“Fine. Be my guest.” Salvatore smirks and turns to the house, swinging an arm toward the front door. “But it’s her funeral.”
34
Matthew
I open Layla’s door, offering a hand to help her climb out only to fight frustration when she pushes away my hospitality.
I make sure she stays at my side as we’re led into the house, Salvatore climbing the curved entry staircase, a guard marching close at his back when he enters the upper-level hall.
We become a long line of temperamental fuckery as we stride into a wing of the mansion that didn’t exist when I was a child. Bishop and De Marco remain in my shadow, followed by Adena, Remy, Abri and their second guard, then Goodin and Whitby at the rear.
“You sure you want to do this?” Salvo stops at a closed door at the end of the hall, his hand poised on the handle. “Times may change, Dante, but he hasn’t learned to listen.”
I glower. “Open the fucking door.”
He shrugs and does as requested, pushing the painted wood wide to continue inside, the guard on his tail. He exposes a sunlit room full of medical equipment, Emmanuel seated in the middle on an inclined hospital bed. The grey-haired bastard’s legs are covered by sheets and a knitted blanket, his torso draped in an oversized grey shirt with heart monitor cables snaking out from one of the short sleeves and neck hole.
He’s lost weight since the last time I saw him at Perfezione, his cheeks now gaunt, his skin a pale shade of grey.
“Son.” He greets me without surprise, the Italian accent lingering in his voice while he repositions himself to sit taller. “I was beginning to wonder when you would come inside. It’s good to see you again.”
“Stay behind me,” I mutter to Layla and continue forward, looking down my nose at him with blatant scorn as the peanut gallery enter behind me to suffocate the space. “I heard you were shot. Too bad they didn’t have better aim.”
Emmanuel chuckles, the sound morphing into a wheezing hack of a cough. “It was merely a scratch to the shoulder.” The hacking continues, his struggle growing. “Unfortunately, complications came with the recovery. Sepsis hasn’t been kind.”
“What a shame,” Layla mutters.
Emmanuel’s eyes narrow on her as he reaches to the side of the bed, retrieving an oxygen mask to place over his mouth. “Ahh, yes. The woman I saw on the security feed. Let her come closer so I can take a better look.”
“She’s fine where she is.” I raise an arm at my side, making sure Layla isn’t tempted to oblige. “I’m sure you recognize her.”
“I do.” He nods into the mask, dragging in breaths. “And I appreciate you bringing me such a gift.”
I straighten to my full height, fuming at the taunt.
Bishop clears his throat, hard, as if warning me to keep my rage under control.
I struggle to comply. I fucking battle not to reach for his mask and wrap the rubber cord around his neck until the smug superiority vanishes from his face.
“She’s no gift,” I snarl. “I suggest you treat her with respect if you don’t plan on giving more strength to your enemies.”
“You’ll never be an enemy, son.” He waves me away, lowering the mask. “But I know you’ve been sleeping with her. That you lied about your name and withheld your legacy to win her over. The news actually brought a proud tear to my eye.”
Layla mutters a curse.
“And how do you know?” I turn my attention to Salvo, the asshole who promised Remy hadn’t spilled.
“I didn’t say a damn thing.” He glances to his father. “We were going to tell you once Remy returned.”
“Of course you were, son. But I have faster ways to gain information.”
Faster?
Emmanuel could only have learned the news from Remy. Bishop wouldn’t betray me. And Layla hasn’t left my sight.
Unless… “You have someone listening in on their calls.” I grin at Salvatore. “I bet that’s comforting.”
The muscles in his jaw tic.
“I watch my children more than most.” Emmanuel drags in a deep breath and lowers the mask. “You’re never too old to need guidance.”
“I bet. But the guidance you offered two years ago has placed your ass in a hospital bed with the Grim Reaper stalking your shadow. So maybe your leadership skills need a tweak or two. Don’t you think?”
“I’m not scared of Cole Torian. Enemies are the price you pay for power and money. And he’s merely a pup. Nowhere near the type of cutthroat businessman his father was.”
“My father was a sex trafficker,” Layla snaps. “Cole would never aspire to be anything like him.”
“And that’s why he’s weak. Are you as pathetic, my sweet?”
“I’ll show you how pathetic I can be.” She storms closer, but I block her path.
“Don’t let him provoke you,” I growl under my breath. “You’re smarter than that.”
“How smart can she be?” Emmanuel wheezes another chuckle. “She didn’t even know your real identity until this morning.”
I grab her wrist as she takes another thunderous step, willing her to ignore him with my strong grip.
“I can promise you, your daughter showed far more tenacity in the face of adversity than you are,” he continues.
“Dad,” Abri warns.
“She was a real little spitfire when we first got hold of her. We had a great time, though. In fact, I’d really love to see her again. I should—”
Layla screams, yanking her arm from my grip to barge past me like wildfire. She charges for Emmanuel, her face turning red, her hand shoving into her jeans pocket in search of something.
Shit. The fucking cyanide.
I lunge for her, grabbing her upper arms from behind as guns are drawn by the guards, Salvo, and Remy. My men follow suit in opposition.
“I’ll kill you, you fucking prick.” Layla thrashes and bucks against my hold. “I’ll kill every single one of you.”
“I’d like to see you try.” Remy levels his barrel on her.
“Come on now.” Bishop holds up a hand in placation, his weapon pointed at Emmanuel. “Nobody wants to lose blood over this.”
She continues to thrash and scramble, rampant and manic. “Let me go, you bastard.”
“Stop it.” I smother her against my chest. “Calm down.”
I stalk her from the room, Bishop hot on my trail as he walks backward to cover his ass. My anger is barely bottled as I guide her into the far wall, pressing her chest into the plaster before closing in behind her.
“What the fuck were you thinking?” I clamp both her wrists in one hand and use the other to delve into her pocket, retrieving the vial of fucking cyanide. “What was the plan?” I growl in her ear. “You’d sprinkle some magic fairy dust and try to kill us all?”
“Yes.” She bucks. “At least then this would have been over.”
“You would’ve been dead before you unscrewed the lid.” I release my hold, allowing her to swing around to face me, her eyes stark, her cheeks flushed.