Chapter 61

Layla

The kitchen around me had grown dark as the day faded into the horizon, but I didn’t notice. Didn’t rise from my seat at the table to turn on a light. The glow of my phone’s screen was light enough—and I had eyes only for its contents anyway.

The device trembled in my fingers as the message played. Again. As it had on repeat for the past few minutes while I struggled to determine my next move.

“Layla,” Marco’s voice drawled from the tinny speaker, filling my quiet kitchen, “you have something I want. And now, I have something you care about.”

Marco didn’t appear in the video that flickered across the screen. Of course, he didn’t; that coward wouldn’t show his face in such an incriminating way. No, it was Eli’s pale, frightened face on my screen, shadowed by the dim lighting of an unfamiliar kitchen.

That little face was drawn in tight lines of tension, but his blue eyes glowed bright with determination as he stared down the camera. A white bandana parted his lips, pulled the corners of his mouth taut, but he didn’t struggle against the gag.

Didn’t struggle against the thick ropes binding his hands to the chair behind him. Didn’t fight against the cool silver muzzle of the gun against his temple.

I couldn’t see the man who held it. Just the bold black tattoo on the back of his meaty hand. I memorized it, the curved lines of that rose.

How the hell had Marco gotten Eli?

“Come to the Moretti estate,” Marco’s disembodied voice continued. “We’ll discuss terms. You agree to what I want, Eli walks free, no harm done.”

And because he knew I might have ideas of my own, he added in the same smooth tone, “You come alone. Aldo doesn't need to know about any of this.”

The message ended. Again. Leaving cold, eerie silence in its wake. My heart slammed against my ribcage, my breath too shallow against my tight throat.

I played the message again. I’d lost count of how many times I’d seen it, played it. But somehow, it comforted me, to know that Eli was alive. Breathing. Unharmed.

He’d stay that way. Marco needed him alive—or both Aldo and I would rain hell down on his pathetic little farce of a family.

I pulled in a deep breath, forcing down the panic, and shut off my phone. I couldn’t panic. Eli needed me calm and clearheaded. Focused.

I needed every one of my wits if I was going to survive this negotiation.

At long last, I stood, suddenly aware of the darkness that had stolen across my kitchen. I’d been sitting too long. Eli needed me, and I’d left him waiting.

No more. I slid my phone into my pocket and headed for the door. My fingers grasped my car keys as I passed the hook, not pausing for any longer than it took to wrench the door open.

I barely remembered climbing behind the wheel. Pulling out of the driveway. Grinding through the heavy traffic of New York City.

All of the sudden, the Moretti estate loomed ahead of me like a dark fortress. Bold black iron gates barred my entrance to the curved driveway, but as my car approached, they slid soundlessly open.

I drove onto the estate. A vast stone manor sprawled out in front of me, filling my vision from end to end, top to bottom. It was larger than the Marcello estate, impossibly large.

All cold stone walls and narrow windows, towering chimneys, it bore no hints of warmth. Like a prison, rather than a home. A fortress, meant to keep some outside—and others inside.

The gates slid closed behind me. I tried not to let the panic well up in my chest, choke the breath from my throat. I could do this. For Eli, I could do this.

I pulled the car to a stop in front of the massive stone building, and instantly, two armed guards approached my car. My fingers curled instinctively around the pistol I’d tucked into the waistband of my jeans as I pushed the door open.

The larger of the two guards held the door for me as I climbed out. He stood close, too close. So there was no way to step free of the car without noting the sticky warmth of his body.

“This way.” The other man waved me forward towards that cold, sprawling prison of a building. And what choice did I have but to follow?

My flat rubber-soled shoes made no sound on the wide flagstones as I followed the second guard. He pulled the massive door open, muscles straining against the sleeves of his suit jacket at its heft.

“Inside.”

Inside, as it turned out, was as cold as outside. The ceilings soared high overhead, leaving cool, stale air lingering in the empty space. Crystal chandeliers cast a cold light on the ice-white marble floors.

The guard took the lead down one hall, then another. I noted each turn, each change of position in the house. I wouldn’t be lost in this cavern of a fortress.

Not when my life depended on it. Mine, and Eli’s.

Three turns and twists later, the guard knocked on a massive mahogany door at the end of the hall. “I’ve brought the girl.”

The girl. Like I wasn’t a thirty-four year old woman, mother. Celebrated surgeon and esteemed doctor. Fuck him. Fuck them all.

My teeth gritted. I was done being their plaything.

“Come in,” Marco’s cool voice echoed from behind the door, and the guard pushed through into a lavish sitting room.

This space at least bore some kind of warmth—carpets and soft leather furniture, books lining the walls—even if it was a heavy, weighted sort of warmth that felt far from cozy.

Marco reclined on a massive armchair by a cold fireplace in the corner. His feet propped on a coffee table, and a glass of wine lingered in his long fingers.

Fingers, I remembered, that had once saved lives with surgical tools, needles, medicine. Just as mine did.

But that Marco had died months ago. This Marco was an entirely different beast. A king, lounging on his throne, awaiting an audience.

And that audience was me.

“Ah, Layla.” Marco didn’t rise from his chair. Why would he; he was the king and I was but a lowly pawn in this fucking game.

Or so he thought.

“Marco.” I kept my tone curt, cold. So he couldn’t read any of my warring emotions—the fear, the panic, the determination. The anger, roiling up inside me like a pot ready to boil over. “How the hell did you get my son?”

“I knew you’d come.” He smiled, and it was so like the smile I’d known on my friend Marco, it made my heart race. How unsettling, to see both versions of him at once.

“I’m here,” I said, my voice steadier than she felt. “Where is Eli?”

“He’s here, and he’s well.” Marco held out a hand towards the empty armchair on the other side of the coffee table. “Sit, and we’ll talk. The sooner you can give me what I want, the sooner I can give you what you want.”

I folded my arms across my chest, refused to budge. “I’m not here to talk. Show me Eli, or I’m leaving.”

Marco chuckled. “So feisty! I’ve always liked that about you. Sadly, you’re not in a position to make demands.”

I refused to move an inch. “We’ll see if you still feel that way when I walk.”

“Fortunately for you, I’m in a pleasant mood.” Marco shifted to slide his phone from his pocket. He tapped the screen, then held it out for me.

A video feed appeared—live, if the time and date at the top were any accurate indication—showing Eli sitting in the same room as the earlier message.

“He’s safe, as I said.” Marco’s eyes fixed unblinkingly on me. “Whether he stays whole and well depends entirely on you.”