Page 5 of Saint Valentine

He released the man with a shove, letting him collapse back into the chair, broken and gasping.

Something about my father’s cold, detached words made me think harder than they should have. A father shouldn’t bury his child? But he sent me out every day to do his bidding, risking my life without a second thought.

Why wasn’t he afraid to bury his son? To bury me?

A wave of resentment threatened to wash over me, but I pushed it back. There was no room for weakness or emotions.

My father turned to glare at me, his jaw tightening. “Go. Now,” he barked.

I gritted my teeth and walked out of the room with his words still hissing in my head, but I had to focus now.

I signaled for the guards outside the room to follow me. Without question, they trailed behind like shadows.

In the car, I made my mind go blank as the city outside the window passed me by. The hum of the engine was the only sound filling the silence. My men were in the back, not speaking, not moving—waiting for orders.

When we arrived at our destination, I stepped out of the car. The night air was harsh against my face. The weather in Florida during February wasn’t usually this cold. The guards moved ahead of me, their footsteps silent on the pavement. It was barely midnight, and we were in a residential neighborhood, but I wasn’t worried.

Everybody in this city knew that when it came to me, even if they heard something, they heard nothing.

I had already explained what I needed from my father’s men. One kicked in the door with a single, clean strike, the wood splintering like it was paper.

We flooded the small house. It smelled like cheap candles, though the furniture was expensive.

“Go get him,” I ordered.

All four men didn’t hesitate. They marched off like soldiers ready for war.

A few minutes later, they came back out, dragging the victim with them, his hands cuffed behind his back.

“There was a girl in the room too,” one of the guards said, dragging her in front of him and pushing her to her knees.

I looked at her, then at the boy, who was already pleading.

“I’ll give it all back. I swear I will. I didn’t mean to take so much. Just—just don’t hurt her.”

I found his pleas for her admirable, in a way. The self-sacrifice he was willing to make—it spoke to something in me.

But it didn’t matter to me if he begged or pleaded for her life. He’d stolen from my family. He knew better.

I never understood why people always thought they could defy the rules, push the boundaries, and not face the consequences.

“Make it look like a robbery,” I said, my voice low. “Tear this place apart.”

My guys moved off toward the back, searching the house for anything valuable. I stayed with Jason, watching as he continued to beg for his life, for her life. His voice cracked, desperation in his eyes.

“Please, please,” he begged. “Just... just let me make it right.”

He looked so pathetic. I’d die before groveling.

It wasn’t my job to listen to his pleas. I only had one job—to make sure my father’s orders were carried out.

The sound of footsteps behind us drew my attention.

I turned around and found a woman at the door, her gun aimed at my face. Her stance was firm, her hand steady. No fear. She was ready and prepared to shoot me.

“Who the fuck are you?” Her voice was commanding.

I studied her, my gaze moving over every thick inch of her. Her hood was pulled low, covering most of her face, but I could still catch the fire in her eyes. She was shorter than me, but not small—all curves, all presence.

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