Page 162 of Seeking Vengeance

“Bring Hunter.” The request burns my throat.

“If I’m dragging him out of state and away from Sarah you better tell me why.”

I jog a few steps into the parking lot to stare across the street at the motel sign. “I’m at the Flamingo Inn.”

There’s a pause of silence. A beat that I’m sure is filled with animosity, not frantic notation.

“Tell.Me,” he growls.

“Okay.” I run back to the security of the reception area, closing the door behind me. “I met a guy here months ago. We hit it off, and I’ve been staying with him in his D.C. penthouse for the last few weeks—”

“I don’t give a shit about how you met, Layla. Tell me what I need to know.”

My palms sweat. My stomach twists. “He told me his name was Matthew Langston. He owns nightclubs. Popular ones. I checked them out and they’re legit. Successful. By the book—”

“Layla,” he warns. “I’m not going to ask again.”

This is it. This is where he vows to disown me.

“He said his name was Matthew,” I repeat, needing to ease my way into the admission. “But that’s not his real name.” I swallow, not allowing the emotion to take hold. “Cole, I’m so sorry, but the man I’ve been with is Dante Costa, and him and his family are currently searching Denver to find me.”

38

Matthew

I run from the house,not stopping until I’m at the driver’s door of the Lincoln, unwilling to give Bishop control of setting the pace on our search.

He climbs into shotgun. I slide behind the wheel while De Marco, Goodin, and Whitby sprint for the gates, already instructed to hide at the front of the property and use any force necessary if someone arrives with Layla.

“I was certain you were going to kill him.” Bishop snatches for his belt as I start the engine and hammer the car into drive.

“I should’ve.” I accelerate hard, kicking up pebbles and dirt to escape through the gates Layla left open.

I jet down the road, the farmhouses and tall trees passing in a blur, any chance of levelheaded thought left behind.

“Where are we going?” Bishop grasps the hand rail above his head.

“I don’t know.”

“But you know we have to get there like a bat out of hell?”

I clench the steering wheel tighter. “This isn’t the time to goad me, motherfucker.” I ease my foot off the pedal. Breathe. Try to think. “You realize they’d be able to track the Bentley, right?”

“Yeah. But she’s smart. She wouldn’t stick with a stolen car for long. I’m sure she’s already ditched it by now.”

“But they’ll still know her last location and we won’t. How far can she get without money or a fucking cell?”

“She doesn’t need to get far. She just has to hide. And she’s good at that, seeing as though she hid the shit with Emmanuel for so fucking long.”

I rerun his argument, focusing on the logic. The reliability. “She’d hide and wait for someone to get her.” I shoot him a glance. “We need to get in contact with her brother.”

He judges me harshly with a raised brow. “You’re going to call Cole Torian?”

“Just find the fucking number. Reach out to one of his restaurants.”

I press my foot back down on the accelerator and head toward the highway, creating a mental list of all the places Layla might turn to—airports, hotels—while Bishop raises his cell to his ear, the subdued ringtone trilling before a woman answers.

“Hey Alesha, I’m trying to get a hold of Cole Torian but I’ve lost his number.”

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