Chapter 12

Aldo

My fingers tightened on the gun lowered at my side. I knew she spoke the truth—there was still a reckoning to be had, consequences for my actions. Debts that would certainly be paid in blood.

“I bet,” Aurora continued, probably noticing the tension in my jaw, “they’ll be coming to talk to you soon. But they won’t make peace. You know that.”

“Peace?” I snorted. “Of course not. There’s no peace with the Moretti family.” Never had been, never would be. Of this much, I knew. As long as the Marcello family reigned over New York, The Moretti family would attempt to undermine us at every turn.

“You’ve drawn attention to her,” Aurora murmured. She turned away from me, cast her gaze across the room to the bullet-riddled target. “She’s lost her life because of you, Aldo, you know that? This is all your fault.”

“Don’t remind me.” I strode past her, tucking my gun away as I left the range behind. Any semblance of calm I’d managed to find was gone.

“I could help to solve this problem.” Aurora fell into stride beside me. “Take her out of the spotlight.”

My teeth clenched hard enough to hurt. I knew exactly what she referred to. She’d only ever wanted one thing from me.

“I could give you an heir,” she said, voicing the thoughts in both our minds. “That would solve Layla’s problem. Get Moretti off her. Calm any discontent in the Marcello family, too.”

Once again, she wasn’t wrong. An heir would firmly cement my place at the head of the family. Would cease any talks of a coup. Would surely take Layla out of Moretti’s crosshairs.

My footsteps echoed in the empty hallway as I paced through the house. Towards my room. Aurora still at my side—her thoughts, clearly, focused. “One night, that’s all it would take.”

For the past eight years, I’d resisted her. Hadn’t so much as touched her, aside from a chaste kiss here and there, for the sake of appearances. As Don of the Marcello family, I hardly had the time or the energy for such affairs anyway.

Though more importantly, we both knew, I had no interest in them.

But tonight, I didn't gently chastise her. Send her to her room before we reached mine. Because she was right … and I knew it.

I needed an heir.

My time was running out. The family’s patience was running out. Moretti’s attacks were becoming more frequent and more focused. But an heir?

And heir would solve so many problems.

And Aurora was right. She could give me that heir. Could give me what I so desperately needed—even if it was hardly what I wanted. She was my best option. My only option, really.

I trusted no one else.

I paused at the door to my borrowed room. Hand on the knob and Aurora at my side. Where she’d always been, since we were children. Always, I’d trusted her, relied on her.

Always, she’d been willing to do whatever I needed, whatever I asked of her. And she’d asked for so little in return.

I set my hand on the knob. Aurora’s warm body lined mine. For one night, I could pretend, couldn’t I? The brass felt cold beneath my fingers.

Layla and I .. our lives had so long ago diverged. We were nothing, not anymore. My fingers tightened on the knob.

“Come inside, Aurora,” I said, speaking words I’d never imagined I might say. Words I needed to say. Hated to say. “Just for the night.”

She followed me into the room.

I made for the decanter of whiskey on the far wall, poured myself a glass as she undressed by the bed. Tossed it back in one shot, prayed for calm to reach me.

I could do this. I needed to do this.

I tossed back a second glass.

And then I turned to face Aurora. The beautiful woman standing stark naked in the center of my room. She was, undeniably, perfection. From the length of her legs and curve of her hips to the roundness of her breasts, the fullness of her rose-red lips, perfection.

Such an easy option. My best option. My only option.

And I couldn’t touch her. I felt nothing for her—not even arousal.

Maybe it was the feeling of my own fate slipping out of my control, but I couldn’t … I couldn’t do what she wanted, what I needed. What my family needed.

“I’m sorry,” I murmured, and I slipped past her for the door.

Layla

I’d long ago stopped believing there was a man out there in the world waiting for me. Waiting for my love. Waiting to shower me in his own affection.

I didn’t expect love. Hell, I didn’t want it anymore, either. Being alone had made me who I was—strong, determined, independent. Dare I say fierce? I had my family, and I would do anything to protect it.

And I loved that about myself.

So why did my chest ache now, like I was the one who’d been shot? Why did my breath leave my lungs in ribbons? Why did I hurt?

Because I still loved Aldo.

The answer came to me in a cold wash of realization. I still loved him. I’d always love him. And that’s why everything about this hurt so much.

When he spoke, it left me shredded. When he stared at me with no expression in that cold, dead gaze, I could only remember when he’d looked at me with love overflowing from those same eyes.

Aldo—Vasco—was an unhealable wound in my heart.

And I ached for him. Would always.

The realization followed me to bed, so I buried my face into my pillow and I cried. Cried as I hadn’t done for eight years. Cried as though my heart had been broken all over again, because it had. Because the band-aids I’d used to tape it all back together were coming unglued.

You couldn’t mend a broken heart with band-aids.

A doctor should know better.

So, I cried. I cried and cried and cried, because my broken heart had come apart at its band-aided seams. And when the tears ran out, I lay, hollow and empty, in bed to watch the sun rise through the pale curtains.

And finally, when I could lie still and deny the coming of the day no longer, I got up. Showered, dressed, wiped the tears from my eyes and set the band-aids back over my heart to hold it together for another day.

They’d held for eight years. They could hold a few more.

I hoped.

I traipsed down the hall and into the massive stone-and-granite kitchen in search of coffee. I’d found it there the previous morning, and I could smell it now—

I stopped dead in my tracks in the doorway to the kitchen.

It wasn’t empty.

In fact, it was far, far from empty. Aldo Marcello, the man I’d spent all night crying over, mourning, the man who’d broken my heart, stood in the kitchen beside the coffee maker.

And at his side was the breathtaking Italian beauty he’d left me for.

Aurora.

She laughed, tipped her head back and laughed, at something he’d said. And his answer was a wide, white smile, one that for the briefest moment, let me see beneath his carefully constructed mask, to the Vasco that still lurked beneath.

She’d made him smile.

The breath halted halfway from my lungs, and my knees felt suddenly weak. My fingers gripped the doorframe, like they might hold me up against the pull of gravity my legs seemed no longer able to resist.

She’d made him laugh.

She’d made him Vasco again.

I turned from the doorway and headed back down the hall. I could get coffee at the hospital, because I surely wasn't getting it from that kitchen. I couldn’t stay in this house, let alone walk into that room.

It wasn’t until I stood at the front door, hand on the knob, that I realized I wasn’t alone.

Aurora came to a stop just behind me; the sweet flower scent of her perfume churned my stomach. But I didn’t turn.

“You still love him,” she murmured.