Chapter 27
Aldo
Morning sunlight filtered through the tall windows of my study, illuminating the cluttered desk I’d been ignoring for hours. Reports and files lay scattered across the wooden tabletop, each representing something vitally important that demanded my attention.
And yet, I’d given no thought to any of them. My mind was elsewhere. Well, to be more specific, my mind was on Layla. No matter how hard I tried to stay away—physically and mentally—my thoughts kept circling back to her and Eli.
I kept seeing them, over and over, like a montage of movie scenes.
Eli by the boat, dropping into the sand.
Layla rushing across the beach towards him.
Layla, hands covered in blood, steadily stitching up a bullet wound.
Layla in a white dress, a crown of daylilies woven through white-blonde hair.
I leaned back in my oversized chair, tugged a hand through my hair. “This isn’t working.”
I’d promised to stay away. Give her space to build back her life without me hovering over it like an over-concerned parental bird. Let her live her life—so that I could live mine. So each of us could focus on the things that truly mattered.
But how could I when she was so close? When I heard her footsteps down the hall, when I caught the soft scent of her shampoo lingering in the kitchen along with the pot of fresh coffee? When I knew she was just a few doors down—and I didn’t have any idea what she was thinking?
When she kept haunting my every thought, like a living ghost.
Determined to get something done, I lifted one of the reports off my desk, headed for the massive leather armchair near the side window, and plopped down to read.
The words swam before my eyes. I forced them into focus, but movement out the window caught my attention. Drew my gaze upwards towards the driveway.
Layla. Layla stood at the end of the driveway, half-turned towards me, and she was utterly radiant.
For a moment, I could only stare.
It had been eight years since I’d last known Layla, but I’d never seen her look quite like that before. To say she was dressed to impress would have been an understatement.
A short, form-fitting blue dress clung to her body to show off the sweep of her thighs and hips, draped down her back to expose the cut of her shoulders and curve of her lower back.
Her white-blonde hair piled atop her head, accenting the sharp angle of her cheekbones, the arch of her eyebrows, the delicate pull of her mouth that just hinted at a smile.
How could I possibly concentrate on work when she stood outside my window—looking like that?
Where was she going?
My answer arrived a moment later when a black Porsche swept up beside the driveway and pulled to a halt at her feet. Marco Ricci climbed from the car, a broad smile scrawled across his handsome face.
My fists clenched, crumpling the document in my hands.
Marco propped the car door open as Eli bounded down the driveway towards them. Also grinning. Marco ruffled his hair, and once again, I was struck by how seamlessly they fit together—how good they looked as a family.
How much better than I ever could.
Eli squirmed into the backseat. Marco clicked the door closed behind Layla, and I caught the flash of her smile through the window.
She, clearly, had moved on. And that was what I’d always wanted, right? When I’d left her, it was so that she could make a life for herself free of the complications that would always plague my existence.
So why did it feel like a punch to the gut?
Why couldn’t what my head wanted and what my heart wanted align? She’d moved on—why couldn’t I?
My phone buzzed against my thigh, and I slid the device out, expecting a message from Carlo or one of my other men. Instead, it was a text from Aurora.
Aurora: Dinner tonight? There’s a new place I’ve been dying to try.
I stared at the illuminated screen in my hand. Undecided. Hesitant in a way I never was in the field, or even in front of my men. A way I usually couldn't afford to be.
Aurora was beautiful, intelligent, and part of the world I had given myself to. Part of the family I’d been born to lead. Everyone wanted—expected—us to end up together. Had always expected it.
I stood abruptly to pace the length of my study. My feet sank into that loathsome bearskin rug. Layla had moved on, and maybe it was time that I did, too.
I didn’t let myself dwell on the thought any further. I typed a quick response, agreeing to the date, and hit Send before I could rethink my decision.
The restaurant Aurora had chosen was certainly expensive, if not entirely exclusive to Manhattan’s upper class. Soft mood lighting, dark wood walls, and a low undercurrent of jazz gave the sprawling building an air of mystery, while the hushed conversation only served to heighten the ambiance.
“Here will be good,” I leaned forward between the seats to speak to the driver. “Thank you.”
He pulled to the curb, and I slid out of the car to hold the door for Aurora. She swept her hands down her thighs to smooth down the emerald green dress that clung to her frame.
I pretended to adjust my cufflinks.
“Ready, Aldo?” She didn’t wait for my answer before tucking a white-gloved hand into my elbow. “You look dashing.”
Before I could protest, she leaned in to plant a soft kiss against my cheek.
“Stunning as ever, Aurora,” I murmured back, already leading her towards the door.
“Mr. Marcello!” The hostess smiled so wide it must have been painful—how I hated that kind of reaction to my presence—and swept out a hand to lead us to our table.
We settled in with a bottle of wine, and Aurora carried the conversation. I tried to focus, truly. She was heavily involved with the family, and I was appreciative of all the projects she currently juggled with proficient mastery.
Truly, she was the perfect candidate for don’s wife.
So, why couldn’t I focus on her words? On the animated waving of her hands? On the smile that stole across her face or her soft laughter?
She was everything a wife should be.
And yet, my thoughts kept straying.
“Aldo,” Aurora said suddenly, leaning forward. “Are you even listening?”
I blinked, caught off guard. She’d been so busy talking, I hadn’t thought she’d notice my lack of attention. “Of course. You were talking about the gallery opening next month.”
“A few minutes ago, yes.” She tilted her head, studying me with an expression I couldn’t quite read. “You’re distracted. What’s on your mind? You can talk to me.”
Before I could fabricate an answer, a familiar titter of laughter caught my attention. I knew what I’d find even before I turned my head to the table in the corner, the one occupied by a man, a woman, and a little boy.
My gaze went right to Layla.
How could it not? She was fucking radiant.
She was a beam of light in this dark place, like sunshine after rain. And she was leaning across the table to laugh at something Marco Ricci had clearly just said.
My stomach clenched tight. My fists, too, I realized—my hands had curled atop the table. What had he said to make her laugh like that? When was the last time I’d made her laugh at all? In the last eight years, all I’d managed was to evoke tears and anger.
“Ah.” Aurora followed my gaze to their table. “I see.”
So much she said in those two little words—I see. She knew, somehow, how much Layla meant to me. How my distraction, my inability to listen or move forward, was her.
Was I so obvious?
“It’s fine,” I said, but when Layla’s head turned, I realized too late I was still staring at her.
Her gaze locked onto mine.
For an instant, the rest of the world faded away. The jazz, the chatter, the soft mood lighting and dark wood walls. For one beautiful moment, it was just me and Layla, how we were meant to be.
And then, her face pulled tight into lines of anger.
