Chapter 8

Layla

I sprang away like I’d been burned. Nearly tripping over my own feet in my haste to extract myself from the warm, bare skin of the man I’d once loved.

“Vas—Aldo!” What was he doing in my bathroom? How had he even gotten here? Was this some kind of attempt at reconciliation? “How dare you—”

“Layla!” His voice was a cruel bark of surprise. “What the hell are you doing in my bedroom?”

“Your bedroom?” My words trailed off as realization struck. Carlo had brought me to this room—to Aldo’s room—on purpose. He must have assumed I was the Don’s newest lover.

What a pig.

Revulsion burned through me, hard and hot and heavy. The man had so many lovers, apparently, even his second in command couldn’t keep track of them all. I stormed past him and into the bedroom.

Pig. What had happened to whats-her-name, that breathtaking Italian beauty he’d left me for? Apparently he hadn’t loved her that much.

Revulsion turned to anger.

“I’ll find another place to stay.” I snatched my pants off the floor next to the bloodied shirt, dragged them up my thighs. “I wouldn’t want to interfere with your night life.”

“You can stay. I’ll find another room.”

I straightened as Aldo strode through the bathroom door. Still shirtless, a white box clutched in his hands. His face set in that same impassive, expressionless mask.

Even in spite of it all, he was strikingly handsome: the smooth bow of his lips, the prominent lines of his cheekbones, the straight nose. The dark stubble just darkening his strong jaw.

It was no surprise, really, that he found so many lovers. He was handsome—gorgeous. And clearly took care of his body; I couldn’t help noticing he was more muscular than when we’d been together. And of course, he was powerful—

No. He was a pig, I reminded myself. Forcefully. I opened my mouth to spew more venom when a flash of red near his shoulder caught my eye.

My mouth snapped shut.

That was blood.

Blood ran down his shoulder like a crimson waterfall. He was bleeding—no. Not just bleeding; he’d been shot. That was why I’d smelled blood in the car.

My shirt, tossed carelessly to the floor, was splattered with Aldo’s blood.

And now, he stood in the bathroom doorway, a small white medical kit in his hand. Calm, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“I didn’t realize Carlo would put you here.” His voice had assumed a frigid tone. “Maybe he thought he was being funny. I’ll have a talk with him, clear it up.”

Didn’t take an ex-wife to read the disgust in his voice, like I was some kind of virus. A plague on his existence.

I forgot about the blood, the gunshot wound, the medical kit. “Oh, so the thought of me being in your bedroom is a joke?”

This man, who’d betrayed and abandoned me eight years ago was now treating me like a joke. An inconvenience.

He swept past me without meeting my gaze. And he didn’t even have the respect to look me in the eye and admit it! What an absolute ass.

“I want the truth.” I said, hard enough, cold enough—commanding enough—he actually stopped beside the bed. “What’s going on, Aldo? Why are there people watching me?”

Aldo sighed, and I thought he might just walk away. Leave the question unanswered, like the bastard he was. Why should I expect truth from a life built of lies?

Instead, he sat down on the bed and opened the medical kit on his lap.

I could only watch in wide-eyed wonder as he extracted a small knife and pressed it against his bloody shoulder. He was cutting the bullet out, I realized, my brain fuzzy and slow with shock.

He was cutting a damned bullet out of his shoulder. With the calm of an ER surgeon. Like he’d done it countless times before.

“After the attack at the hospital,” he said, and I was so caught up in watching him work, it took me a moment to realize he was answering the question I’d asked, “I sent men to follow you home. To make sure you made it safely.”

“Oh.” I couldn't take my eyes off the knife.

He didn’t look up at me, simply spoke while he cut. “It was a mistake. My enemies read too much into the situation. They assumed you were important to me, made you a target.”

It took a moment for the words to catch up. They assumed you were important to me.

“They assumed wrongly,” I said, my words harsh, grating. His answering silence spoke louder than any denial—I meant nothing to him.

Nothing.

The ting of the bullet dropped onto the bedside table seemed as loud as the initial gunshot.

I stared at the bloody metal, my heart beating too fast. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

“I never intended for you to be dragged into this.” Aldo’s deep, smooth voice pulled my attention back to him. He was stitching the wound now, his face drawn in tight lines as he drove the needle beneath his skin.

No, he was attempting to stitch. He was making a sloppy mess of it, though. I grimaced. “You’re going to leave a scar.”

He snorted a soft, scoffing laugh. “I don’t care about a tiny scar.”

My eyes drifted from his fingers on the needle, the sloppy threadwork, to the array of scars down that same arm. Criss-crossing his well-toned chest. Climbing the hills and valleys of his chiseled abdomen.

Each and every one was the rough and ragged evidence of unprofessional medical treatment. As if he’d stitched each one himself.

“You’d be a terrible surgeon,” I huffed. Because just like I couldn’t stand aside and let a man die in my own hospital, I couldn’t stand here and watch this man literally maim himself—even if it was for the hundredth time.

Without thinking, I plopped onto the bed beside him and snatched the needle out of his fingers.

“It’s a good thing I’m not attempting to stitch up anybody else then, hm?” His words murmured against my cheek. Lifted goosebumps along my skin. But I kept my eyes on the needle, the bleeding wound.

“You should have disappeared completely,” I snapped, and the words came out professionally cold, cutting. “I wish you had. You destroyed me eight years ago, and now here you are. Turning my life upside down again.”

“I know,” he said. No apology followed. “But if I had the chance to do it all again, I’d make the same decisions.”

I tugged the thread tight enough I knew it hurt. I didn’t bother to ask which decisions he meant.

He didn’t flinch.

“I’ll wrap it up,” I said, already digging into the medical kit for a bandage. Pretending like my own flesh didn’t sting with hurt. “You can change it tomorrow.”

“All right.”

Neither of us spoke as I wound the bandage. The silence pressed against me like a weight. No, not the silence, I realized. It was the weight of all the unspoken things that lingered between us.

I taped off the bandage. “I would like to be alone now.”

“Of course.” Aldo stood. But he didn’t head for the door. Instead, he paused, his gaze fixed on the door. “Why didn’t you ever marry Eli’s father?”

My heart beat so loudly I was sure he must hear it. But when I spoke, cold sarcasm laced my words. “I guess I was still such an impulsive child. But I’ve learned to take my time. To wait for the right man.”