Chapter 52

Layla

I perched on the edge of a park bench outside the hospital, phone in hand, fingers hovering over the keyboard. The heavy heat of daytime still weighted the air, though darkness had stolen over the city, ushering in the glow of false illumination.

I let my eyes read over Ethan’s message again: Coffee tomorrow? Same place as before?

I couldn’t help but smile. It was hard not to smile, with anything involving Ethan. He was so … warm. Caring. Kind. Easygoing.

He made me feel safe and comfortable in a way Aldo never did, in a way Marco never had, either. Though I supposed the comparison was unfair—Marco was deranged, and Aldo carried the weight of an entire family on his shoulders.

My thumbs hovered over the keyboard, but before I could respond, someone sidled up beside me on almost-silent feet.

I knew who it was before I looked up. Before he spoke.

“You’re not thinking of standing me up, are you?” His voice was light, teasing, and when I looked up, he grinned. Wide and white.

Vasco’s smile, but also not. Something so much softer.

I snorted, slid my phone into my purse. “As if any girl in her right mind would stand you up, Ethan Smith.”

Ethan chuckled, and like always, the ease of that laughter took me by surprise; it was such a stark contrast to the cold, hard world of the Mafia I’d come to know.

I didn’t realize how much that had become my world, too.

“C’mon.” He held out his hand. “I’ll take you for coffee now and tomorrow.”

I accepted, let him lead me to the cafe down the street. The one I’d never made it to on the night of the attack—the night we’d met.

We took our normal table in the corner, and the waitress ambled over with a smile to deposit coffee and muffins in front of us. I barely noticed.

As it had been for the past few weeks, once the conversation started, I barely noticed anything else.

Ethan shared stories about his job, about life as a cop. About the black and white and even more shades of grey that came with balancing justice and humanity.

I offered up my own stories in return—being a doctor wasn’t always black and white, either. Sometimes, lives couldn't be saved. Sometimes, difficult decisions had to be made. Sometimes, bad news had to be delivered.

We both got that.

Ethan talked about his adopted family—not that he’d been officially adopted after his accident, but he’d been taken in by an older police officer who’d helped him get back on his feet.

He still called the man Dad eight years later.

I told him about Eli—though I was careful never to mention Aldo or Eli’s parentage.

Today was just like all the times before. Easy. Fun. Almost perfect—

Until Ethan leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I need to ask you something.”

My stomach tightened. No good conversation ever started that way, did it? Still, what else could I say? “Go ahead.”

“There’s something you’re not telling me, isn’t there?” Ethan asked it so gently, like a service rather than an interrogation.

My teeth clenched. Stomach knotted more. “What are you implying?”

“I’m a cop, Layla.” His voice, still, stayed so gentle. “You think I don’t recognize Aldo Marcello? You think I don’t know who he is?”

My heart plunged past my feet. Of course, this couldn’t last. Of course, Aldo would ruin this, too, without even trying this time. “Ethan—”

“Wait.” He held up a hand. “Let me finish. I’m not judging you, Layla. I know that associations with the Mafia are hard to break and often start completely by accident.”

The smallest tendril of relief uncurled in my gut. “I had no idea,” I admitted. “I just … it just … happened. And now …”

Now I can’t get out. Now I’m stuck, tangled, entrenched. Now, this is my life, and I’ve started to accept it.

“Now, you’re in.” The implication behind those three little words was tremendous—was everything. My throat felt suddenly too tight, and it was all I could do to nod.

I was in. Dug in like a tick.

“You don’t have to stay.” Five words this time, delivered so lightly, with such impact.

My own words were barely a whisper. “What do you mean?”

“I can help you.” Ethan’s fingers curled over mine atop the table. “Protective custody, a new identity, whatever it takes. I can get you out.”

I stared at him. Wordless. Mind reeling.

It was so like what Aldo had offered me—a new life, a new name, a way out. So why was it different coming from Ethan?

It sounded so simple, so easy. But I knew better. I knew it would never be simple or easy—nothing in my life, nothing involving Aldo or Eli, would ever be simple or easy.

And I knew, at the bottom of my heart, that I couldn’t do that to Aldo, couldn’t betray him the same way he had me. Not after everything we’d been through. Not after the sacrifices he’d made for our family, for me.

“I can’t,” I said finally, my voice hoarse.

Ethan’s brows knit together. “Why not? You know how dangerous being connected with that family can be—”

“I know.”

“You deserve a life free from fear.”

My throat tightened up again. A life free from fear. What must that be like? “I know. But it’s … it’s not that simple.”

“Tell me why not?” Ethan’s face softened into gentle earnesty. “What’s holding you to them?”

“There are people I care about.” My voice sounded like sandpaper on wood. “Family. People I owe my loyalty to. I can’t just walk away.”

Ethan leaned back in his chair, his fingers sliding from mine. “Aldo Marcello.”

“Among others,” I admitted, turning my gaze aside.

Aldo

I stared down on the stack of documents splayed over my desk. Carlo stood on the other side, and though I didn’t look up at him, I knew his expression would be grim.

“You were right,” he said, though we both knew the truth of those words without him having to speak. “Ethan Smith is none other than your brother, Matteo Marcello.”

I had seen the man with my own eyes. I saw the evidence now, in photos and written documents. And I still couldn’t believe it.

“He survived,” I murmured, still staring at the photos. He’d survived the accident. Escaped. “And lost all his memories.”

I couldn’t begin to imagine the horror—injured, in pain, with no memory of who he was or where he was from.

So it was understandable then, that when an elderly, retired police officer had offered Matteo a room in his home, he’d taken it. Chosen a new name. Enrolled in the police academy, following in the footsteps of this surrogate father.

He’d been a cop ever since. Made a new life for himself—without any idea the old one had ever existed. My chest felt too tight.

I stared down at a photo of him, taken six years ago on his graduation day. His eyes held a familiar determination that hadn’t dimmed, despite the years, despite all the struggles he’d endured.

Matteo. My brother.

“He has no memories?” I asked, like maybe I could usher them back into existence by repeating the same stupid questions over and over.

“Nothing about his past,” Carlo replied. “He’s completely cut off from who he used to be.”

I leaned back in my chair, feeling suddenly overwhelmed by emotions I didn’t understand—relief? Joy? Fear? Grief? Matteo was alive—and yet, he wasn’t my brother, was he?

How could he be, without the memories of all we’d shared, without the memories of how we’d grown up? Of who we’d grown up as?

And he’d built a new life for himself, free of all those burdens—all the burdens I now bore. He’d built a life of strength and integrity. Honor.

I couldn’t take that away from him. I couldn’t pull him back into this world.

“I won’t tell him,” I said finally, leveling my gaze on Carlo.

Carlo’s brows lifted in surprise. “Why not? Don’t you think he’d want to know?”

Would he? Would I? Would Layla? I’d done the same to her—cutting her out, refusing her the truth, because I thought she’d be happier, safer, without me.

But this wasn’t the same. He was happy, established, whole. Good. He was good. I couldn’t pull the rug out from under all that he’d accomplished.

“He doesn’t belong here anymore,” I murmured. “He got out. I’m not gonna be the one to drag him back in.”

“And Layla?” Carlo asked, voice careful, neutral. “What if she decides she wants more from him?”

My chest clenched again, around my scarred heart, but I merely nodded. “Then she wants more from him. I already made my peace with that.”

“Sure.” Carlo nodded. “Sure you have.”