Page 12 of Ruthless Redemption

I divert my path to the cutlery drawer to begin setting the table. “She’s eating with us tonight.”

“That’s going to be a hard pass from me, brother. I won’t be hanging around to ingest your dramatics. You two can duke this out on your own.”

Even better. I don’t want an audience.

He doesn’t understand my infatuation. How could he? He never plunged to the level of darkness I did. He doesn’t need a lifeline like I do.

The things we did for Lorenzo didn’t affect him the way they did me.

He took the brutality in his stride while each murder chipped away at my humanity until I was hollow. The more sterile I became on the inside, the more my outward facade morphed. I could schmooze and seduce without flaw. Lie and manipulate without hesitation.

Killing was no different.

With every criminal act, I learned to dissociate from the kid I once was. To despise the world and everything in it.

Until her.

She made me feel again. Lust returned. Longing surfaced.

“When are we going to discuss why she’s still with us?” Bishop adds salt to the bolognese sauce, then stirs the pasta.

“Later.” One hurdle at a time.

I need to retrieve the knives I stabbed into the backs of those I trust one by one. I can’t have everyone despise me at once.

“Stalling isn’t a good look for you.” He turns and grabs bowls from a cupboard. “Whatever you’ve done, you’re only compounding the issue by not telling me.”

“I’m not stalling.” I stalk for the table to lay two place settings. “There’s nothing to worry about.” Just as long as I win her back.

“For once, you’re not a good liar, Langston. You’re losing your touch.”

I return to the kitchen, disregarding his attempt to goad me into a confession. “How long until dinner, asshole?”

“A few minutes.”

I grab a bottle of wine from the fridge and pour Layla a glass. It isn’t until I place her drink on the table that I realize liquor is a necessity to curb my rampant tongue, and return to the kitchen to retrieve the bottle and another glass.

“You’re on edge.” Bishop strains the pasta without looking at me. “What is it about her that messes with you? Is it the sex? Or the thrill of her family legacy? Because I can understand how exceptional fucking can drive a man to his knees, but this—”

“Nothing about her messes with me.” It’s another lie. One hundred percent fiction.

Absolutely everything about her tinkers with the cogs of my soul.

He slams the strainer into the sink, his forehead etched with a severe frown. “Lie to me one more time, motherfucker. See where it gets you.”

He’s right. He deserves better. “Let me get through tonight and I’ll explain everything.”

His eyes narrow. “Are you lying to me again?”

“Tomorrow, we’ll talk.” I place the wine bottle and glass on the table, then head to the island counter, ignoring his scrutiny. “And I’ll return all my missed calls.”

I’ll right this derailing train. Just as soon as Layla is back on my side. In my arms.

His only response is to snatch one of the bowls from in front of me to start serving the spaghetti. “You might want to call your woman. Dinner’s ready.”

My woman.

The title strokes my ego. If only it were true.

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