Chapter 45

Aldo

Breath flowed smoothly from my nose, and my heart beat steadily against my ribs. I kept my gaze fixed on the woman in front of me as we circled each other. The mats beneath our feet softened the sound of our movements, but nothing escaped my notice.

Layla lunged.

I feinted sideways, caught her wrist, and spun her effortlessly around to pin her arm behind her.

“Too predictable,” I teased, my breath sending the little hairs that had escaped her braid dancing.

Layla squirmed free, half a smile scrawled across her face. “I’m just getting warmed up.”

The sight made my calm heart skip a beat. “Sure, sure. Whatever you say, Bennett.”

“Bring it, Marcello.”

But before either of us could make a move, my phone buzzed against the nearby bench where I’d tossed it.

“Goddammit.” I sighed, rose from my fighting crouch to retrieve the phone. Carlo’s name flashed across the screen. I swiped sweat off my forehead with my hand as I lifted the phone to my ear. “Better be good, Car.”

“I’d tease you about what I was interrupting,” Carlo replied without missing a beat, “but I know it’s nothing that interesting.”

“Fuck off,” I grumbled, but his next words went right to business.

“Marco Ricci called me.”

I nearly dropped my phone. “What?”

A few feet away, Layla stared at me, like maybe she could burn holes through my phone with her eyes. I knew she heard every word Carlo said. I switched it to speaker.

I was done hiding truths from Layla.

“He wants to set up a meeting,” Carlo’s tinny voice relayed. “You and me, him and his second. Wants to talk business.”

The words sat on the tip of my tongue, to tell Carlo to tell Marco I’d never meet with him. Not after what happened. But, something stopped me.

It was Layla who spoke. “Who the hell is Marco to be calling meetings?”

With her face hidden behind a towel, I couldn’t read her expression. Her words were tight, deliberate. I didn’t blame her.

“Yeah, see, that’s the thing.” Carlo was almost certainly cringing on the other end of the line. “We took out his father, right? And apparently, there’s been some infighting amongst the brothers …”

“Marco is head of the Morettis now,” I realized with dawning horror. Just like I realized we would absolutely have to meet.

Layla’s eyes met mine over the top of the towel, anger and fear warring for control of every line in her face.

“Don’t worry,” I said as I hung up the phone. “I won’t make the mistake of letting him anywhere near you or Eli again.”

She turned away. “I don’t need you to protect me.”

“I know,” I replied softly. “But I’ll protect you anyway.”

She turned back to me, her blue eyes steely with resolve. The anger, it seemed, had won out over the fear. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Aldo.”

“So do I,” I murmured, more to myself than to her.

---

We arranged the meeting for the same dimly lit private back room where I’d previously met with Marco’s father, all those months ago. Right before Marco and I had had our first altercation—where my fists had met his face.

The irony of it all wasn’t lost on me.

Marco sat on the same couch I’d sat to receive his father. His second—a young man in a stiff black suit—stood behind him. It was like looking back on that night, outside myself.

Except the man on the couch looked nothing like me.

He’d slicked back his dark hair into an immaculate finish. His bright powder-blue suit only served to accent his dark skin and the cock-eyed grin splayed over his face.

The scar across his left eye, however, was a bold reminder of our last encounter.

His grin only widened as I approached. “Aldo Marcello. How good to see you.”

The words were soft, smooth. Predatory.

I didn’t bother with any of his games. “You’re a hard man to kill, Mr. Ricci. Or is it Moretti now?”

“Maybe so.” Marco chuckled, unfazed by my words, and reached for the glass of wine on the table beside him. “More than anyone gave me credit for, anyway. Please. Sit.”

I sat. “Would you like to tell me why you’ve called this meeting?”

“Wine?” His fingers flicked casually towards the bottle on the side table, but his eyes never left my face.

“No, thank you.”

“Right to business then.” His grin didn’t falter, nor did his easy nature, but I got the sense he was sizing me up, measuring me. “As you clearly have heard, I’m the new head of the Moretti family now. In part, thanks to you.”

I lifted an eyebrow. “And now you’re here to, what, make peace? Start war?”

“You could say,” Marco’s smile turned razor-sharp, “I’m here to say thank you.”

I didn’t like the sound of that, but I’d been in this business too long to let my unease show. “What are you proposing?”

Marco lifted his glass, sipped at his wine. The ease of his posture truly was admirable, like he’d been born for this role.

“Regulation, for one,” he said, his tone surprisingly businesslike. “We can’t keep killing each other. Bad for business. So hard to find good help.”

I didn’t disagree, but I let him continue.

“The drug trade is another area that needs work. I’m willing to enforce stricter rules within my organization—no pushing to kids, no flooding the streets with garbage that kills more than it sells.”

My brows shot upwards in surprise. “A Moretti who wants to clean up the streets?”

“Didn’t say that,” Marco hummed. “But I care about the reputation associated with my name.”

Again, I couldn’t argue with that. Less killing, more drug trade control—these were things I’d tried to get from the last Moretti for years.

I’d never succeeded. “All right. I’m listening. But there’s one thing you haven’t mentioned.”

“Layla.” His grin fell away like it had never been. A flicker of something crossed his face, but it was too fleeting for me to read the message behind it. “She’ll be protected. No one will touch her.”

“And what about you?” My words hung between us, heavy with insinuation.

Marco poured himself another cup of wine, then leaned back, the glass in his fingers. “You know I care about her. I have for a long time. But my ambition has always been bigger than my affection. You understand.”

You understand, like we were beasts of the same flesh, the same making. And weren’t we? We’d both chosen Mafia life over love. Family before Layla. “I do.”

“I just want to ensure she’s safe.”

A strange surge of protectiveness flooded my veins, clenching my hands into fists. “She was safe until the Moretti family came after her.”

Marco nodded. “Then we don’t have a problem.”

The silence that followed felt heavier than even the unspoken history between us. But at last, Marco sat forward, his hand extended. “Truce?”

For a beat, I could only stare at that proffered hand. I’d known Marco was a wildcard, a danger to Layla. But I hadn’t realized just how much he was capable of.

I’d underestimated him. His ambition, his will to survive, his drive to be more. Even his proposals that exactly aligned with my own goals … He was far, far more dangerous than I’d given him credit for.

But refusing the truce could reignite the war between their families—a war Layla and Eli would be caught in.

I sat forward to grip Marco’s hand. “Truce.”