Page 62 of Silver Sinner

"Oh God…" She pulls away for me for a fraction and turns those aching, pained eyes onto me. "They took your necklace."

"They did?"

"They were going to kill me, and I panicked. I thought if it was worth something, then it would save me. I'm so sorry, Pierce. It was a gift and it's gone!"

This is good news, actually. Given that the necklace was gifted to keep an eye on Layla, it should lead me right to the cunts that got away, I cup her face gently and smile. "Layla. There will be other necklaces, but only one you. You can bargain everything and anything I give you if it means you will stay alive and here with me."

She blinks and slow tears roll down her face. "Aren't you curious why?"

I frown gently. "Why?"

"Why they thought I had lots of money?"

It hadn't crossed my mind as something important, but given Layla's habit of using something to put herself down in the face of a compliment or attention, it's now at the forefront of my mind.

"I wasn't curious because that's your business… but if you think it's important?" My greed to know more about her is a quiet hunger that's sated enough not to question her in times of trauma, but if she's offering, I'll listen.

"The reason they thought I had money was maybe obvious now, looking back. Amy always thought I had money stashed. She got it in her head after I c-confided in her what I used to do for work before the diner." Her chest shudders, forcing her to take a deeper breath and her gaze drops away from me. "I used to work in a brothel." The words come whisper-quiet. "Amy always thought I made thousands there and had hidden it, but she never grasped that it was run by criminals and I was paid peanuts. I make more at the diner than I made there."

A brothel.

Does she expect this news to make me withdraw? To make me look at her with judgment or disgust? Surely she's not expecting me to abandon her, but as the words come and she tenses up, it’s clear that's exactly what she expects. Whether it's a defense mechanism to push people away, or she's so unused to caring like this that she doesn't know how to accept it, I can't decide. Either way, as surprising as the revelation is, it's not enough to change anything in my eyes.

"We all have a past," I say gently. "The fact that Amy used yours against you—I'm presuming more than once, if this was a common occurrence—then that speaks volumes to her lack of character."

"Does it?" Layla whispers. "She's dead. On my kitchen floor. How is that…" She shakes her head and dissolves into more quiet tears. "I brought her into my life and she harmed my daughter. Maybe it should have been⁠—"

"No." I cut her off immediately and grasp her shoulder. "Don't, Layla. You're traumatized and in shock. Don't follow that train of thought, understand? I'm here now and I'm going to take care of you. Both of you, okay?"

She lifts her eyes to mine and when our gazes meet, it's like Layla isn't there at all. She's been hollowed out and it shows. "Why?"

"Is it not obvious?" I murmur.

Her eyes close briefly and she shakes her head, slowly wiping away more tears. If she hasn't seen why I care so much yet, then I will remain patient. Leaning forward, I kiss her warm forehead and then scoop her right up into my arms.

"Come. I'm taking you home with me, where I'll get my doctor to look at both you and Maddie."

She doesn't reply. Talking seems to have further exhausted her, so her head rolls against my shoulder and she weakly cuddles in.

I'll take her home, take care of her, and then I'm tracking down the cunts that did this.

New York will never be safe for them again.

23

LAYLA

"Does this hurt?"

Above me, the doctor that Pierce apparently has on his payroll leans over me with one hand pressed gently against my hairline and the other pressing carefully down the side of my face from my browbone. Every touch of pressure makes a sensation flare that doesn't fully breach the numbness that's settled over me since Pierce carried me to his car.

Amy's dead.

Every time I close my eyes, I see her brains spraying over the kitchen floor and nausea pulls hard through my gut. My best friend is dead, and I don't even feel sorry for her. Threatening Maddie, threatening my life, and having people attack me? That's not friendship. I keep replaying our last conversations over and over in my mind, trying to work out if there was a hint or something I missed that would have prepared me for what was going to happen.

There's nothing. Nothing that stands out, at least.

"No," I murmur, realizing the doctor is waiting for my response. Once I do, her fingertips continue pressing carefully over my cheekbone and down to my jaw.