Chapter 16

Layla

Work was busy.

So busy, I barely stopped moving for my entire twelve-hour shift. I barely had time to wave at interns and fellow doctors in passing as I ran from patient to patient. So busy, I didn’t have time to feel tired.

To think.

It was definitely for the best, after my last less-than-amicable interactions with my new housemate and, before that, his—but I refused to give Aurora a label when it came to Aldo.

No, busy was definitely good.

Busy meant that I wasn’t thinking about Aldo or his new woman. When I had a knife in my fingers and a life in my hands, I wasn’t thinking about anything except my work.

It wasn’t until my last patient of the day that I finally slowed down enough to take a breath. To wish my co-workers a good night before I headed down towards the parking lot.

It was late. So late I rubbed sleep from my eyes as I slipped into the elevator—

Only to stop dead in my tracks at the sight in front of me.

Marco Ricci slumped against the metallic wall of the lift, but it wasn’t the sight of him that’d drawn me up short. It was the state of his face.

He was a mess of bruises. His left eye had nearly swollen shut, and the skin around it was a collage of black and purple. A thick, scabbed cut crossed his right cheek, and his lip had split beneath it.

“Marco!” I started forward before I could stop myself, and my fingers brushed over his cheekbone on instinct. “Who did this—”

He jerked back as though my fingers had burned him. “Your friend Aldo.”

I stumbled back, jaw hanging in shock. The elevator dinged, and Marco brushed past me. Leaving me, mouth agape, staring at the open door.

His words echoed in my head. My own fingertips burned with the memory of his skin.

Anger quickly rushed in to replace the shock.

No, not anger. Fury. Red rage.

I made it through the drive home—no. Not home. Along the winding suburban streets to the estate. Because that’s what my life had been relegated to, living under the care of the man who’d scorned me, left me, then come crashing back into my carefully reconstructed life to fuck it all up again.

Like a bull in a china shop.

Carlo met me outside the manor as I pulled into the driveway. “Layla—”

“Where is he?” I shoved my keys into the valet’s hand without turning my gaze from Aldo’s second in command. “Where the hell is he?”

To my surprise, Carlo placed his body between me and the door. “What were you thinking?”

“What?” I faltered back a step, shocked by the venom in his voice.

“Why would you piss off Aldo over a jerk like Marco?”

Red tinted the edges of my vision. No. No way. Not another man trying to control my life, own me, tell me who I should and shouldn’t love. “Move out of my way, Carlo. Or are you going to hit the woman whose life Aldo has decided to control?”

Carlo moved out of my way.

My no-slip rubber shoes echoed against the floor—a testament to how hard I was stomping along the polished wood. How dare Aldo interfere in my life in such a bold, dramatic way!

That fucking alpha male. Trying to impose his macho ego on my life. As if Marco was any of his business! He’d made everything a mess—and the irony was he was the last person who had any right to judge me.

An unfamiliar man stood outside the door to Aldo’s bedroom.

Because of course he’d stationed a guard dog outside his door to keep me from barging in. Confronting him. Calling him out on his unforgivable, out-of-line bullshit.

“Move aside,” I snarled.

“No one can go in there,” the guard dog said in a monotone voice that only pissed me off more. “The Don is with Aurora.”

With Aurora. The nerve of that man! To violently assault my partners while he …

He’d beaten Marco. Beaten him with his bloody fists! And then he’d gone to Aurora.

“That fucking hypocrite,” I snarled. And I lunged for the doorknob.

The guard dog’s meaty hand locked around my biceps, halting me in my tracks. “Nobody goes in.”

“Nobody touches her.” Carlo, suddenly, was at my side. Prying the guard’s hand off of me. “You really want to go in, Layla? Go right ahead.”

Oh, I wanted to. I was ready to break down that fucking door to demand Aldo look me in the eye and explain his actions. Until, that is, I caught the soft murmur of a woman’s voice through the wood.

The low, sensual murmur of a woman’s voice. Aurora’s voice.

My stomach churned. Bile burned the back of my throat. She really was in there with him. With him. And the last thing I wanted to see was Aldo—Vasco—in bed with another woman.

How many times in the last eight years had I tried to forget the sight of her walking out of our bedroom?

I stepped back. I couldn’t do it. As much as it would have been satisfying to storm through that door, scream in his face—I could not.

“Let me know when he’s done,” I told Carlo, and then I left the two men playing guard dog at the door. Left Aldo to his woman behind it. I paced down the hall towards my own room—Aldo’s room, I supposed—my rubber shoes silent on the floor this time.

Once inside the safety and privacy of that room, I forced myself to breathe. To calm. My hands were shaking. My heart raced.

Breathe, breathe, breathe.

I breathed.

And then I shucked off my clothes and slid beneath the covers of my bed. Because no way in hell was I gonna stay awake waiting for Aldo to be done with Aurora. Wondering what they were doing. Watching the clock to see how long they spent together.

No, I needed sleep.

My anger would still be fresh tomorrow morning, of that much I was certain. I could sleep off the rage and approach him tomorrow with cold rationality—think how much more satisfying that would be.

But I couldn’t stop hearing the low, sensual murmur of that feminine voice. Thinking of her in that room with him.

I rolled over in bed.

And again. Again.

If only I could sleep. Why couldn’t I stop thinking about them together? We’d been divorced for eight years. Surely he’d been with dozens and dozens of other women in that time. With Aurora many, many times.

Why was it bothering me so much?

I rolled over again, then forced myself to lie still. To concentrate on breathing. In, out, in out.

Breathe, breathe, breathe.

Don’t think of Aldo. Or Vasco. Don’t remember how we’d lie in bed like this, his warm body pressed against mine. How his breath would caress the back of my neck, my cheek. How his hands would sweep along my bare skin.

I couldn’t not think about it, though.

Not when the memory was so strong I could practically feel his big, strong hand sliding over the curve of my hip. His lips tracing my jawline to feather down my neck. His hardened cock pressing against my ass.

How could I stop thinking of him when warm fingers slipped between my legs to cradle me, sending heat shooting through my core.

A moan tore from my mouth, and my eyes flew open.

This wasn’t a dream.

I wasn’t alone in bed, imagining a man touching me. I wasn’t remembering the way Vasco used to caress me, pleasure me, leave me wet and wanting.

I rolled over.

And stared straight into my Vasco’s eyes.

But something wasn’t right, the way those eyes slid out of focus, half hooded beneath heavy lids. The way the breath panted from between his parted lips. The way his body pressed too-hot against mine.

Something was wrong.