Chapter 58

Aldo

The unceasing ache in my side was an ever-present reminder of how close I’d come to death. A reminder that, perhaps, I should have died—would have, without Layla’s influence.

Now, returned and confined to my owner’s suite in the manor, the only thing keeping me sane was Layla’s presence.

Night had fallen outside the sprawling windows overlooking the rear yard, and Layla moved about the bedroom with practiced ease. I couldn’t help but wonder how many patients she’d cared for in the last eight years. How many times she’d done this same song and dance.

I still liked to think I was special.

And yet, the way she moved, her shoulders taut, head down, movements stiff, I couldn’t help but think she was avoiding me.

I could ignore the elephant in the room no longer. “Layla?”

“Do you need something?” she turned, brows arching in questioning innocence. An expression of false politeness—a mask. Bedside manner.

I knew her well enough to read the tension in every movement, the tight lines of her lips and around her eyes.

I sighed. “You don’t have to stay. I have nurses who could do this kind of stuff.”

Layla froze, one hand over the glass of water on my bedside table. For a moment, she didn’t respond. Then, something in the hard lines of her expression softened. “I know.”

“Then why do you?” I asked.

She let out a slow breath, crossed her arms over her chest. “Because I’m your doctor right now. And because Eli deserves a father who’s alive.”

“Always so practical,” I said, half teasing half—what? Bitter?

“Why do you think I became a doctor?” she asked, turning away to busy herself with another task. She sounded tired. “My practicality is what keeps people alive.”

It’s what kept you alive, she didn’t say, but the implication was there anyway. The words stung.

Still, I didn’t flinch. I hadn’t spent the last eight years living behind a mask only to let it slip now. And yet … And yet, I was tired. I was so damned tired of pretending, of living my life behind a facade.

The words tumbled from my mouth. “There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t question whether I did the right thing by leaving you.”

She froze. Her back to me. Shoulders taut as a tightrope strung between buildings.

“I’ve told myself every day for eight years,” I continued, speaking to those rigid shoulders, “that I did the right thing. That I owed it to my family—to my mother and my sister—to protect them after my father and brother died.”

She didn’t move.

“I knew I had to go back. I couldn’t … I couldn’t just leave them.”

“I know,” she murmured, but she still hadn’t turned to face me. Still hadn’t moved. “I understand.”

“I almost didn’t go,” I continued, ignoring her words. “I almost didn’t go, because how could I leave you—my wife. My life. My whole world.”

The tiniest gasp escaped her mouth. But she still didn’t turn. Still didn’t look at me.

“I told myself I was no good for you,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “I told myself that staying with you put you in danger. I told myself that by leaving I gave you the chance at a normal life.”

My heart raced, thudded against my ribs. My breaths came too shallow, too quick. And I couldn’t tell whether the pain in my side was a product of my words or my physical wound.

I kept talking. “But they were all lies. All those things I told myself were lies that I forced myself to believe because otherwise I could never have walked away.”

I registered the slightest tremor of her shoulders. Was she crying?

“If I’d known about Eli …” I let his name trail off to hover in the room like a ghost of things that might have been. “I could never have left, for all the lies or all the honor or all the duty in the world.”

A choked little sob left Layla’s throat, and her shoulders caved forward as she gave in to another wracking sob. Everything in me wanted to get up, to go to her, to wrap my arms around her and hold her close, as I’d wanted to do every day for eight years.

I didn’t.

I’d lost that right.

So I stayed where I was, watching her. My broken heart shattering all over again, knowing that I was the cause of her pain. That I was the cause, and there was nothing I could do to fix it.

Without warning, she turned. Sat in the chair beside my bed, and fixed me with an unreadable stare. “Tell me about your family?”

“What?” My brows lifted sky-high. “What do you want—”

“You know all about my childhood,” she said, her expression softening ever so slightly. “You know what happened to my parents. You know my Nonna raised me. You know my feelings on the Mafia. On you. Now, it’s your turn.”

For a moment, I could only stare at her in surprise. I’d never offered her pieces of my past, and she’d never asked. But maybe, maybe it was time for that to change.

So, I started in the most logical place I could think to start: The beginning. “My father was a hard man. He’d been raised in the Mafia, for the Mafia, and he expected his sons to live the same life he did.”

Layla merely watched me, giving me room to speak.

“I was never supposed to take over for him—that should have been my older brother Matteo. He was the golden child. Strong, smart, and everything my father wanted in a successor.

“But the Mafia is all about blood and bloodlines.”

“If one dies,” Layla supplied in a low voice, “the next of kin takes over.”

“Without question, without hesitation,” I agreed. “I told myself I wasn’t meant for that life. I told myself Matteo was born for it, that he wanted it. That he’d make a great leader.”

I stopped short, choking on my own words, on the sudden emotion clogging my throat. “I never imagined he’d die on the same day my father did.”

“Oh,” Layla murmured, and I hated the sympathy in her eyes. But she was right to feel it—it had been such a shock. Something that never should have happened, and it had upturned my entire life in an instant.

It had destroyed my life.

And in turn, I’d destroyed hers.

“I knew if I didn’t go back,” I murmured, “it would leave the family vulnerable to attack. And my mother, my sister … I couldn’t just leave them.”

“No,” Layla agreed. “You couldn’t.”

“And I couldn’t bear the thought of dragging you into this world. Of making you a target.”

“No.” Layla’s voice went suddenly cold. “But you know what you could have done, Aldo? What would have been the truly right thing to do?”

I cocked my head against the pillow. “What’s that?”

“You. Could. Have. Told. Me.” Each word hit like the strike of a bullet, the thrust of a knife. Hard and sharp and deliberately aimed to wound. “You could have given me a goddamned choice.”

I flinched.

“You decided for me. For Eli. You didn’t even give me the option of knowing the truth. You decided what path our relationship—and my life—would take. Just like you did when you dragged me here.”

“I know that now,” I murmured, my voice cracking. “But then … I thought it was the right thing to do. I thought I was protecting you. Saving you. Had I known about Eli …”

“No, Aldo.” Layla stood. “I don’t think it would have made any difference.”

I watched in silence as she turned and walked from the room. I didn’t protest, didn’t try to call her back. The door clicked shut behind her, and I let her go.

My chest ached with a new ferocity that had nothing to do with the wound in my side. The weight of everything I’d lost—everything I’d told myself I’d had to sacrifice—bore down on me like a physical burden.