Chapter 32

Layla

The warm, heavy scents of garlic and thyme filled the kitchen as I tossed vegetables on the sizzling skillet. Normally, cooking calmed me—because it was such a safe, domestic contrast to the high-octane pace of hospital life. But my mind was far from settled; I’d stopped seeing the browning zucchini long ago.

No, instead I was thinking of Aldo—replaying the troubled cadence of his voice as he responded to my news about Marco.

Are you sure that’s really a good idea? … He’s dangerous …

He wasn’t dangerous. He was Marco—a good friend, a brilliant doctor, a kindhearted man. Sure, he had some playboy habits I wasn’t certain he’d break anytime soon, but that didn’t mean we couldn’t enjoy a meal in each other’s company.

So, why did Aldo’s belief that Marco was caught up in something niggle at me, like a hangnail I couldn’t stop picking? Aldo had respected my wishes not to intervene; he’d let his bodyguard let Marco through.

So, why couldn’t I shake the feeling that his distrust of Marco was more than just a wounded ex’s inability to let go?

Eli’s laughter rang out from the kitchen behind me. The pure joy in that sound pulled a smile onto my lips, made me realize I’d been scowling at my pan of vegetables.

I turned around to catch sight of Eli and Marco in the corner beside the kitchen table, stacking blocks into a precarious tower. Marco knelt beside Eli, grinning, and Eli laughed again as the tower wobbled.

My heart melted like butter. It was just so genuine, so sweet and natural and authentic. Aldo was overreacting. I was overreacting.

Then Marco twisted to reach for another block, exposing his back to me, and I saw it. I saw it, and I knew exactly what it was because I’d seen it so many times before on my Vasco.

I’d ignored it then, for years. Excused it away as old paranoia from military life. Never let myself question it—or him.

But I wasn’t that naive girl anymore.

Now, I couldn’t ignore the outline of a gun tucked into the waistband of Marco’s jeans.

My breath halted halfway from my throat. My hand paused with the greasy spatula poised over the smoking pan. The vegetables might have started to burn, but I didn’t notice. Didn’t care.

Unease clenched my stomach into a cold, sick knot. Why in the hell would Marco bring a gun into my home? Why would he even own one? He was a damned doctor—I’d given up my own guns when I’d opted to don a white coat.

Saving lives, not taking them.

So … why did this doctor—who’d come into my home to eat my food, who was playing with my son—why did he have a gun?

Had Aldo been right all along?

“Dinner smells amazing.” Marco tilted his head up towards me, like he could sense me watching, and his grin softened into a sensual smile.

I forced a smile. “It’ll be ready soon.”

My mind churned with anxious thoughts, and my heart beat faster than usual so my pulse pounded in my skull. I couldn’t just let that go. Couldn't pretend like I hadn’t seen it.

I’d learned the hard way: unspoken secrets had a steep price.

So I turned off the stove, set the spatula down, and turned back towards the kitchen to face Marco. “Marco, can I ask you something?”

“Of course.” He rose from his position beside Eli, strode into the kitchen to lean against the counter beside me. His smile had fallen halfway. “Though, I don’t think any good conversation starts that way.”

I opted not to mince my words, or maybe with all my thoughts churning, I simply didn’t have the ability. “You have a gun in your waistband. Is everything okay?”

Marco’s posture didn’t change. The casual lean of his hip against the counter didn’t change. The soft half-smile didn’t budge. But something shifted in the air between us—hardened. Turned cold.

“It’s nothing,” he said, the tightness of his words belaying the ease of his smile, his relaxed posture. “Just for protection after … well. You know.”

His fingers traced the lingering dregs of the bruise on his cheekbone.

Guilt ground against the unease inside me. It was my fault he’d been hurt, beaten, by Aldo, because after Aldo had seen him with me—

Wait.

Something about that didn’t add up though, did it?

I knew Aldo. Sure, he’d kept secrets from me, hidden enough truths to write a second life in lies. But I knew him. He wasn’t prone to anger or violence. He was cold and calm and calculating—the mask.

He was not, I was certain, the sort of man to walk into a bar and beat a man over a lover’s quarrel.

How had I not seen it before?

For Aldo to have attacked Marco, beaten him so badly … No. There was more there. I’d written it off as spite or vengeance or scorn. But Vasco wasn’t like that. Aldo wasn’t like that.

My voice came out smooth, a little cold. “Protection from what, Marco? This is my home. My son is here. What’s going on?”

“It’s nothing for you to worry about.” His easy smile stayed—so believably! “Call it paranoia.”

“You have a gun in my home, Marco.” I crossed my arms, but kept my voice low. My eyes skated towards Eli, bent over his blocks in the corner. “Is this about the Morettis—about your connection to them?”

“Layla.” Marco’s posture still didn’t change, but something in his voice shifted. His words came out low, measured, a little clipped. “Please just trust that I am genuinely here to enjoy a meal with you and Eli.”

The unease flitting around the edges of my consciousness doubled. Tripled. Clenched my muscles tight. “So it’s true. You’ve been lying to me this whole time.”

Why, why, why was everything a lie, a game, another mask? I thought I’d finally found one genuine, wholesome person—and that was a lie, too.

“It’s not like that,” said Marco, and the softness in his voice was almost believable—would have been believable to the more naive girl I’d been five minutes ago. “I care about you, Layla. That’s true. I care about you and Eli.”

“Then why,” I asked, my voice trembling with barely restrained anger, “did you bring a gun into my home?”

“I’m so sorry, Layla.”

“Sorry for what?” I took a wary step backwards … but I was too slow.

Marco moved so quickly, I could barely process that he’d reached behind him before the gun was in his hand, pointed at me.

I kept my eyes forward, locked on his. Willing him to stay focused on me, to keep that gun on me, to forget that Eli existed.

Had Eli noticed the gun?

“Marco, please don’t do this.” I didn’t bother to hide the shake in my voice.

“I wish I didn’t have to.” The lines of his face sank into almost believable regret. “But you and Eli need to come with me.”

Sudden panic welled in my chest like a tidal wave ready to crash on a shore. I fought it down. “Come with you? Can’t we just talk …”

“If you cooperate,” Marco’s voice gained a suddenly flat, toneless cadence, “nobody will get hurt.”

“Mommy?” Eli appeared at the edge of the kitchen, hesitant, fearful. But steady. His voice shouldn’t be so steady—at the sight of a man holding a gun to his mother. “Do you need help?”

“No, Eli. Everything is fine.” I flashed him a careful smile, then lifted my hands—slowly. Just as slowly, I inched across the kitchen floor towards him, keeping an eye on Marco. “We’re just … We’re going to go for a ride with Uncle Marco, okay?”

His eyes flitted past me to Marco. But he merely nodded—understanding the gravity of the situation with such easy expertise it made my heart clench. How had this become our normal, guns in the kitchen, fighting for our lives?

Fuck the Mafia. Fuck it all.

How the hell were we going to get out of this? My hands still lifted, I turned back to Marco. I had to go with him—what other choice was there? If I resisted, it wasn’t just me who’d be hurt.

“Can’t we talk about this?” I asked, keeping my eyes on him even as I took inventory of the items in my kitchen at my disposal.

Nothing that might compete against the speed and lethality of a gun. Nothing. Nothing I’d risk using. “I’m sure it doesn’t—”

“This is the only way.” Marco’s gun flicked sideways the barest fraction of an inch. “Walk towards the front door. If you try anything, believe that I won’t hesitate.”

I allowed the knife block in the corner one last lingering glance—but what was I going to do with a kitchen knife? No, my best bet was to comply, for now. Wait.

Wait for an opportunity to act.

“All right,” I said, turning my gaze back to Eli. “You go first, okay, baby? Do as Uncle Marco says and walk towards the front door. I’ll be right behind you.”

Eli started for the door without a peep of protest, and I followed. Aldo’s guards were nowhere in sight—he really had listened to me. Called them off.

I told myself there was no other choice, that I was doing the smart thing. But as we marched down the driveway, as Marco bound my hands behind my back, as we slid into the backseat of an unfamiliar luxury SUV, I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d made a mistake.

If, this one time, I should have fought back.