The Rise of Saint

by J, Bella

I huffed, blowing a curl out of my face. “You don’t have any flannels hidden inside there somewhere? A pair of shorts?”

  “Oh, God, no.” Her face scrunched up. “I can assure you there are no flannels in this closet. In fact, there are no flannels in this entire house.”

  She forced the night dress into my hands and reached back in. This time, she pulled out a lace overlay dress, short sleeves, round neck—and the worst part…pink. It was a light pink dress, yet she smiled at me as if she just revealed a piece of clothing I had always dreamed about wearing. Not.

  “I’m not wearing that either.”

  Elena closed the closet door and hung it on the clothing hook. “This is the dress you’ll be wearing tomorrow. I’ll be back in the morning to help with your hair and make-up.” She sauntered to the door, and I gaped after her.

  “Um, excuse me? What’s happening tomorrow?”

  “Get some rest, Mila. We have a busy few days ahead of us.”

  The slam of the door ended the conversation, and the turn of the lock was a hard reminder of what I was. A prisoner. A captive. A woman with no way out.

  My decision to wear the pretty beige nightgown was based on that there was no way I’d sleep naked in this house. Not that a flimsy piece of satin could stop a man like Saint from taking what he wanted. But it made me feel less…vulnerable.

  I didn’t sleep at all that night. My thoughts were all over the place, panic and uncertainty coming in bouts of fear. There were moments when it was so strong, it felt as if I was moments away from throwing up on the expensive carpet, leaving a puke stain for Saint to remember me by after he murdered me. But Elena’s words stuck with me. “See this as an opportunity.” An opportunity for what? To see how the rich and powerful lived their lives each day, filled with luxuries orphaned kids could only ever dream about? How the wealthy could get whatever they wanted by a mere swipe of a card, have people at their beck and call twenty-four hours, seven days a week? If that was what she meant, then this was definitely not an opportunity, but rather a way to discourage and break the heart of an orphan like me.

  An orphan. I’d always hated the label. It made us sound like aliens sent to Earth to use as examples when parents tried to teach ungrateful kids to appreciate their blessed lives more.

  I rolled onto my back and stared up the ceiling, all those despondent, innocent, little faces flashing through my mind. Between working two jobs, I always managed to make time to do a few rounds at the orphanage. Not to bathe or feed them—there were enough miserable-looking old women with gray ponytails doing that job. I went there to play with them. To sit on the floor next to them and play cards, snap, snakes and ladders, anything they wanted to. And most of all, I sat there laughing with them, keeping that brave smile on my face because I wanted them to know I was there because I wanted to be. Not because I had to.

  Wait. Was that…was that what Elena was trying to tell me?

  “Marcello is a powerful man.”

  I sat up on my elbows, pursing my lips, and stared at, well…nothing. The thought only stayed in my head for a few minutes longer before the terror of uncertainty started to creep in.

  I lay back down. God. There was no stopping my mind from taking me to dark places where all possible outcomes weren’t in my favor. At all.

  While I lay there wide awake, every little sound I heard had my heart clawing out of my chest. I kept waiting for him. Kept wondering if he’d come for me during the night. But he didn’t. I was left in peace for a few hours before Elena returned, all bright-eyed and bushytailed. “Good morning.”

  “Is it?” I sneered, sitting at the edge of the bed.

  Elena glanced at the nightgown I wore. “I see you wore the nightgown.”

  “I’m not sleeping naked in the house of a murderer and kidnapper.” I pulled my curls back out of my face. “Not that it would stop him,” I mumbled.

  I remained on the bed as Elena pranced around the room in her beige high heels and matching knee-length dress. Her perfect blonde hair was neatly straightened, the tips brushing against her shoulders. I wondered how old she was since she didn’t look a day older than thirty-eight, yet Saint called her Aunt Elena. Either she was very young when he was born, like—I dunno—ten. Or Elena’s life of luxury had scraped a few years off her appearance.

  Elena placed a pair of nude high-heeled pumps on the bed next to the pale pink dress she had chosen the night before, then noticed the untouched dome of food. “You didn’t eat?”

  “Yeah. There’s something about seeing a man shot right next to me, and then being kidnapped, only to learn I’ll be marrying a murderer against my will that kind of suppresses one’s appetite.” I gave her a fake smile, and she returned it with a raised brow.

  She held the dress out to me. “Get dressed. Marcello expects you to join him for breakfast.”

  I took the dress from her. “Why do you call him Marcello, but everyone else has to call him Saint?”

  “He prefers Saint. But I’ve known him since he was a baby, so I guess it’s a family perk to have the right to call him by his first name.”

  I nodded then frowned at her. “Do you mind?”

  She scowled at me in question.

  “I want to get dressed. Turn around, please.”

  “Oh, my God, you’re too cute.” The click of her high heels disappeared as she walked from the marbled floor and over the carpet and grabbed something from the top cabinet, tossing it on the bed.

  I gaped. “Is that a—”

  “Thong,” she replied dryly. “Yes. With a dress like that, you can’t wear anything else. We don’t want those embarrassing panty lines.”

  I pulled the dress over my head. “Yeah, panty lines are my biggest concern right now.”

  “You know, Mila,” she paused and placed her hands on her hips, “this is happening. This is really happening. Having a snotty attitude and acting like a victim all the time won’t change anything or make it better. In fact, you’ll only piss Marcello off, which in turn could make this entire situation ten times worse.”

  “How can this get any worse?”

  Elena took a step closer. “Much. Worse.”

  It wasn’t a threat. It was a warning. And the softness that glowed in her eyes proved it was a friendly one—a friendly warning for me to not overstep. To not push myself to the edge of a cliff I wouldn’t be able to get back from.

  Elena placed her hands on my shoulders. “Just give him what he wants,” her voice softened, “and I can assure you everything will be okay.”

  “Will he hurt me?” I swallowed and pressed my lips together.

  Elena’s gaze dropped from mine, and she brushed her hands down the overlay of my dress sleeves. “Men like Marcello have a way of…” She paused as if trying to find better words. “They have a way of making us go against our better judgement. But in the end, everything is a choice.”

  “He’s not giving me a choice.” Tears started to burn my eyes.

  “Oh, but he has. He did give you a choice, and you chose to marry him.”

  “What he gave me was an ultimatum,” I snarled.

  Elena winked at me. “An ultimatum is just a fancy word for a choice between two evils, my dear.” With her hands on my wrists, she leaned back and studied me from top to bottom. “Hmmm.”

  “What?” I frowned.

  “I initially thought Elie Saab, maybe Vera Wang. But now I’m thinking one of Oscar de la Renta’s designs will work perfectly.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Her gaze cut to mine. “Your wedding dress, of course.”

  Shocked, I snatched my wrists from her hold and took a step back. “A wedding dress?”

  “Yes. That’s usually what brides wear at a wedding.”

  “We’re not having a wedding. We’re just signing a piece of paper, and that’s it.”

  “Mila,” she leaned her head to the side like she was staring at a bewildered little mouse, “like I said before, Marcello is a powerful man. T
here needs to be some evidence of a real wedding for the public to believe it.”

  My eyes widened. “The public?”

  “Marcello is one of Italy’s most eligible bachelors. If word gets out he has a wife, the press will be all over it. We need something to present them with once you go public.”

  I felt ill, physically ill as bile made its way up my throat. Dizzy and confused, I sat down on the bed, staring at the carpet. “Public?”

  Elena took a seat next to me, her tiny frame hardly making a dent in the mattress. “I know it’s a lot to take in. But things need to be done a certain way.”

  A stray tear ran down my cheek, and I wiped it away as quickly as it appeared. “Why me? Why now?”

  She placed a comforting hand on my shoulder. “A lesson I’ve learned very early on in my life is to never ask ‘why me.’ Rather ask, ‘why not me.’ That way, you’ll pity yourself less.” She got up and grabbed a brush from the dressing table. “Now, dry those tears and walk out there with your head held high. And like I said,” she grinned, her coral colored lips curved at the edges, “this is an opportunity, Mila. You just have to take it.”

  My breath hitched as I inhaled, another tear stinging the corner of my eye, and I wiped it away, hating that I was crying again. Just like the little girl I comforted the last time I visited the orphanage.

  The little red-haired girl was sitting in the corner crying because she wanted to paint, but the children before her had used all the paint. And even though she was crying, I could see the anger glinting in every tear, her lips pursed and eyes narrowed. I remembered her telling me that she was angry at herself for crying, that she didn’t want to waste her tears on others. It was the only part of her she could keep for herself, her tears. No one else deserved them.

  And while I sat on the bed, my head downcast as I clutched the sheets between my fingers, I pretended I was that girl. I imagined I was the one who refused to give my tears to anyone else. No. Matter. What. Just like that little red-haired girl.

  The red-haired girl.

  Opportunity.

  That’s it.

  I lifted my gaze to meet Elena’s. “I need to see him.”

  14

  Saint

  “Has he been taken care of?”

  James slid his phone across the table toward me, and I looked at the image of a dead man hanging upside down from the ceiling.

  I moved his phone back to him. “Seems like it ended painfully for him.”

  “Extremely painful.”

  “Good. No witnesses?”

  “Of course not.”

  I should have known it was a stupid question to ask in the first place. James had been my right-hand man ever since I walked out of my father’s house. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for me, no line he wouldn’t cross if I asked him to. I trusted him with my life, trusted his loyalty. We became friends at a young age, his mother working as a maid in my father’s mansion. But my father was a cruel man, demanded respect in the most inhuman ways, and treated others like shit.

  The day I decided to leave, James took his mother and left with me. They both worked for me ever since, but his mother had passed away six months ago. We never talked about it, yet I knew the kind of grief he carried. The sympathy I had shown him was hidden in a single pat on the back, and the occasional drinks we’d share without a single word of conversation at midnight when we couldn’t rest.

  I rubbed the back of my neck. There was a certain edginess brought by this new path I had chosen to venture on. It wasn’t part of the plan, but for some reason I couldn’t stop thinking about it and found it was something I just had to do. It was a few wrongs that needed to be made right, and I had to be the one to make sure it got done.

  The ice in his vodka clinked as he swirled his glass. “I have to say, Saint, this is very unlike you, to change plans at the last minute.”

  “I know.” I cranked my neck from side to side. “And I’ll admit, I don’t like this feeling of unease. But it has to be done.”

  “Why now? You’ve known about her past long before we brought her here. Why are you doing this now?”

  The answer to that question was simple. I didn’t know. But that was not the kind of response I wanted to give to anyone, which was why I made sure there was nothing but determination written in my expression. “What kind of husband would I be if I didn’t take care of this?”

  James knew not to question it any further. He knew when to push and when to shut up.

  I slid another folder across the table to him. “Your next assignment. Make it happen sooner rather than later.”

  He nodded. “After this, we’ll be taking care of the last one?”

  “Yes.” I sat back in my seat. “But the last one I want brought here.”

  “To Italy?” James seemed confused.

  I nodded. “Him, I want to watch take his last breath.”

  James stood and placed his empty glass on the side table before he picked up the file. “Let’s take care of this bastard first, then.” He walked out, and I knew it wouldn’t be long before I got the second picture message to prove my latest order had been fulfilled. James knew I hated waiting, and he wasn’t exactly the patient type either. Besides, he loved the dishing out justice to those who deserved it almost as much as I did.

  “Marcello?”

  I slipped my phone in my pocket when Elena stood by the doorway. “Aunt Elena.”

  “We’re ready to join you for breakfast.”

  “We?”

  Elena stepped to the side, and Mila appeared. Only it wasn’t her. It wasn’t the Mila I saw for the first time in New York. The woman with the torn jeans and dirty sneakers. She looked completely different, yet still the same. Her wild curls had been tamed with a chic up-style of her dark hair, exposing the delicate skin of her neck—lean and inviting. For a moment, I unashamedly admired the woman who stood before me in a pale pink dress that hugged her every curve to perfection, the pastel color a striking contrast to her flawless olive skin. My gaze all but drank her in, her legs shaped and accentuated by her high heels. The thought of her wrapping those toned calves around my waist forced me to remain in my seat since my cock was pressing against the zipper of my pants. It was unexpected, the way I had been lusting after her ever since she boarded my private plane. But there was something about her, something that made me want to show her how beautiful she would be corrupted by my darkness.

  Mila shifted from one leg to the other, my lingering stare inflicting some discomfort.

  “You look striking, Milana.”

  “Mila,” she retorted. “My name is Mila.”

  “Of course.” I smirked. The use of her real name was intentional since I knew it would earn me some of that fiery attitude that had me so intrigued. Captivated, even.

  I turned to Elena. “I trust this is your handiwork?”

  Elena smiled from ear to ear. “I merely polished the diamond, Marcello.”

  “I’m right here,” Mila chimed in. “I can hear you.”

  This made me snicker, and I was finally able to stand from my seat. “Let’s go have breakfast, then.”

  “Saint?” Mila took a step toward me. “Can I talk to you? In private?”

  Before I could even ask Elena to give us privacy, the door closed, and we were alone.

  I placed my hands in my pants pockets, my feet slightly apart as I watched her, trying to figure out what was going on in that pretty little head of hers. “What can I do for you, Milana?”

  “For the last time, my name is Mila.”

  “What is it you want to talk about?”

  Her dark brows knitted, and with her downturned lips she made sure I saw on her face how much she hated me. But there was something in the way she looked at me, a flash of sensuality mixed with contempt. I wondered if she felt as confused as she looked.

  She crossed her arms. “You want something from me, so I think it’s only fair I get something out of this arrangement as well.”

&nb
sp; “I hardly think you’re in a position to bargain with me.”

  “And I hardly think you’re in a position to deny me.”

  I snorted, not sure whether I was amused or annoyed by the way she spoke to me. “How do you figure that?’

  A single curl that escaped her up-styled hair hung down her cheek, and she swept it behind her ear. “You went through a lot of trouble to find me, to bring me here. And how you killed Brad without blinking tells me there’s a reason I’m still breathing. If there was any other way apart from marrying me for you to get your hands on those shares, I wouldn’t be here.”

  I licked my lips. “You say that as if it’s supposed to be news to me.”

  “You need me. I don’t know what your plans are once you get your hold on my shares, but all I know is you need me.” With her shoulders squared and chin up, she approached me with a single, defiant step. “Without me, you’re screwed.”

  My nostrils flared, and I started to lean more toward angered and annoyed rather than amused. “I should warn you. It’s not wise to bargain with me.”

  “I don’t care. You want me to play the part of a doting wife and turn up at the sham of a wedding you and your freakishly overly-friendly aunt who I like much more than you right now are planning, then I need to get something out of this as well.”

  My anger dissipated a little. Amazing how her voice went from angry, to determined, to quirky in the same sentence.

  “Fine.” I crossed my arms. “I’ll play along. What do you want? A seven-figure bank account? A house in Bali? An endless supply of Lakers t-shirts and torn jeans?”

  “Funny.” Her forehead creased as she frowned. “I don’t want your money for myself.”

  “But you do want my money?”

  She bit the inside of her cheek, the first sign of insecurity she had shown since she walked in here. “I want you to help me open an orphanage back home, one where kids don’t get thrown in any and every foster home just to be able to give their bed to the next child that comes along.”

  My eyes widened. “An orphanage?”

  “Yes. I know it probably doesn’t make sense to someone like you, to want to help people instead of killing and kidnapping them—”