Chapter 20

Layla

My heart shuddered to a halt.

Blood buzzed in my ears, like my stagnant heart had caused it all to pool in my head. The sky whited out, and all I knew were Aldo’s lips moving as he formed the question: Eli’s mine, isn’t he?

Why.

Why had he suddenly asked that? What could possibly have led him to such a conclusion? Where had my act failed? Had I showed my hand—

No.

I pulled in a deep, shuddering breath, forcing my lungs to unlock. Forcing my heart to resume its steady beat in my ribcage.

I had to stay calm.

I hadn’t given anything away, I was certain of it.

He didn’t know anything for sure; there was no way he knew anything for sure. If I panicked, it would only confirm his suspicions.

So I tilted my head back to meet his gaze. Ran my fingers through my hair, twining the long blonde strands through the digits. And I looked him dead in the eye. “What on earth would make you think that?”

“Marco didn’t even come to America until seven years ago.”

I barked out a harsh laugh of disbelief, almost of relief. He was still investigating Marco! After all of this—after my anger, my warnings, after the beating he’d delivered—he was still investigating the man. Still digging into my life.

What a fucking asshole.

I tore my fingers from my hair. “He visited Alaska eight years ago, the night after you left me. I was at a bar. He was a one-night stand.” Still, I couldn’t help but dig the blade in deeper. Give it a little twist. “Or … did your investigations not show you that?”

Aldo’s jaw flexed—in anger or frustration, I couldn’t be sure behind that mask of impassivity. But I’d made him feel something with those words, with the accusation behind them.

I’d chalk it up as a win.

And I’d push my victory further.

“You really think he’s yours?” I tilted my head towards Eli, still sketching in the grass. Unaware, so blissfully unaware, of the drama unfolding between myself and his true father.

Unaware of how his life hung on a thread, in such a delicate balance.

Aldo didn’t answer.

“Try a paternity test,” I said, hardly daring to believe the audacity of my own words. “I’ll even let you watch me pluck a hair out of his head.”

And before he could respond, I marched back over to the blond boy in the grass. Tousled his hair, dislodging a few fair strands without his even realizing. Pressed a kiss to his forehead.

I returned to Aldo with a strand clutched triumphantly between my fingers. “Go ahead. Find out the truth.”

Aldo took the hair.

I scoffed. Anger bubbled inside my chest. He was really going to do it. “You’re so desperate for an heir, you’re starting to develop fantasies.”

“I’ll let you know what I find out.” He turned away from me without another word, taking that hair with him.

“Good luck, bastard,” I muttered in his wake.

“Mommy?” Eli nudged up to my side. Of course he’d known something was amiss; the serene sketching had been an act.

I sighed, dragged my fingers through his soft blond locks again. “No one’s going to take you away from me, Eli. That’s a promise.”

Aldo

Layla hadn’t flinched, either in her laughter or the delivery of that single white-blond hair. But still … I needed to be certain. I needed to know, beyond a doubt, that he wasn’t mine.

I sent the hair to a testing facility. Despite her scorn, despite her surety, I sent it out. Why? Did some part of me hope he was mine—that I would be irrevocably twisted into Layla’s life?

What a cruel thing for me to desire. And yet, I still sent it. Still waited with my heart in my throat for the call.

It took two days.

Did my fingers tremble ever so lightly as I lifted the phone? Did I press the speaker a bit too hard against my ear? “This is Aldo Marcello.”

The monotone female voice at the other end delivered the results without so much as a tic in intonation—I wasn’t a genetic match.

Eli was not my son.

I lowered the phone, eyes out of focus. Words playing on repeat. Not a genetic match. Eli wasn’t mine.

Why did disappointment make my stomach feel hollow? I should be relieved, shouldn’t I? I should be happy—that I hadn’t left behind a child, along with the love and light of my life.

I hung up, slid the phone back into my pocket, and stared through the window of my office into the darkened courtyard beyond the glass.

Vacant. Layla and Eli were probably already asleep. And yet, it was like I watched their ghosts dance across the lawn. Eli sketching. Layla observing. He tilted his head towards her; she laughed.

Faded memories that would haunt me forever.

I would always regret leaving Layla, but never once had I doubted it was the correct choice. I’d chosen my family. I’d chosen to let her live a peaceful life, far, far from the darkness of my world.

Surely, that was the right choice.

But now, even with those results still echoing in my mind—not a genetic match—I couldn’t help but wonder if I had been right after all. If my choice truly had been best for both of us.

I’d betrayed her—the woman I’d promised to love for eternity. She’d given me her heart and I’d thrown it back at her feet.

I’d left her. Left her to raise a child on her own, left her to balance interning, work, parenting, and seeking out new love. I’d turned away from the one person I’d sworn to love and protect.

I’d left her to suffer.

My heart ached, like a physical wound. Like the bullet hole in my shoulder still sometimes ached. Like a tangible disruption of flesh and blood—the thought of her hurt.

I paced from the office to my bedroom. No, not my room. My borrowed guest bedroom. Because I’d given up the safety and comfort of my bedroom for Layla.

Such a small sacrifice, after all the pain and hurt I’d caused her. I was her protector, and yet, all I’d managed to do was offer her a better bedroom.

Right. Such a sacrifice.

Beneath the covers of this borrowed bed, I tossed and turned. Thoughts spun through my mind, holding me hostage to wakefulness. I forced myself onto my back to lie still. Eyes open. Staring at the ceiling.

The dark and quiet consumed me. Roared inside my skull like an ocean of eternal regret.

So the click of the door came loud as a gunshot in the night.

The breath froze in my lungs. Every sense homed in on that door—the creak of not-quiet-silent hinges; the tap of a boot on hardwood; the heavy pant of exerted breathing.

Intruder.

I didn’t move, didn’t speak. Made no sound. But my fingers inched towards the gun beneath my pillow as a second set of boots joined the first in my room. Two—no, three.

“This is the room?” a soft male voice muttered, too close for comfort. He was coming towards the bed.

My fingers closed around my pistol.

“Should be hers,” a second voice responded.

“Shit!” The first hissed. “It’s not her it’s—”

My gun whipped from beneath the pillow. Finger squeezing.

Two shots cracked the night as the intruder and I fired in the same instant.