Chapter 37
Layla
Bright morning sun cast a golden glow over the sprawling Marcello estate as I stepped out of Aldo’s car and onto the flagstone driveway. The manor loomed up over me like a harbinger of doom cast in a breathtaking sheath of stone and carved marble.
Reminding me, as if I needed the reminder, of how this would permanently become my world.
As if the lingering aches weren’t enough. As if the weeks of recovery and therapy behind me, and still ahead, weren’t enough.
My hands clenched into fists at my sides as I stared up at that hateful house. This was my world now—and I was determined to survive.
It was time to adapt. Just as I always had—after my parents had died, after Vasco had left me. I was good at adapting, at carving myself into whatever I needed to be to survive. To thrive.
And the first thing I needed was to find my gun.
I couldn’t rely on others to protect me. Not anymore. So when Aldo led me up to the house—back into that fucking house!—I didn’t bother to head for his room. I went straight out the back door towards the shooting range.
“Where are you going?” Aldo fell into stride beside me, because of course he did.
“It’s not your business.” I didn’t turn towards him, didn’t slow my pace.
He sighed. “I’m not asking as your keeper or caretaker. I’m asking as a friend.”
That almost made me pause. Almost. Were we friends? Could I allow him to be that much, after all he’d done? If I was to be part of this world, live in this house and under his constant protection, we at least had to be friendly.
So, I paused and leveled a gaze at him. “I’m going to the shooting range, Aldo. It’s time I re-learned how to protect myself.”
His brows lifted with clear surprise. “You’re serious?”
“After what happened, are you really surprised?” I didn’t let my gaze waver, so I didn’t miss the way his features flinched. “I used to own a gun. And I plan on signing up for self-defense classes as soon as the PT clears me.”
“Don’t bother,” said Aldo, but before I opened my mouth to protest, he finished, “I’ll teach you. We can start today.”
This time I did open my mouth to launch a barrage of protests, but he held up his hand. “Let me do this for you, Layla. You think signing up for a class at a two-bit dojo is going to give you practical knowledge?”
I closed my jaw with a snap. “No.”
“I can teach you things you’ll actually need to know. Things that might actually save your life.”
So, against all my best judgment, I followed Aldo across the grounds to his private shooting range. I accepted a gun from him. And I stood with my feet firmly planted to sight my target down the line.
I could do this. I’d grown up shooting, and I could remember the old movements, the old motions and techniques.
Right?
I wouldn't think about how much different it would be in the heat of battle, with my life on the line. With someone else’s life at the other end of my gun. I wouldn’t think about how I was a doctor, and I’d given up shooting to save lives.
I lifted my gun and I lined up my shot.
Breathe, I could almost hear my father whisper in my ear. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Focus on the target, not the gun.
Beside me, Aldo, mercifully, was silent. Like he knew better than to patronize me with the same advice my father had doled out to a ten-year-old version of Layla Bennett.
I dragged a breath in through my nose. My fingers tightened around the pistol’s grip. I let the breath slip back through my teeth, and I pulled that damn trigger.
The shot exploded from the gun, my elbows softening automatically to absorb the rapport. Across the range, the bullet thudded heavily into the target. Just left of center.
I bit back a grin as the adrenaline of success rushed through me. I still fucking had it.
“Not too bad, Bennett,” said Aldo, his tone surprisingly playful. “You got another one like that in you?”
“Are you suggesting that was beginner’s luck?” I asked, surprised at the joking lilt of my own cadence. “‘Cause, it’s definitely not.”
His dark eyes flicked toward the target. “Prove me wrong.”
I lifted the gun again. Sighted. Breathed in, breathed out, my father’s words flitting through my mind like a warm embrace. The bullet shot from the gun and slammed the target, just inside where the first had hit.
I grinned. Couldn’t help it; the rush of success made me heady. “Looks like I’ve still got it.”
Or maybe it was the way Aldo smiled at me, his grin wide and white and so very much like the Vasco I once knew. “Don’t get cocky until you can do it ten times.”
Ten became twenty, became fifty. My shoulders ached from the backlash—both the good one and the bad. But confidence swelled like a balloon inside me, lending me a steadiness I hadn’t felt since Aldo had crashed his way back into my life.
Plus, I definitely did still have it, and Aldo knew it. “You’ve done this a few times before.”
“Just a few.”
And I winked. Me. I winked. Shit. I really was feeling good.
The next day, Carlo brought me to another building out on the grounds—turned out, the family owned a private dojo. Complete with mats, punching bags, and various weaponry hanging on the walls.
Why wasn’t I surprised?
“Are you ready?” Aldo strode in through a back doorway, and my jaw nearly dropped in surprise. He was clad in athletic clothing—loose-fitting shorts and a tank that clung to his torso to more than highlight the taper of his waist and breadth of his shoulders.
I had to force my mouth to close. My brain to focus enough to find the words. “I’m ready.”
“Hand-to-hand combat is about more than just strength,” Aldo began, circling me. “It’s about using your opponent’s momentum against them. Leverage and strategy.”
He motioned me closer, and my breath caught as his fingers circled my wrist. His grip was so loose, it was barely a touch.
It felt tight enough to sear my skin.
“Twist your arm like this,” he demonstrated with his own, “to break the hold. Ready?”
I nodded, and his fingers tightened minutely.
I reacted on instinct, my body flowing to copy the movement he’d just shown me. His hand dropped away.
“Good,” he said, his tone approving. “Now let’s try it with more resistance.”
The hours fell away, marked only by the lay of the sun against the dark mats along the floor and arrayed around the walls. Sweat slicked my skin, and my breath pulled in heaves, but I wouldn’t stop.
I absorbed everything. So focused, I almost lost track of who trained me.
That is, until he moved behind me, close enough for me to feel the heat of his body, to sense the way sweat slicked his own skin.
My breath hitched. And my every sense, my every nerve, focused on the proximity of that hot, hard body. So close. So far.
His arm lifted to circle my neck, not quite touching.
The proximity felt like a brand of heat against my throat. My heart was a bass drum in my ears, my skull. His chest rose and fell against my back in smooth, steady breaths.
Was I still breathing? I must have been, because his scent filled my nose—sweet and piney at the same time.
Too late, I realized he was speaking.
“What was that?” Were my cheeks red? They felt like they’d caught fire.
“I said, ‘drop your weight,’” Aldo repeated, without missing a beat. Clearly, this wasn’t affecting him like it was affecting me. “It’ll pull me off balance, and you can drive your elbow into my ribs.”
Oh. Right.
Focus, Layla.
I dropped my weight, just as he’d instructed, sent my elbow back in a loose imitation of a jab. His arm straightened—releasing me from both the physical grip, and that of his presence.
“It worked!” I said, and my voice cracked slightly, which made me laugh. Nervously. What on earth was happening to me. “Sorry. I think the adrenaline rush is making me giddy.”
His mouth half quirked. “Maybe.”
“Again?” I asked, because that was the professional thing to do.
He motioned me forward. “Again.”
Once again, I pretended not to notice any of the things I was definitely noticing—the heat and hardness, the soft scent, the steadiness of breaths. The smoothness of his motions.
None of it mattered, I reminded myself as Aldo handed me a bottle of water. “You did well. You’re kind of a natural.”
Was his voice softer than usual?
“Thanks.” I drained half the bottle in one gulp, swiped sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. “Same time tomorrow then?”
For a moment, Aldo hesitated, like he might say something. But he merely nodded. “Same time.”
My stomach clenched with an emotion I couldn’t name. Disappointment? Had I wanted him to say something?
It didn’t matter. This was about protection—myself, my son. Nothing more. Nothing less.
But as I strode from the room, I couldn’t shake the memory of his breaths against my back, or how my heart had raced at the feel of his warm skin.
