Page 95 of Ruthless Redemption
18
LAYLA
I keepthe shock bottled inside my chest.
Matthew became someone else while I was under threat. Sterile. Calculated. Cold. He was the Butcher, and I’m ashamed to admit I’m as drawn to his dark side as I have been to his seduction.
The way he fought for me was exquisite. His severity profound.
“You ambush us, dare to hold Layla hostage, then have the balls to ask for help?” He’s a predator ready to pounce, his anger tightly corded into every muscle.
“It wasn’t meant to be an ambush.” Salvo continues clinging to his injured shoulder. “We just wanted to get you in a position where you’d listen without us being slaughtered.”
“You had a gun to her head.”
“I fucking panicked.” Remy clings to the belt strap around his thigh. “You’re a scary son of a bitch when under threat.”
“Then you’d better hope Bishop is okay, because you’re going to see some next-level shit if he isn’t.”
“He is. Go check for yourself.” Salvo jerks his head toward the house. “He’s in one of the downstairs bedrooms.”
“Is he hurt?” I ask.
“Barely. I swear to God, we never wanted any of this shit. Not the guns, or the violence, or the threats.”
“Tell that to my dead husband.” The bitterness spills from my lips before I can rein it in.
Salvatore cringes. Remy quits playing with his belt and straightens.
That’s all I’m given for my loss. For my daughter’s nightmares.
I should be ending their lives. Repaying what they did to Benji. Instead, my mind is stuck thinking about Matthew’s hesitation when I spoke to him days ago about killing his brothers.
He’d been stricken. He may have hidden it well, but I’d known.
He still feels loyal to them. No matter what they’ve done to me.
At least, he did before today.
“I swear it wasn’t us.” Remy meets my gaze. “That night was out of control, but we were firing air shots for cover. We didn’t kill anyone. It was Emmanuel’s guards.”
The hatred I’ve let fester for two years doesn’t budge. It’s bone deep. Embedded.
“You shot at us in Denver,” I counter.
“And I could’ve hit your brother without even trying. But didn’t.” Salvatore shucks his suit jacket, exposing a white button-down with a sleeve stained in blood. “Or at a bare minimum, your car tires. Those shots were warnings to get you to hurry up and skip town.”
Matthew doesn’t deny their claims.
He doesn’t say anything at all.
I slide a hand over his. Questioning. Searching for insight.
He squeezes my fingers and drags me to his side. He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t dare to take his attention off his brothers, but I see his struggle.
He wants to believe them.
“Why?” I ask Salvatore. “Why didn’t you aim at my husband? Or at us in the alley? Why pretend? Why play games?”
