Page 7 of Ruthless Redemption

Shit.

She’s gone straight for the jugular of my deception.

Bishop clears his throat. “I paid someone—”

“No.” There’s aggression in my voice as I interrupt. A harshness born from frustration over my biggest mistake. I appreciate his willingness to take the blame, but her fury is my punishment to bear. “I can handle this. Layla and I will meet you inside.”

Bishop stares at me through the rearview mirror, silently warning me of the hostile situation that’s about to erupt.

I’m fully aware of my fate, asshole.

“Go.” I jerk my chin. “We won’t be long.”

He sighs and climbs from the car, shutting the door behind him.

Layla straightens, as if steeling herself against being alone with me when this used to be her fucking preference.

“He paid someone?” Her tone is flat, lifeless, along with her expression. “Paid them for what? To find my purse? To retrieve it from a dumpster?”

“He didn’t pay anyone.” I unclasp my belt, preparing to chase after her. “I did. And it wasn’t a search or retrieval mission.”

Her brow furrows. She may have been born into a vicious family but apparently, her upbringing wasn’t harsh enough for her to assume how low I would stoop for information.

“I paid someone to steal your purse,amore mio. I arranged for you to be mugged.”

She remains rigid.

The detonation I anticipate waits in a holding pattern while she blinks.

Once.

Twice.

Then the shock wears off with the thinning of her beautiful lips and a fast swallow. She keeps her devastation tempered, the buffered reaction punishing me more than her rage ever could.

“You wouldn’t tell me who you were.” It’s a fucking lame excuse. “You used a burner phone. The name you gave the restaurant was fake. I had nothing to—”

She snaps her gaze from mine, flings her door wide, then slides outside, smacking the door shut behind her. She doesn’t run. Doesn’t flee in a whirlwind of emotion. Instead, she holds her head high and strides for the house, climbing the staircase with grace and dignity.

I shove from the car. “Layla, wait.”

She doesn’t.

“Layla.” I stride after her.

She needs to understand my reasoning. The necessity.

She reaches the veranda and yanks open the front door, then slams it in her wake.

Fuck. I clench a fist, preparing to punch my knuckles through the car window. I anticipate the contact. Already hear the shatter of glass. Feel the distracting pain. It’s a whirlwind of relief just waiting on the edges of my consciousness.

But I can’t break. I won’t succumb to the easy option.

I’ve worked hard to overcome my impulses. I’m better than that now. At least, I’m meant to act like I am.

Problem is, I’d fucking planned to tell her. I had every goddamn intention of laying my cards on the table. Then Remy sent me a text about the shooting and I’d realized too late that my time was up.

I would’ve explained where I came from. Who my family was—the ones who raised me only to destroy me. I intended to outline all the underhanded tactics I’d used to keep her close. To win her over. To make her mine.

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