Page 107 of Ruthless Redemption

“I’ve got eyes on the local airport. We’ll know if anyone flies in. But we’ll leave in the morning.” I glance at them in turn, waiting for a protest. “I suggest you strap in for a bumpy ride because your lives are about to get hectic.”

“Where are we going?” Remy grabs the railing, shuffling on his good leg.

“You’ll find out once we get there. For now, sit tight and stay out of Layla’s way.” I start for the laundry, Bishop following a step behind.

“Wait,” Salvo calls out. “Can’t you at least tell us how this is going to work? Is this a long-term reunion kind of thing? Or merely transactional, where you give us money and we part ways once we’re on our feet?”

I tense. Stop.

I don’t have a clue about the family situation. A lot of our future depends on Layla. But one thing’s for sure. “I’m not giving you a damn cent. I started from the bottom without a dime to my name, and you can do the same. But I’m working on a plan that might get you places faster than I ever did.”

20

MATTHEW

The house isquiet when I return through the lower level.

“Tell me about this plan.” Bishop stays on my six.

“Give me a chance to speak to Layla first. I’ll find you once I’m done.”

“I’m relegated to second-string already?” he mutters.

“What can I say? She’s got better tits than you.” I make a beeline for the stairs. “I’ll find you once I’m done.”

“I guess I’ll be in the kitchen eating all the leftovers then.”

“Have at it. But organize the jet while you’re there. Have it ready midmorning for Virginia Beach.”

“I’ll get it done.”

“Just keep it quiet. If Layla’s asleep, I don’t want to wake her.”

We part ways at the top of the staircase, my steps slowing as I approach her ajar bedroom door. I anticipate the relief of seeing her resting, snuggled on her side like she always slept in my D.C. apartment.

But she’s not there.

The bed is made. The covers flat and crisp. The curtains open.

I don’t have to move any farther to determine the atmosphere in the room is hollow. Her floral scent doesn’t linger. I can’t feel her presence.

I drag my feet inside, finding the glass of water and Tylenol untouched on the bedside table. “Layla?”

There’s no response. Nothing other than the rabid beat in my chest.

I continue to her private bathroom, my blood heating in rage.

It’s empty. Her toothbrush is gone from the counter. Her makeup and deodorant, too.

Fuck.

I pivot, swinging back to the bedroom, scanning it from top to bottom.

The duffle her sister brought is gone. The clothes. The shoes. All that remains is a box in the corner with the trash from her packages compacted inside.

She ran.

She fucking left me.

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