Chapter 15

Aldo

Layla’s laugh still echoed in my mind.

A day later, in the shadowy glow of a high-end restaurant’s private back room, I could still hear that derisive chuckle. A restless night, a morning of phone calls and paperwork, and now this ill-advised meeting, and I was still back in my office, her glaring white smile filling my vision.

I reclined onto the soft leather of the back room’s main sofa. The glass of whiskey in my hand glowed orange in the mood lighting. My mind wandered, but my mask was in place; the mirror on the wall in the corner of the room told me I looked the picture-perfect image of the cold, hard Mafia king.

My men stood behind me, clad in neatly ironed tuxes, their arms folded behind their backs like they weren’t ready to draw and shoot in an instant. More accessories to my act.

In the couch across from me sat the head of the Moretti family.

All the pieces were in place.

And I could still the woman I loved laughing at me.

“You know why I’m here, Marcello,” Moretti said, but it didn’t draw me back from her memory. She’d never spoken to me like that—so recklessly. So angrily. Like she hated me.

It wasn’t like her. But damn it, I’d still reacted. I still wanted her. More than I’d ever wanted anything or anyone. More than I’d been able to bring myself to want any female since her.

Eight years later, and she was still the woman that owned my heart. My love. All my affection.

Did she have any idea?

“I know why we’re here,” I said, addressing Moretti at least. I kept my voice tight, professional. It was time to forget her—if only for a moment—and focus on the business at hand.

With any luck, it might help me find a way to return her to her life.

So I fixed my attention to the older gentleman in front of me. He didn’t look like a murdering drug lord, but I supposed, neither did I.

Appearances could be deceiving. How well I knew. I’d lived it for eight long years, hadn’t I? Hiding the man I truly was behind the mask.

“I should not have attacked your second.” Moretti’s eyes lifted briefly from my face to the man standing over my left shoulder.

I didn’t have to turn to know that Carlo didn’t so much as twitch as Moretti aimed his apology. His mask was almost as impressive as my own. Carlo knew how to act the part, how to hide his true self behind a deception.

“No,” I agreed, not taking my eyes from my enemy. “You shouldn’t have.”

“But.” Moretti’s gaze dropped back to mine. “You killed my advisor. So we’re even now. Continuing this feud won’t benefit either of our families.”

No, it wouldn’t. But that didn’t mean I’d agree to put aside his transgressions, either. He’d left a few of them out of the discussion—important ones—and I wasn’t about to let him forget it.

I rocked the glass in my hand, sending the ice tinkling against the sides. “Are we even? You attacked a hospital. Then targeted an innocent doctor—outside of the family. A civilian.”

His brows pulled low, but I pressed on before he could continue.

“That goes against the rules of engagement I’ve established for the Mafia. That’s why I took down your advisor. No man who advises such action should be allowed a position of power.”

A muscle in Moretti’s jaw flexed, feathering the skin beneath his salt-and-pepper beard. But could he argue? I’d established rules to protect the peace and order of the city—which in turn protected the integrity of both our families.

He smoothed his expression with visible effort. “How about a deal?”

“What kind of deal?” My muscles tensed with instant readiness; a deal with a man like Moretti was not something to take lightly. “I want to hear all the details before I agree to anything.”

“I’ll never harm innocent people again,” Moretti started, which is how I knew the second part of the deal—my part—would be something I didn’t like.

Where I hated killing, Moretti reveled in it. Innocence or guilt mattered not. For him to agree to a ceasefire meant he wanted something big from me.

“Go on,” I said anyway.

“We’ll work together. Marcello and Moretti. Our two families in the drug trade together? We’d make a fortune. And as long as we’re both making money, there’ll be no fear of betrayal.”

“No.” No hesitation in my word. No time wasted on silly considerations of his offer. I was a killer, a leader of bad men. A deviant and a criminal. A man who’d burn in hell for all eternity when I finally left this earth.

But even I had lines in the sand I wouldn't cross.

“You haven’t even heard—”

“I said no.” I leaned forward to set my half-drunk glass on the low tabletop between us. “Unless you have something real to offer, I’ll be on my way.”

I gave him the benefit of a moment, a heartbeat, to offer me something else, something I wouldn’t immediately refuse. But I knew he wouldn't. Moretti had made his fortune in drug trade; it was unlikely he’d reconsider.

“Good-bye, Moretti.” I rose from my low sofa. “I consider our previous altercations to be ended. But should you pursue anyone under the protection of my family—including medical personnel—my retribution will know no limits.”

He stared up at me, that muscle feathering his hard jawline again.

“Watch your back, Moretti.” I swept from the room before he could answer. My men followed like suit-clad ducks in my wake.

With this meeting, I’d bought us a moment’s peace, but no more. This wasn’t over. It’d never be over. I was the only thing standing in the way of Moretti’s drug empire, and we both knew it.

Which meant Layla was still in danger.

I’d put her under my protection, tied her to my family in Moretti’s eyes. Made her a target. And now there was no way to undo that. No way to let her go without leaving her to the Moretti wolves.

I strode through the restaurant, passing another private room along the way. Laughter escaped through the wide-open door—drunken women giggling flirtatiously.

Not something that would have—should have—been more than a passing observation. Except as I swept past the door, a familiar face caught my attention. Dragged it into the room beyond.

I halted dead in my tracks.

Leaned through the door.

And peered inside.

Marco Ricci—the father of Layla’s child—reclined on a wide leather sofa. A woman on his left lifted a glass of wine to his lips. The one on his right kissed down his neck. A third perched on his lap, laughing.

Like Bacchus, the fucking Roman god of wine and hedonism.

How could Layla have chosen him? Sure, she knew he was dating other women, but this? Did she know about this? Anger at Moretti, frustration over the situation I’d found myself in, the past eight years of abstinence, all of it escalated into a crashing red rage.

I stormed into the room before I could stop myself, before I could reclaim my mask of calm—of the Mafia king.

Before even my men could react, I marched across the room, shoved past the women, and grabbed Marco by the collar. I lifted him from the couch, slammed his shoulders into the wall behind.

His beautiful grey eyes rounded into terror as he stared up at me.

And I glared down at him, anger and spite making me irrational, violent. Dangerous. “You’re a terrible liar, aren’t you?”