“Let him go,” Salvatore demands. “Get your hands off him.”
I can’t.
I want to end this. To squeeze the breath from the asshole’s lungs. To watch the life drain from his eyes.
I’ve pictured it a million times. Felt the euphoria. Tasted the victory.
“Langston,” Bishop shouts across the hall. “We’re not here for this.”
But I want to be.
I need it.
The brutality calls to me. Fucking sings.
Every wheeze invigorates me. Each stuttered breath appeases.
“He dies, we all die,” De Marco mutters behind me. “Come on, man. This isn’t the plan.”
Fuck.
I can justify my own death, but not those who followed me here. Not my siblings, either. Not yet, anyway.
And not Layla.
Never Layla.
“Fuck you.” I shove Emmanuel into the bed before releasing him. “You will stay away from her. You will leave her the fuck alone.” I backtrack from the gun and glare at Salvatore, then Remy. “Fuck over whoever else you like. Ruin lives. Start wars. But she stays out of it.”
“I applaud the vicious show,” Remy drawls, “however, I’m deducting points for the fear in your eyes. I can see right through you.”
“I don’t fear you.” I march to him, not stopping until we’re toe-to-toe. “And I don’t fear death. I fucking welcome it, because staying alive means I’ll spend every waking moment wasting my time thinking of ways to torture you if you dare to touch her.”
“Stop.” Adena rushes to Emmanuel’s side, helping to place the oxygen mask to his face as he barks and chokes. “Please just stop. Don’t you see how much we love you? We always have. We just want you home.”
“He never left,” Emmanuel rasps. “He’s always remained close, still wanting to be a part of what he left behind.”
“I haven’t been anywhere near this house since I left years ago. This is—”
“You come back to Denver,” he corrects, his voice weak beneath the mask but the intent strong. “You come back and watch us share our family meal almost every month. You listen to our conversations from afar. Soak in the nostalgia.”
He’s known.
All this time.
“Spying, big brother?” Salvatore lowers the gun to his side. “That’s a little pitiful, don’t you think?”
“It’s fucking pathetic,” Remy seethes. “Why weren’t we told?”
“Because he’s a piece of shit.” I throw my arms wide with a maniacal laugh. “If he’s known, that means he’s let me sabotage your warehouse shipments and rat out your distributions channels. Every problem you’ve had in the last ten years has been my doing, and he knew the whole time.”
“It’s the price I paid to keep you close.”
No. He did it because he’s insane.
Fucking psychotic.
“Enough of this back-and-forth bullshit.” I run a rough hand over my mouth, pulling myself in check. “I want your word you’ll leave her alone.”
“Agree to return home and I’ll give you whatever you want,” he counters.
I smile, all teeth, no charm. “How about this?” I step closer and Salvatore follows, his gun raising again. “I promise the next time I come back, I’ll burn this place to the ground. With or without you in it.”
“Dante,” my mother sobs. “Please.”
I don’t drag my attention from Emmanuel. Don’t blink. Don’t breathe.
I stare into those godforsaken eyes and let him know I’m not bluffing. I make it clear I’d love to watch him burn. And that damn twinkle in his eye tells me he’s only growing more proud.
Jesus. Fuck.
“It’s time to go,” I address my team, still staring at my maker, waiting for him to say something I can’t ignore.
A knock from the adjacent room breeches my ears, the subtle sound rising above the hiss of oxygen and whir of strangled breath.
“Layla.” Bishop’s voice travels from across the hall. “Hurry up.”
I tense at her name. At the vision it provides. At the fucking yearning. But I don’t move. Don’t quit staring even though everything in my soul wants to focus on what’s happening across the hall.
“Just like Grace, she distracts you.” Emmanuel removes the oxygen mask. “How can you not see that?”
“Because a distraction from what you created is exactly what I need.” I backtrack toward the door, passing Goodin, De Marco, and Whitby. “I’ll do anything to protect her. Remember that if you’re stupid enough to test me.”
“I’m definitely going to test you, son. It’s what makes you stronger.”
I smirk, pretending I’m calling his bluff when I know he speaks the truth. I’m going to have to find a way to kill him without getting pinned for the blame.
I’ll pay someone. Bribe. Threaten.
I’ll do whatever it takes.
“Those are adamant fighting words coming from someone in a hospital bed.” I turn on my heel and stride for the threshold, telling De Marco to, “Block the door,” as I pass and continue into the adjoining bedroom where Bishop faces off with Abri who stands before a closed door.
“We’re getting out of here.” I stalk toward them. “Where’s Layla?”
“Still in the bathroom.” Bishop flings a hand in Abri’s direction. “She’s been in there for over ten minutes with no flushed toilet or running faucet. And no goddamn response when I call her fucking name.”
I shoulder my sister out of the way and slam my fist against the door. “Layla. Open up. We’re leaving.”
There’s no reply.
No sound. No shift of movement from inside.
I glare at my sister. “What have you done?”
She raises her chin, defiant.
Fuck. What the hell has she done?
I step back, panic consuming me, rage inspiring me. “Layla, move away from the door.” I plant my heel next to the handle, sending the door flying and wood splintering from around the jamb.
I don’t have to step inside to know she’s not there.
The window is open, the white lace curtain dancing in the breeze.
I race forward, my hands sweating as I grip the ledge and shove my head outside.
A screen frame lays dormant on the grass below in an otherwise still garden.
There’s no sign of her.
“Where is she?” I swing around and charge for Abri. Her eyes widen. “What the fuck did you do?’
She braces her feet apart and squares her shoulders. “Nothing.”
The crunch of pebbles carries from outside. Loud and urgent. Bishop shoots me a glance, then makes for the French doors.
I’m right behind him.
“What’s going on?” Salvatore yells from the other room.
Bishop and I step onto the balcony to see a Bentley fishtail around the drive, the brake lights glaring as the gates begin to open.
“It’s her.” Bishop shoves his hands through his hair. “Jesus goddamn Christ.”
I fight the compulsion to jump the balcony and chase after her the fastest way possible, knowing I’ll break my fucking legs in the process.