Page 70 of Ruthless Redemption

“Why are you two working together? Why did you change your name? Why aren’t you part of the Costa family anymore?” She lobs questions at me without accusation or emotion. “And what have you been doing since you left them? As far as the internet is concerned, you disappeared after you finished school.”

“I’m going to wake your mom.” I move to step around her, but she counters to block my path, the knife raising.

“No. Don’t. Obviously she knows the truth, if you’re willing to wake her. But she said you were working together. Doing what?”

“I’m losing patience,principessa. I won’t betray your mother by discussing this with you.”

“Then tell me I don’t have to worry about her while she’s with you. Tell me you hate them for what they did to me. Tell me you love her.”

“I wish Emmanuel dead for what he did to you.”

She sucks in a ragged breath. “What about my mom? Do you regret hurting her? Why did you lie?”

The questions from a barely-known child punish me harder than I could’ve imagined. I want to protect her. Help her.

“There were a lot of reasons. Safety was one of them. Preservation of what we had was another. I care about your mother, Stella. I never wanted to upset her.”

“I figured as much from the way you stare at her.”

“You’re perceptive.” I maneuver around her and approach my bedroom door, waiting for her to follow. “Are you done or am I waking her?”

“I’m not done. I want to know why you changed your name. Why did you disappear?”

I start into the hall, prepared to wake Layla and cause World War III.

“Wait. Fine. I’ll stop.” She shuffles around me and guides me back to my door with an adamant finger pointed at my chest. “Just answer one more question—what’s your new surname?”

I shut the door on the kid’s face, her heavy sigh carrying from the other side.

“Night, Matthew,” she whispers.

I slink back to bed, blindsided.

I continue staring at the ceiling, contemplating where the fuck I go from here.

Stella is going to get herself in trouble. All she needs to do is dig into the wrong person’s past and she’ll be snuffed. Which means I still have to tell Layla what her daughter has been up to.

Great.

That conversation will be less enjoyable than a prostate exam. And how the fuck do I broach it? Subtle or sledgehammer?

I spend hours trying to figure out the best course of action as sleep evades me. Then as soon as I pass out, a shuffle of noise wakes me again.

I sit, the bed coverings falling to my waist, the faint hint of early morning sunshine highlighting a silhouette at the end of my bed. “Amore mio?”

“It’s Stella.”

Are you fucking kidding me? “Is something wrong? Is your mom okay?”

“She’s fine. Still sleeping. I just thought, seeing as though I was awake and it’s really early, that we might be able to go surfing before she gets up.”

She’s joking, right?

“Where’s that knife of yours?” I scrub a hand down my face.

“Back in the kitchen. I was hoping I could make up for last night by getting to know you better.”

I blink her into focus—the innocent shadowed features, the goddamn shorts and shirt I assume she’s already wearing in place of a swim suit. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,principessa. Your mom already said no to surfing.”

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