Layla
I kept seeing Aldo’s face: as I grabbed coffee from the abandoned kitchen the next morning; as I slid behind the wheel of my car to head to work; as I rode the elevator up to the emergency surgery wing.
The grim determination in that expression was either honesty, or the look of a man who’d force-fed himself a lie long enough to believe it was truth. And where Marco was concerned, I was inclined to think the latter.
Aldo hated Marco, would do anything to make me believe he was a bad man. To paint him as the villain. That much I knew to be true. But this …
The thought of Marco—smiling, charming, playboy Marco—having ties to a Mafia clan was almost laughable.
“He’s trying too hard,” I snorted as I swept into my office to set down my half-drunk coffee and grab my coat. “Does he h
