Ruthless Redemption (Hunting Duet Book 2) Read online

  RUTHLESS REDEMPTION

  EDEN SUMMERS

  Copyright © 2022 by Eden Summers

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  CONTENTS

  Foreword

  1. Layla

  2. Matthew

  3. Matthew

  4. Matthew

  5. Layla

  6. Layla

  7. Layla

  8. Matthew

  9. Layla

  10. Matthew

  11. Layla

  12. Layla

  13. Matthew

  14. Layla

  15. Layla

  16. Matthew

  17. Matthew

  18. Layla

  19. Matthew

  20. Matthew

  21. Layla

  22. Layla

  23. Matthew

  24. Matthew

  25. Layla

  26. Layla

  27. Matthew

  28. Layla

  29. Layla

  30. Layla

  Hunter

  1. Her

  2. Her

  3. Her

  Also by Eden Summers

  About the Author

  FOREWORD

  A full list of content warnings for Ruthless Redemption can be found on the Eden Summers website.

  1

  LAYLA

  I slap my palms against the inside of the car window as a scream sears my throat.

  My brother is outside, a few yards down the alley, pummeling his fists into Matthew’s chest. His face. Smashing. Beating.

  “Stop.” My shriek reverberates through the Lincoln’s interior while I fight harder against the glass, then wrench at the door handle. “Cole. Stop.”

  I’m locked in here. Trapped by the order of the man my brother’s attempting to beat to death right in front of my eyes.

  “Shut up,” Bishop snarls from the driver’s seat. “I can’t fucking think with your wailing.”

  No. I won’t.

  I don’t want Matthew to die today. Not like this, anyway. If he’s going to leave this world it will be by my hands.

  I bang harder. Scream louder.

  Matthew charges, shocking me into silence, ramming his shoulder into Cole’s chest. He grapples my brother backward in a bear hug, gaining control as Hunter watches them from a few feet away, his gun aimed in their direction.

  Then they stop.

  From devastation to inaction in the space of seconds, and I can’t understand why.

  “Shit,” Bishop mutters under his breath.

  “What?” I shove forward in the back seat. “What’s happening?”

  “Langston pulled a gun on your brother.”

  My heart nosedives to the pit of my gut. “Do something.” I shove at Bishop’s shoulder. “Let me out. Let me stop this.”

  “Shut the fuck up so I can listen.” He lowers his window and hoists his head outside.

  I can’t hear the exchange. Even if my pulse wasn’t a thunderous staccato, I’m not sure I’d be able to comprehend the words. There’s nothing but my panted breath and the thump, thump, thump of my frantic heartbeats.

  “If he’s dead, she’s dead, too,” Bishop yells. “I don’t have a fondness for the bitch like he does.”

  I don’t fear for my life. What frightens me is Bishop’s ignorance as he attempts to intimidate my brother. Nobody threatens Cole. At least, not if they plan to live.

  Matthew glances over his shoulder to us. Our eyes meet in a clash of emotion. I see his determination. His power. And beneath the already swelling cheekbone and blood on his lip, I glimpse a man with regrets, too.

  Good. I hope he chokes on remorse.

  He’s made every moment we spent together an agonizing memory. Each blink of remembrance is a knife through my chest.

  At the time, I’d been stupid enough to think we were falling in love. That our connection was driven by fate. The reality was, the only thing molding us together were his lies. His manipulation.

  I despise how easily I succumbed to feeling wanted.

  Matthew returns his attention to Cole and retreats a step, raising the gun in the air. He makes a show of surrender as he lets the weapon fall limp in his fingers. They’re talking. Maybe arguing. I can’t tell. And with each mouthed word, my stomach twists a little more.

  I don’t want him informing my brother of the mistakes I’ve made.

  I need to get out of here.

  I have to go home.

  I slide back in my seat and clench a fist to bang it against the side window. I pound hard enough for the bones in my hand to ache. I don’t stop when Bishop threatens me. I keep pummeling as the showdown continues, my brother’s expression morphing from a glare to a taunting grin.

  What the hell are they talking about?

  I bang and thump and hit until he starts toward the Lincoln, sparking delirious relief inside my burning veins.

  I’ve made a plethora of bad decisions that Cole will forever hold against me. But the epitome of my nightmare is about to be over. I can return to my dismal existence—home, the place that once seemed like hell, yet now resembles a refuge when pitted against my current situation. I’ll slink into isolation to lick my wounds. I’ll become a goddamn hermit.

  Cole stops on my side of the car, parallel with the driver’s seat, and glances at Bishop. “Lower her window.”

  I straighten. Pause. Panic.

  I don’t need the window lowered. I want the door opened. There’s no time for temporary measures when our enemies are near. The men who played a role in killing my husband are in the hotel beside the alley, looking for me. The men who I now know are Matthew’s brothers.

  My window descends an inch, allowing a breath of the outside world to sweep in.

  “Layla,” Cole greets in a condemning tone. “This is quite a mess you’ve made.”

  “I know.” I give another pointless tug of the door handle. “I’m sorry. I’ll explain on the way home.”

  “I don’t need an explanation.”

  There’s something in his statement that chills me. Something callous and cruel.

  “You don’t?” I glance at Matthew standing a few feet away, my gaze connecting with eyes devoid of emotion. He’s not enraged that I’m about to leave him. Not annoyed. Or bitter. Or heartbroken. He’s a blank slate, only marred by the damage my brother inflicted on his face.

  “Please let me out.” I return my attention to Cole. “Salvatore and Remy are—”

  “You’re not getting out, Layla.”

  I stiffen.

  Everything slows—my concept of time, my thoughts, the world around me. Everything except my pulse, which does the opposite, its frantic beats threatening to cause heart failure.

  “What do you mean?” I grip the edge of the window. My fingers claw as I fail to lower the barrier. “What’s going on?”

  “Do you remember what we discussed the day of Benji
’s funeral?” His voice hardens as he steps closer.

  I ignore the question, tugging violently on the glass. “Open the door.” I don’t want to talk about the funeral. Or my late husband. I don’t want to do anything other than get out of this car.

  “You begged me for peace,” he continues. “You pleaded for me to leave the Costas alone for the sake of Stella and Tobias. And I complied. I delayed honor and retribution for you. For your recovery, as well as the children’s. But I also told you there would be a price.”

  My blood turns from red-hot to stone-cold, the icy dread splintering painfully through my limbs. “Open the door, Cole.” My fingers ache from my aggressive grip on the glass. “Don’t do this.”

  “I made it clear there would be a price to pay for such a sizeable favor.”

  “No.” I raise my voice. Shake my head. “Please.”

  “It’s time to pay up, sister.”

  “No.” I rattle the window. Kick the door. “Let me out.”

  “I’m not always going to be around to fix your mistakes. You need to learn to clean up the mess you create.”

  My mind continues the screams my parched throat can no longer achieve.

  I tug and pull and thrash against the door. I thump and punch and shove.

  My brother ignores my plight. Everyone does.

  Cole stares down at me, devoid of empathy. Bishop remains silent in the front seat. And Matthew—the man who stole my heart through deception and fraud—watches with his traitorous lips set in a thin line.

  I clench my teeth as I glare through my heartache.

  I want him to suffer. But more than anything, I want to wake from the nightmare of the last twenty-four hours and not be the victim of his lies.

  “Listen to me.” Cole leans closer to my window. “You need to understand the situation you’re in—”

  “I understand,” I plead. “I know the mistakes I’ve made.”

  “Like always, you have no clue. The men you’ve spent your time with—”

  “The men you’re threatening to leave me with,” I shriek.

  His nostrils flare. “It’s not a threat, Layla. This is happening. You’re pulling yourself out of this on your own. What you need to be aware of is who will be by your side while you do it.”

  “I already know who they are.” My eyes burn from the overwhelming frustration. “I’m well aware Matthew and Bishop used to be Italian mafia. I’ve met Lorenzo Cappelletti.”

  Cole gives a placating smile. “Then I’ll assume you know the role they played in increasing Lorenzo’s empire and the lengths they went in an effort to achieve success. And I’ll guess that you’re also aware these men are the reason Baltimore is now under the control of the Italians.”

  The chill digs deeper, sinking into my bones, freezing my marrow.

  No, I wasn’t aware. This insight is yet another notch to add to the tally of things Matthew kept from me.

  “If you think I’m a monster,” Cole murmurs, “then you’ll find yourself in good company, because the atrocities instigated by the Butcher Boys of Baltimore far outweigh my own.”

  The moniker rips through me. Shreds.

  “No.” I shake my head, my stomach revolting.

  I’ve heard tales. Myths. None of those horror-filled stories could be about the man I’ve fallen for.

  “Yes, Layla.” Cole straightens and steps back. “You found your way into the devil’s bed. Now it’s up to you to get yourself out of it.”

  2

  MATTHEW

  My jaw aches. My cheek, too. But nothing hurts more than having to witness the devastation tightening her beautiful features.

  I’d warned her I wasn’t a good man. I never claimed to have a soul.

  Her mistake was thinking my crimes would be comparable to those of her people. That the wrongdoings of a small underworld crime family in Portland would be somehow similar to the monstrosities I committed to gain Lorenzo unfathomable power.

  The shock in her eyes lets me know she now understands.

  “Cole.” Her voice is pure fragility. “Please don’t do this. Even if you don’t want to take me home, just let me out. Don’t leave me a prisoner.”

  “You’re a prisoner of your own making. One that will no longer be funded by family money.” Her brother takes another retreating step. “You can pay for your mistakes from now on.”

  I clench my teeth, almost regretting the deal we made.

  Almost.

  “Please.” Tears glisten in her eyes, but not a drop spills free. “You can’t do this to me.”

  Movement shifts in my periphery. The shadow of a body enters the open hotel window Layla and I had previously climbed out of.

  “Salvatore,” I state in warning to those around me, finding my brother’s gun already aimed in our direction. “Get down.” I haul Cole across my body, using myself as his shield.

  Shots reverberate through the alley. Bullets whiz past.

  Layla screams. Cole ducks.

  Hunter returns fire from behind us.

  The noise is deafening as I lunge for the passenger door and yank it open. “Get around the other side of the car. We’ll cover you.”

  Cole complies as I climb into the Lincoln and Bishop hits the gas. We cruise forward, Layla’s brother doing a crouching run beside us to where his vehicle waits at the mouth of the alley.

  “Let me go with him,” she begs through the window. “Let me out.”

  Never.

  “It isn’t safe.” I don’t trust her with a brother who could easily give her up. She’s mine to protect now.

  We nose up to Cole’s vehicle and he climbs inside, Hunter doing the same, before they both slam their doors. The town car violently reverses, clearing our path to escape as bullets ping off the back of the Lincoln, smashing a tail light.

  “Hold on.” Bishop clings to the steering wheel. Our tires screech with rapid acceleration. “Am I heading for the airport?”

  “Yes.” I grab my cell from inside my jacket and dial the pilot’s number, my ass sliding from side to side on the seat as we speed through the parking lot and onto the main road. He answers on the second ring. “Get the jet ready. We’ll be there in fifteen. I don’t want any delays.”

  “I’ll need to schedule it with traffic—”

  “Get it done.” I disconnect, return the device to my pocket, then lower my sun visor. I use the makeup mirror to gain a glimpse of Layla in the back seat, her bowed head and slumped posture threatening to reawaken emotions long since hibernated. “Are you okay?”

  She raises her gaze, meeting my reflection with a scowl. There are no words. No actions. Just hard eyes that scream of loathing.

  “We’ll get you out of Denver,” I vow. “You’ll be looked after.”

  “I don’t want your help. Leave me at the airport. I’ll find my own way home.”

  “That’s not an option.” I can’t win her back when she’s not by my side. “We can discuss the future once we’re settled at a safe house.”

  Her lip curls, her vehemence increasing, but she doesn’t argue. Instead, she drags her gaze out the window while we continue weaving through traffic, Bishop slamming the horn like it’s an arcade button.

  We reach the airport without a sign of Cole or Salvatore. Thankfully, there are no cops on our tail, either.

  Bishop takes us to the gates leading onto the private runway, escorting us inside as soon as they’re opened by airport staff.

  We stop by a hangar in front of the jet already waiting on the tarmac. The ignition is cut. Silence descends. Nobody moves.

  It isn’t until a guy pauses at the driver’s door, waiting to take the Lincoln off our hands, that Bishop looks at me in recrimination. “Are you sure this is the right move?”

  I don’t need specifics to understand he’s talking about Layla.

  He wants me to leave her behind. To dump and run.

  “It’s the only move.” I shove from the car and open her door for her to get out.

/>   She doesn’t.

  She remains seated, staring straight ahead. She doesn’t even look at me.

  I’m not sure if I should be livid or impressed that rejection is high on her priorities even though her life is in danger.

  “We need to get out of here.” I pull the door wider.

  She crosses her arms over her chest, refusing to acknowledge me. She’s all defiance and spite. Hostility and fury.

  I’d be fucking turned on if I wasn’t concerned for her safety.

  “Believe me, you’ll have more than enough time to make your resentment known once we reach our destination,” I mutter under my breath. “But if you don’t move your ass, I will carry you.”

  Her chin rises, her mega-watt scowl turning to hit me head on. “Touch me and I promise you won’t live to regret it.”

  A thrill skitters through my veins. If she isn’t careful, she’ll learn the hard way that defiance isn’t the best strategy against me. “Then get out of the fucking car, amore mio. We need to disappear.”

  Her jaw tightens as she continues to stare me down. Seconds pass. My pulse increases.

  I want an excuse to grab her. Touch her. Force her to me and make her see sense.

  “Where are we going?” Finally, she scoots from the back seat and moves to stand before me, her shoulders straight with authority.

  “Somewhere safe.” I slam the door behind her while Bishop climbs from the other side of the vehicle.

  I stalk beside her toward the jet whirring on the tarmac, the stairs lowered, the pilot already waiting in the cockpit.