His eyes narrow with impatience. “I could’ve done something. I could’ve—”
“You couldn’t even tell me your real name.”
“Matthew is my real name.” He straightens, wincing with the movement. “They’re not my family.”
“No?” I raise a brow. “I think your DNA would argue.”
“My DNA doesn’t make them family.”
“That’s exactly what it does.”
His jaw ticks as Bishop takes one retreating step after another until he’s leaning against the far wall, arms crossed over his chest, watching us like a soap opera.
“I was born a Costa.” Matthew hobbles to the fridge, pulling out a bag of vegetables from the freezer drawer to hold against his crotch. “I didn’t stay one.”
“That doesn’t change a thing.”
“No?” He raises a brow as he settles back against the counter. “So you loved your father? You loved a man rumored to traffic sex slaves?”
I press my lips tight, refusing to answer.
“Families aren’t so clear cut are they, amore mio?”
I grind my teeth, scowl my fury, my jaw aching from the tension.
He’s undaunted by my hatred, not batting an eye while he repositions the makeshift ice pack against his crotch. “You could’ve at least told me your family had Emmanuel shot. Especially when I told you yesterday what would happen if I was associated with him being hurt.”
My mouth opens in protest. My heart races.
Is that what Cole had been hiding the last time I was home? Had he instigated war without warning me?
Jesus.
I force my chin high. “Turns out we both had secrets that could hurt the other.”
His gaze assaults me, scrutinizing, a cruel smile curving his lips. “You didn’t know.” He scoffs a laugh. “Your fucking brother didn’t have the sense to tell you.”
“Jesus Christ,” Bishop mutters. “She’s clueless.”
My fingers twist in my lap, my loathing skyrocketing.
Matthew stands taller. “That settles it then. You’re staying with me until this is sorted.”
“That settles it?” I dig my nails into my palms. “How does that settle anything?”
“You still want to run home to a brother who put you in danger?”
Cole’s frantic texts make more sense now. How he wouldn’t quit demanding to know my whereabouts and who I was with. If only he’d told me what was going on.
“You hate your brother,” Matthew states.
“No, I don’t.”
I despise him at times. Am sickened and beside myself with fury occasionally. But I’ve never hated him. Instead, it will be Cole who detests me for the complications I’ve created.
“No? He treats you like shit. Are you really in a hurry to get back to that?”
“As if you’ve treated me any bett—”
“I’ve treated you like a queen. Like my queen. Cole’s actions are the reason you found it so fucking easy to move in with a stranger.”
My stomach twists, the pain spreading.
“You don’t want to return to Portland, Layla.” He gentles his tone. “Once we sort out our differences, you’ll want to stay here.”
“Of course,” I drawl. “I’d much prefer to remain with someone who makes it their job to hide the truth. You even had the balls to introduce Lorenzo as your mentor.”
“He is my mentor.”
“He’s your uncle.”
He inclines his head. “He’s that, too.”
I growl in frustration, my nails embedded in my palms. I need to hurt him like he’s hurting me, but shooting or stabbing would never be enough. I have to reach inside his chest and wring the life from his beating heart, just like he’s done to mine.
I cut my gaze away, unable to withstand those deep, dark eyes anymore, and whisper, “My brother will kill you.”
“In that case, I better make the most of our time together.” He places the ice pack on the marble and rounds the counter. “Bishop, can you give us a minute?”
“Need me to do anything?” Bishop pushes from the wall, his arms falling to his sides.
“Call the charter. Have a jet placed on standby.”
“Destination?”
“To be determined.”
I keep my face cast in the opposite direction as Bishop strides for the entry, the front door closing seconds later.
The tension increases tenfold. My suffering, too.
I wish I still had the knife. Death by cyanide won’t be gruesome enough.
“Layla, listen to me.” Matthew hobbles closer. “Everything between us is real—I promise you that. But I understand I hurt you.” He reaches the sofa and continues to hesitantly sit on the coffee table before me. Knee to knee. “If it’s any solace, I can assure you my balls ache like a motherfucker.”
I keep my mouth shut, not finding solace at all.
The quiet stretches, his gaze haunting my periphery, his body entirely too close.
“The silent treatment isn’t an option either, amore mio. You’re going to have to find a way to push your animosity aside. Remy may have already told Emmanuel about us.”
I snap my head around to glare at him, wordlessly letting him know there is no us.
“Do you understand what’s happening?” His gaze leisurely rakes mine. Unfazed. In command. “Your brother’s shooting would be considered retaliation. An attempt at murder in response to your husband’s death. But this?” He waves a lazy hand between us. “This is personal. Depending on what information Remy shares, you might be held accountable for taking things further. For you, personally, levelling up the war all on your own.”
My throat turns dry.
“I don’t know if they have men in D.C.,” he continues, “or if Emmanuel is capable of arranging retaliation from his hospital bed. But do you want to risk leaving here and finding out how quickly they can strike a helpless woman on her own?”
“I’m not helpless,” I snarl.
“No?” He sinks to his knees before me, the show of submission in conflict with the sickening severity in his eyes. “Do you really think you can protect yourself?” He places his hands on my knees, the heat of his palms seeping through my jeans. “That you’d stand a chance?”
“Don’t touch me.” My voice shakes with the demand. With the disgusting thrill his contact provides.
He slides his fingers farther along my thighs and leans against my shins. “You’re in danger, Layla.”
I know. And not only from Emmanuel.
The man before me is my biggest threat.
His touch is impending doom. His gaze promises suffering of the most wicked kind.
“Get. Your hands. Off me.” I enunciate the words slowly. Violently.
“Admit it,” he murmurs. “You still want to fuck me.”
I raise a hand to slap him only to have my wrist captured in a vise grip. I try with the other and he steals that, too, dragging me forward by my forearms until we’re face-to-face, our breath mingling.
“What we have is real whether you like it or not,” he snarls against my lips. “I can see it in your eyes. You’re still hungry for me.”