Page 10 of Seeking Vengeance

“For God knows what reason, you’re flirting with me,” I state flatly. “Not only that, you’re giving me the distinct impression you think you could easily seduce me. Which, my friend, is an exaggerated sense of your abilities, which, in return, is your definition of arrogance.”

His player smile doesn’t waver as he drawls, “Are you sure it’s not confidence?”

My pulse stutters. It’s not so much the question, but the smooth way he asks. The superbly adept way he seasons his masculine tone with the tiniest glimpse of a dimple in his left cheek.

“Yes.” I snatch the fresh glass of wine the bartender places on the counter and take a gulp. “I’m leaving. Good night.”

His smooth chuckle haunts me. “But I don’t even know your name. What am I going to write on our marriage license?”

Yet again, I’m caught off guard, all the pulse hammering and skin tingling colliding in a mass of hysteria that sends a shocked laugh bursting from my lips.

I can’t remember ever being hit on like this. Being the wife to a notorious criminal, within an already infamous crime family, tends to keep men distanced. Even if I was experienced, I’m sure this guy would still leave me unsettled.

He’s too damn good at this game.

“That right there.” I point a finger at his chest. “Pure arrogance.”

He takes another leisurely sip of scotch. “Is it, though? Really?”

I release another spontaneous chuckle, take a final gulp of wine before returning it to the bar, and then step back. “It was nice meeting you.” It’s an exaggeration, although, honestly, not a lie. I haven’t enjoyed a heartfelt laugh in years. “It’s too bad I’m not the woman you think I am.”

I swivel on my toes and make for the door, my neck awakening with goose bumps as soon as I turn my back on his charm.

“Come on,amore mio,” he calls after me, the Italian words spoken with a pristine accent. “We could help each other.”

I don’t stop.

“With the spying,” he adds, louder, drawing the attention of four nearby women who hush their table conversation to stare at us with curiosity.

I halt, my feet rooted in place, not only because he’s outing me in front of staff and strangers alike, but because he’s potentially offering me something I want. Something I desperately need—a way forward with my Costa plans now that I’ve been discovered.

Footsteps approach behind me and I suck in a ragged breath when his warm hand comes to rest on the small of my back, his woodsy aftershave teasing my senses. “I have a room at the Lydell Hotel two doors down. They’ve got a great bar. Let’s go there and talk.”

4

Layla

Two years ago

The silence is stiflingas my husband’s casket is lowered into the ground, the descent of the shining steel box seeming to steal the gossip from the mouths of those in attendance.

Stella nestles closer against my side, my daughter’s tears soaking into the black material covering my hip, her lone sniffle sinking deep into my heart to stab at my composure.

I breathe it in. Her agony. Her suffering.

I take all the misery she releases into the world and make it my own because it’s what I deserve.

Then, all too soon, the service is over.

Benji is buried. Gone. His all-encompassing life was summed up in a few paragraphs.

Tissues are shared, words of condolence are given out like cheap candy, and the whispered rumors that follow once the guests walk away brush against the outer edges of my hearing, poisoning me further.

The entire scene plays before me as if through a stranger’s eyes, the depth of my grief barely felt over the strangling claws of guilt at my throat.

I killed my husband.

I may not have pulled the trigger, but I caused the lethal blow.

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