Page 102 of Seeking Vengeance

“Everything I have is because of him,” I continue. “Without his intervention, I have no doubt I would’ve died on the streets.”

She remains quiet, letting me bleed parts of my truth, her hands reaching out to slide through my hair in delicate strokes.

“He became my father figure and treated me like another one of his sons—harsh when I needed it, but equally supportive when necessary. He invited me into his success and I helped him achieve more.” I lower my gaze, focusing on the carpet, running my palms around her waist to stop her from escaping when the truth hits. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t have done for him.”

“He sounds like a wonderful man,” she whispers.

“He is,” I say with conviction. “And he isn’t.”

Slowly she stands taller, her spine straightening in caution.

“To me, he’s a savior. A lifeline.” I look up at her. “He’s the reason I still have air in my lungs. But he’s not what most would call a wonderful man.”

Her hands stop sweeping my hair. Trepidation ebbs from her.

Quiet seeps in, curling around us with tight arms and sharp claws. Her breathing slows, long and pained. She knows where this is going. She can sense it.

“You said you’re not a good person, Layla. But in my past, I’ve done things in the name of survival that would chill you to the core. And I’ve done them all for Lorenzo.”

Her hands slowly withdraw from my hair to rest at her sides, the retreat emotional as well as physical.

She doesn’t ask the questions I know must be eating at her. She lets the silence fester between us, its thorny spikes digging into my skin, her panicked thoughts flashing in her wild eyes.

Maybe she no longer wants clarity.

Maybe she’d prefer to remain ignorant and leave my life without the darkness of the truth haunting her.

But it’s too late for that.

I refuse to let her go.

“My mentor is Lorenzo Cappelletti,” I admit, taking in the stark recognition that now stares back at me. “He’s Italian mafia.”

25

Layla

I wait for the punchline.For the cruel prank to be laughed away so I can shed this second skin of shock and confusion.

But no humor gleams in his expression. There’s not even the slightest sign of banter.

Instead, his expression begs for understanding. For forgiveness.

“You’re in the Italian mafia?” The question is wrenched from my drying throat.

“No. I got out.”

A mindless scoff escapes me before I can stop it. “You got out?”

“Yes.” His shoulders slump, his handsome face losing the mask of confidence.

“I may not know a lot about the mafia,” I lie. “But I’m pretty sure it’s not something you can simply walk away from.”

“There was nothing simple about it. I earned my freedom. Bishop did, too. We’ve been out for years.”

That’s not how it works. Is it?

Could other parts of the underworld let their members walk free? Are there ways to safeguard family secrets once someone defects? A strategy to stop competitors from targeting turncoats?

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