Chapter 57

Layla

Aldo’s new recovery room was significantly more comfortable—and homey—than his room at the hospital had been. Expected, I suppose, for a man of his status. Still felt strange to me, as an ER doctor, to care for a patient from the comfort of his own home.

“You’re getting spoiled.” I leaned over to adjust the pillows behind him, hands brisk but gentle. “You’ll be expecting me to spoon feed you next.”

Aldo’s mouth turned in half a grin. “Or maybe you’re just fussing.”

“How are you feeling?” I rolled my eyes, nudged a glass of water towards him. “Any changes?”

His recovery was slow but steady. He’d regained his usual color and complexion, could eat and drink normally, and would soon enough be back on his feet. “Nothing new to report, Doc. How’s Eli?”

“Good.” I settled onto the chair beside him to examine the wound. “He’s baking with his Nonna again. I swear, they’re trying to fatten me up.”

He chuckled, and I did, too.

My hands worked of their own accord to remove the bandage. This had become our nighttime ritual, in a way. Me checking in on him, him asking about the outside world.

So much so, that once the wound was covered again, I lingered. A certain warmth had grown between us—the product of my continued care or Melissa’s admissions about her son, I wasn’t sure.

“You’re lucky,” I said suddenly, and I wasn’t sure where the words had come from.

“How so?” he asked, his brow furrowing in question.

“That bullet should’ve killed you.” Did my voice sound accusatory? Angry? I wasn’t sure. “Would’ve killed most people.”

“Then it’s a good thing I have a good doctor, eh?”

“I’m serious.” That time, my voice definitely came out harsher than I intended. “You have to be more careful. Your life …”

I trailed off, and he held my stare, silent. Waiting for me to continue. I couldn’t read the expression on his face, the emotion in his eyes.

“Your life matters,” I said finally. “And I know I haven’t … haven’t acted like that, maybe.”

My throat tightened at the admission. I knew the truth of those words. I’d treated him with scorn and disrespect for what he was, for who he’d become. Because of the life he’d chosen—

But he hadn’t chosen it, any more than he’d truly chosen to leave me. A life of duty was a life without choice, wasn’t it?

“The truth is,” I choked the words through my half-closed throat. “The truth is, when I found out who you really were, I hated you. I hated that you’d picked that life before me, before us. I hated that you could even think of being a part of that.”

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t protest, didn’t turn angry. His dark eyes softened with something like sympathy or maybe understanding.

“After what happened with my parents …” My words trailed off to a whisper. “My parents were killed by the Mafia.”

My father had refused to save a life that would, in turn, end countless more lives. And he’d paid for it not just with his life, but with his wife’s. And the daughter they’d left behind …

Well, I’d never been the same, had I?

“I don’t blame you for any of the things you’ve felt towards me,” he murmured, and his fingers slid over mine atop the bedspread. “I might be worried if you didn’t hate me, after something like that.”

All I could feel was the warmth of his fingers. His skin rough, callused, against mine. All I could see was the brown of his eyes, deep and bottomless.

All I could hear was the soft timbre of his voice.

Like a song.

“They were such good people,” I said, surprised by the shake of my own voice. By the tears tugging at my throat, choking my words. “They were hardworking, caring, kind people, and it didn’t matter. In the end, they got caught in the crossfire of someone else’s war.”

Aldo’s jaw clenched, and his fingers tightened ever so slightly around mine. “Why do you think I left the Mafia in the first place?”

“You never wanted this life, did you?” I let my gaze fall to those twined fingers atop the bed. “You chose to leave.”

“I did.”

“And then you chose to go back.”

“I did.”

“I don’t blame you.” I lifted my eyes back to his in time to see the surprised arch of his brows.

“You don’t?”

“No,” I said, and I meant those words. “I understand. As much as I’ve spent my life hating the Mafia, I can’t hate you for your part in it. Not anymore.”

My voice cracked on the last word, and I paused to steady myself. Or maybe to gauge his response. But he merely watched me with those deep, unreadable eyes.

“This life,” I finally continued, “this life isn’t what I expected. You’re not what I expected.”

“No?” His brow wrinkled slightly in question. “How so?”

“I …” I blew out a quiet breath. “I thought at first you’d be like the rest of them—cold and uncaring. A killer.”

That word cut through the air like a blade. And I let it hang for a moment between us, giving it weight, meaning.

“But I watch you with your mother, or your men.” My voice stiffened. “Even Aurora.”

He opened his mouth as if to protest, but I held up my free hand and barrelled on.

“And I see you with Eli. And … Shit.” I laughed dryly. “How could I hate you when you’re such a good father?”

More words to bear weight in the space between us. His expression remained unreadable, his emotions unknowable. “Is that why you’re still here?”

“You know, I ask myself that every damned day.” I chewed my lower lip, because once again, the question resurfaced. “Why am I still here? I can’t be a part of your world. I know that.”

And yet, I hadn’t left. I was still here, with no plans to leave, to move on. To save myself or my son.

Why hadn’t I taken his offer yet—or Ethan’s? Why hadn’t I jumped at the chance to start over? To get away from it all? To live a fresh life of freedom and safety?

Why the hell was I still here, in a place I definitely didn’t belong, surrounded by people who’d only seek to use me at best and kill me at worst? Why was I still here?

He studied me, dark eyes searching. “And?”

“Some days,” I murmured. “I think it’s because I want Eli to have a father. Some days, because I think that once I start running, I’ll always be running. That there’s no way to escape it.”

“That’s not—”

“Some days, I …” I paused, lowering my gaze back to our hands atop the bedspread.

“Layla?” Aldo’s voice was soft, pleading. “You can tell me.”

I shook my head. “It doesn't matter. In the end, I have no idea why I’m still here, and that’s the bottom line. I really don’t know.”

The admission hung between us, too, like a tangible third presence in the room. Either I didn’t have a good reason for staying—or I simply couldn’t admit it to myself.