I scan under the bed. Nothing.
I scramble to the adjoining bathroom, checking the cupboards and drawers to no avail.
I run for his wardrobe, shoving aside hanging shirts. Kicking away shoes. Throwing and heaving sweaters. I move from one row of shelves to the next, yanking everything from its neatly folded place. The jeans. The gym tanks.
Row after row.
Shelf after shelf.
I don’t stop until a pile of clothes lay strewn on the floor. Then I climb, reaching for the stack of blankets lying dormant on the top ledge. They sail through the air behind me, one after another until my fingers no longer feel material and instead skim cardboard.
I stretch higher, struggling on the tips of my toes, my robe gaping, my sanity failing.
My fingertips brush the corner of a box and I hold my breath as I strain to inch it into sight. Shift by incremental shift, I edge it toward me, my arms straining over my head, my body aching from the uncomfortable pull of muscle.
Once it’s close enough, I wiggle it, the light weight sliding onto my palm. I descend, dragging it with me until one foot slips its perch on the shelf and I jostle to remain upright.
I lose my hold on the shoe box, the lid slipping free before the items inside topple to the pile of clothes on the floor.
“Shit.” I jump down, determined to find what I’m looking for when my gaze catches hold of the contents scattered before me.
My pulse thunders in my ears. My throat. My stomach.
I feel it everywhere, the booming beat pounding through every inch of me.
But it’s not evidence of Remy’s accusation that litters the carpet around me.
It’s worse.
My ID.
My credit cards.
My lipstick and pens and hair ties.
All the things that had been in my purse when I’d been mugged in Denver. Even the small vial of cyanide.
29
Matthew
I juggle to hold the tray of takeaway coffee cups and the oversized bag of food as I shove into the penthouse. “I’m back.”
I should’ve stayed outside longer. Should’ve taken more time to chill the fuck out and strategize my next move. But Layla had already been suspicious when I left, her eyes reading the mood I couldn’t hide.
I kick the door closed behind me and start for the kitchen, stopping dead in my tracks at the sight of the asshole sitting on my sofa, one leg crossed over his knee in relaxation, his arms spread along the headrest.
Fuck.
I scan the room, looking for her, praying she fell back asleep while he somehow broke inside.
“Where is she?” I force calm as I continue to the counter, dumping my haul from the cafe.
He raises a brow, smug. “You mean the woman you’ve been playing?” He jerks his head back toward the hall. “I assume it’s your bedroom she escaped into, Matthew.”
I snarl, my worst fears realized, but it’s his choice of words that give me pause.
He doesn’t use her name. Doesn’t address her as if they have history.
Why?
“I sincerely apologize for ruining the fun.” His voice drips with sarcasm. “If I’d known you were pretending to be someone else I wouldn’t have used your real name.”
“Matthew is my real name.” I stalk across the room, needing to get eyes on her.
“Matthew is who you wish you were. Unfortunately, you’ll never be anyone other than Dante to those who know you best.”
Anger stabs through my skull, blinding in its efficiency.
I stop my progression to the hall, unable to escape the rage fighting for control.
“What is it, brother?” Remy drawls. “Does the truth hurt?”
One second, I’m determined to find Layla. The next, I’m cocking my fist as I reach the sofa and launch my knuckles at his face.
My punch connects with his chin, the impact screaming through my bones.
I launch again and again, pounding, pummeling. Seeing blood and tasting fraudulent victory.
But he’s already won. I know he’s ruined everything as he uses both feet to kick me backward, sending me tumbling over the coffee table, my head hitting the tiles.
“That was a fucking cheap shot.” He shoves to his feet to tower above me, that smug expression now wiped from his face. “You may be older than me, but I’m no longer a kid you can push around.”
I shove to my elbows, then rise to stand in front of him. “I bet you’re still your daddy’s little snitch, though, riding his dirty coattails all the way to the bank.”
His eyes flare. Nostrils, too.
I tense for retaliation and don’t have to wait long for his fist to swing for my face.
I block the strike with my forearm. It’s the swift kick to my ankle I don’t expect. I stumble sideways, grabbing his shoulders in the process, then punch him in the gut.
We grapple and shove. Swing and charge.
I ram him into the sofa. He pummels my head with his knuckles.
The little fucker is right. He isn’t easily pushed around anymore. It takes a good two minutes to pin him beneath me before I grab him in a choke hold.
“I told you not to come here.” I spit blood to the tiles.
“And I told you we needed to talk.” He bares his teeth, the vicious smile covered in crimson.
“It’s been fifteen years.” I add pressure to his throat, clamping down on his carotid. “There’s nothing we could possibly discuss.”
“You were fucking shot at. Excuse me for caring.”
Caring?
My hold loosens without my consent, my intuition searching for the real reason he’s entered my life after more than a decade apart.
The swoosh of an opening door steals my attention. Footsteps patter toward us.
I raise my gaze to the hall, finding Layla standing there in my thin silk robe, knife in hand, face pale, eyes wild.
I release Remy and scramble to my feet. “Let me explain.”
She storms toward me, blade raised in threat, while her other hand reaches into the robe pocket. “Explain this.” She throws something at me, the small projectile hitting my chest before ricocheting to the floor. “And this.” She grabs something else, throwing that, too.
I drag my gaze from the pain I created, the anger I deserve, and take in the items she continues to launch at me.
Lipstick.
Concealer.
A packet of tissues.
“Explain, you fucking son of a bitch.” She holds up her ID. “How did you get this?”
I close my eyes, stealing the briefest second of respite from her suffering before I return my gaze to hers. “It’s not what you think. I didn’t—”
“You didn’t what?” Her eyes spark like the devil. “You didn’t play me from the moment we met, Dante?”
I clench my fists, wanting to slaughter Remy for what he’s caused.
“Oh, shit.” The fucker snickers. “The cat’s really out of the bag.”
“Listen to me.” I step closer, needing her to understand. To think clearly. “This is what I wanted to discuss.” I grab her wrist, hoping touch will help her remember our connection.
“Let me go.” She fights my hold. Twisting. Tugging.
Fuck.
I loosen my grip.
She yanks to free herself, her hand sliding through mine. The ID gets caught as she tussles, falling to the floor.