Page 153 of Ruthless Redemption

“Layla?” Matthew’s scrutiny sharpens.

“Bishop never stopped working for Lorenzo,” I say softly, patiently, allowing the information to sink in and the shock to take hold. “They’ve worked together since you left all those years ago.”

His hand doesn’t move from my jaw, but his eyes stray, their attention turning to Lorenzo for a pointed look.

I wait for persecution. For another volcano to erupt.

“I know.” Matthew’s gaze returns to mine, heartfelt and warm. “Bishop told me a long time ago.”

“He did?”Shit. I outed Lorenzo for nothing. Right in front of the mafioso’s face.

I straighten, cautiously shifting my focus to the older man who grins down at his polished shoes.Grins. As if my lack of loyalty was a comedic performance.

“I told you Matthew was a smart man.” He pushes from the gurney and staggers toward me on unsteady feet.

“Then why threaten me to keep quiet?” I ask.

“You threatened her?” Matthew growls, his hand falling from my face.

Lorenzo’s grin widens.

“No,” Matthew murmurs to himself. “You were testing her.”

“Sì,figlio.” He shuffles forward, making me hold my breath in caution as he approaches. “And you passed,bella.”

He drags me in by the arms, kissing both my cheeks. “I don’t usually approve of loyalty abovela famigliabut in this case, I couldn’t be more forgiving.” He releases me and slides a comforting hand across Matthew’s wrist. “When the time comes, you have my blessing.”

My pulse skips. Races.

“I’ll let you two have privacy.” Lorenzo limps to the staircase. “But I’m sure there will be eager visitors soon.” He walks into the upstairs hall, closing the door behind him.

I stare at the bedsheet through lengthening silence, my heart warmed by a blessing I would’ve presumed was far too premature.

“I need you beside me.” Matthew pats the tiny stretch of mattress next to his hip. “Let me hold you.”

“I don’t want to risk hurting you.”

“Your denial is hurting me. Not having my hands on you is fucking torture.” He reaches for me, his touch light against my arm.

I climb onto the mattress in slow increments, taking my time to make sure I don’t bump him. I nestle my hip against his, my cheek to his chest, his arm cradled around my back. “This isn’t hurting your stab wound?”

“I can’t feel my face, let alone my back.”

I smile, but those tears threaten to return.

I never thought I’d have this again—his warmth, his affection. I truly believed I’d lost my only chance at happiness. That God’s plan was to make me suffer for the rest of my life.

“I didn’t think I’d get to hold you again.” His hand glides through my hair in the most gentle kiss of contact. “I was so fucking scared of losing you, Layla.”

“It was my fault for taking your gun.” For denying him Emmanuel’s death. For being a distraction and a trigger. “I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for.”

Yes, I do. But I’ll make it up to him. I’ll spend the rest of my life chasing the happiness we both deserve.

“Are you sure I’m not hurting your back?” I reposition myself, trying not to rest too heavily on him.

“Not at all. I think the pain of that injury will always be more emotional than physical.”

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