I white-knuckle the handle to slam the door closed only for the momentum to stop as he lunges forward to shove his hands against the wood.
“Whoa, there. I didn’t expect a welcome party, but this is a bit dramatic, don’t you think?” He shoves harder against the barrier between us, overpowering me. “Where is he?”
“Where is who?” I shake my head, my voice hoarse.
He stalks forward, nudging me out of the way to continue into the living room. “Nice try. But he sent me a colorful text a few minutes ago, so I know he’s awake.”
My pulse stutters, ricocheting through my chest with the force of jagged shrapnel. “You’re in contact with Matthew?”
He stops in the middle of the open area and swings around to face me, continuing to walk backward into the penthouse. “Look, there’s no need to freak out. I’ll do you a solid and make sure he doesn’t blame you for letting me in. Okay?”
I drag in a ragged breath, realizing the extent of what I’ve done. Not only am I face-to-face with my enemy while completely unprepared, I’ve also let the son of the man who murdered Grace into Matthew’s home.
“Get out.” Venom enters my voice. “Get the fuck out.”
“Not going to happen.” He swings toward the hall leading to the bedrooms. “Dante, where are you?”
The name snaps me rigid, every ounce of blood in my body siphoning to my feet.
The asshole shoots a glance over his shoulder, levelling me with a demeaning smirk. “Sorry, you referred to him as someone else, didn’t you? What name is my brother going by these days?”
I turn cold. Blood. Heart. Breath. “You’ve got the wrong apartment.”
This has to be a mistake.
A coincidence.
Dante Costa must live in this building. Matthew has to be watching him, too.
I inch toward the kitchen, destined for the knife block calling to me from the middle of the counter.
“Dante,” he raises his voice. “Get out here.”
“Leave.” My tone sounds like a beg as I reach the marble counter, my ears thunderous with my frantic pulse. “Before I call the police.”
I’m ignored. Entirely dismissed as he strolls toward the dining table, picking up last week’s mail. “Matthew Langston.” The name rolls off his tongue with heavy criticism. “I guess it’s no surprise he chose a variant of his middle name. He never liked Mateo.” He swings back to face me. “So where…”
His question falls short as I slide the knife from the wooden block, his gaze narrowing on the sharp blade. “Planning on stabbing me, sugar?”
“I plan on doing whatever necessary to get you out of here.” I cinch the robe tighter around my middle with my free hand, my nakedness beneath the silk making me feel far too vulnerable.
“How long has he been playing you?” His expression turns into mock sympathy.
Black dots assail my vision.
Matthew isn’t playing me. He can’t be. Not for weeks. Not after he demanded my honesty.
I would’ve sensed the treachery. Felt the deceit.
Wouldn’t I?
“Get out.” I thrust the knife toward the entry. “Now.”
“Damn.” His brows rise. “He’s been doing this for a while, hasn’t he? You poor, sweet thing.”
His derision undoes me, unraveling the binds of loyalty that tie me to the man I’d fallen for.
“Dante,” he calls toward the hall. “Get the fuck out here.”
“He’s not here,” I scream. “It’s just me. And if you dare to do anything to me, I swear my family will return the favor tenfold.”
“Dare to do to you?” He frowns. “Why the fuck would I want to do anything to you?” He looks me up and down again, the frown deepening. “For starters, you’re out of my usual age bracket. No offence. And I’d never lower myself to stick my dick where my brother has already been. Especially if that brother is Dante.”
He doesn’t know who I am?
I cling tighter to the knife, my palm beginning to sweat.
This son of a bitch doesn’t recognize me? He dared abduct my daughter. Was vicious enough to participate in the death of my husband. But didn’t bother to learn the faces of the lives he’d torn apart?
Fuck him.
“Look, I’m sorry he’s been playing games.” He crosses his arms over his chest with a look of chagrin. “But I need to speak to him about the shooting. I assume you were the one with him.”
No.
I shake my head, refusing to understand the reality taking shape around me.
“I get that you’re pissed.” He ignores the knife as if it doesn’t exist. “But don’t women usually snoop for shit like this? Aren’t those tactics in your DNA?”
My DNA is currently made up of rage and ruin. Devastation and destruction.
And I had snooped.
I’d checked the mail minutes after first walking into the penthouse. I spoke to people Matthew works with. People he knows. Not a single soul addressed him as anything other than the name he gave me. Not helicopter pilots. Not waitresses. Not one single motherfucker on the face of the Earth.
I’d also done a thorough check on his clubs. All are owned by Matthew Langston. All of them legitimately structured without shell companies or dodgy dealings.
There’d been no indication. No inkling I’d been played the entire time my heart and soul had succumbed.
“Obviously his bills aren’t anything to go by.” Remy shrugs. “But surely you would’ve thought to go through his wallet. Or his drawers. He’d have something lying around.”
He’s right.
If Matthew isn’t who he says he is, there has to be evidence.
I drop the knife, the metal clinking against the marble as violence floods my veins. I reach for the nearest drawer, scavenging for anything to ease the sickness in my stomach.
I go through cupboards, below the marble counter and above. I search for anything with a name on it. With a hint. With a clue. And come up empty.
“Maybe try the bedroom,” Remy drawls. “Go on. I’ll wait.”
I glare and snatch for the knife.
Admissions bubble in my chest. The confessions of where I plan to drive my blade and why, all begging to be heard.
I could kill him and claim self-defense. But the pain of possible betrayal by a man I love punishes me far more than my need to decimate Remy Costa.
I trek his every move while I stalk across the room. Then keep one eye on my back as I enter the hall.
When I reach the bedroom, where pleasure and bliss had been awakened after years of drought, I pause, hating myself with or without evidence.
If Remy’s claims are true, I’ll never recover.
There’s no going back from this type of mistake. Not after the ones I’ve already made.
God, please don’t let it be true.
I step inside, slam the door behind me, throw the knife to the bed, and fall to my knees at the closest bedside table.
I yank the top drawer from its holding and dump the contents on the carpet.
There are coins and buttons. Receipts and innocuous tidbits, too.
Normal things. Innocent things.
I pull out the second and the third drawer. Socks and underwear fall to the floor. Stupid typical items that deny me the proof of Remy’s claims.