road.
Yesterday came and went in a blur of emotional overload. After the shooting, then the sex, we spent the rest of the day in a weird state of hesitant conversation.
Although the embargo on information has been trampled, it’s clear we both find it hard to open up. I’d share a tidbit about my life, something insignificant and trivial, then he’d do the same.
He told me he had good grades in school. Lost his virginity to Grace. Played football. And planned to buy another club next month in Philadelphia. But I still don’t really know his past, and the same has to be said for him with me.
I haven’t told him why I hate the Costas. He hasn’t divulged the work he did for Lorenzo. Secrets still linger between us. The only thing we successfully achieved was a strengthened physical bond.
We laid in bed for hours, naked and sweaty, doing with our bodies what we couldn’t with our minds.
He touched me everywhere, learning every curve, committing all my sensitive spots to memory. And I did the same with him. We showered and ate, then repeated the loop all over again, adding glimpses of insight when quiet sank in, and contemplating the future when the truth became too hard.
Full disclosure will take time. And until that happens, there’s chemistry to rely on.
I can’t even look at him without tingling between my thighs.
That mouth has tasted every part of me. Those strong fingers have delved into parts I never knew existed.
This morning, we left the hotel without police intervention.
As Lorenzo promised, nobody questioned us about the shooting. Hotel staff didn’t mention the events, either. The only telltale sign that anything happened were the contractors working on the damage.
It was Matthew’s idea to arrange the rental car and drive to D.C. without Bishop as a third wheel. And I’ve spent the long hours on the road staring at my lover’s profile, our fingers entwined on the gearstick, my heart fully owned by a man I know wholeheartedly and don’t have the slightest understanding of at the same time.
“You’re always checking your phone,” he murmurs. “Have you spoken to your brother about us yet?”
I slide the cell under my leg and glance out the windscreen. “You know I haven’t.”
“Will you tell me before you do? I’d like to know when I should be pulling the Kevlar from the dresser.”
I whisper a laugh, but pain stabs through me.
Cole won’t understand what I have with Matthew. Not even when he fell for someone equally problematic.
“I’ll call him tomorrow and feed him whatever information necessary to keep him off my back. But I won’t be telling him about us for a while.”
He squeezes my fingers, giving me support in the most subtle of ways.
“I want to keep you to myself for a little longer.” I drag our entwined hands into my lap. “Is that okay?”
“It’s not only okay, it’s a preference. We should figure ourselves out before anyone else gets involved.”
Figuring ourselves out means full disclosure.
That could take days. Maybe weeks.
I’m not sure I can ignore my brother that long. I’ll try though.
As it is, Cole calls three times on the journey back to D.C. and texts twice. But the only person I reply to is Stella. I check in to make sure she’s doing her homework and eating properly. Then I ask about her nightmares and the latest visit with her counselor, because here I am, living wild and free, while she continues to suffer for my mistakes.
When we arrive at the penthouse, Matthew drags our suitcase into his bedroom, discarding it at the door to his walk-in robe before pulling me against his chest. “You’re quiet.”
“I’m contemplative.” I paste on a smile. “There’s a lot to think about.”
“And we still need to talk.” He guides an errant strand of hair behind my ear. “We should’ve done it in the car, but you’ve been so damn quiet. One word from me and I expect you to run.”
“I don’t have my running shoes on.”
He flashes a grin at my lame humor, the expression quickly fading. “When are we going to do this, amore mio?”
I don’t know.
I don’t want to start counting down the minutes before he starts to look at me with judgment for my role in the Costas’ actions instead of the constant admiration I’m used to.
He knows what our world demands of us. He, more than normal people, will understand how low I stooped to help my father.
“Tonight?” I hedge.
His brows pull tight. “I have to work. There are loose ends from the shooting that I have to chase up.”
“What loose ends?”
“I haven’t heard from Lorenzo. I need to make sure everything is under control.”
“You can’t do that here?” I don’t want to be alone tonight. Tomorrow, maybe. But not now.
“This isn’t like you.” His eyes narrow. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing.” I step back, pasting on a smile. “I just assumed you’d be home, that’s all. We can talk tomorrow.”
I ignore the hollowness growing beneath my sternum.
I already understand the types of things Matthew would’ve done for Lorenzo. The intimidation. The threats. The violence. We both have a past that’s unkind. But will my sins outweigh his? What I did was personal. In comparison, his brutality would’ve been sterile and strategic. A necessity instead of self-fulfilling.
“You’re worried.” His attention doesn’t soften. He stares, reading me, his intense observation sinking under my skin.
“I’m tired.”
“Whose fault is that?” He grabs my wrist and drags me back into his chest. “You do nothing to discourage my hunger. But you’re also lying because you still don’t want to talk, do you?”
I contemplate another lie.
“What part of it is the problem?” He holds me close. “You don’t want to discuss your family or your connection to the Costas?”
I don’t want to discuss any of it. Not one single part of my existence before he entered my life.
I keep my mouth shut, unsure how to respond when his cell vibrates in his jacket.
“Shit.” He releases me and pulls out the device. “It’s Lorenzo. I need to take this.”
A hard kiss is plastered to my lips before he strides across the room, answering the call as he shoves open the balcony door to step outside. He greets his mentor in pristine Italian, the words turning to murmurs once he closes the door behind him.