Page 53 of Saint Valentine

He was a ghost in the underworld. No one really knew what he looked like. Only whispers. Only fear.

Then I heard him. Heavy, deliberate footsteps, each one vibrating through the floor like a war drum. He was massive—easily six-foot-five—built like he could tear through men with his bare hands.

Brooker reached me, pulled a knife, and sliced through the ropes at my wrists and ankles. Then he sneered, turned, and was gone.

Even after he’d just been close enough to slit my throat, I still couldn’t tell you what his face looked like.

My limbs ached as I flexed my fingers, circulation returning. Drake tossed a towel at me, and I caught it without breaking eye contact with Aria.

She stepped back. Then she turned, walking toward the far side of what I realized was a loft apartment set up in a warehouse. A woman sat on a sofa waiting. Aria sat and whispered something to her, then they both turned their eyes on me.

I blinked. The woman I recognized as Aria’s mother. She looked like an older version of Aria. Same cheekbones, same piercing eyes, though there was something colder about Aria’s, more calculating. She was regal in a way that Aria wasn’t, with perfect posture, her hands clasped in front of her as she assessed me.

Drake clapped a hand on my shoulder, drawing my attention. “Come have a drink with me.”

I rolled the tension from my shoulders, inhaling deeply. “How are you alive?” I finally asked, my voice hoarse.

Drake smirked, settling into a chair on the other side of a desk. He gestured for me to sit in the pink frilly seat facing him. He poured two glasses of whiskey. “Because of you, I’m alive,” he said simply, handing me a glass. “That phone call you made saved my life.”

I stared at the glass in my hand, the amber liquid catching the light. The night I gave Aria that ring, I told myself what I did was for her, to spare her the grief. But maybe it was for me too. I liked him. He was the first man who could have been cruel to me but wasn’t.

I couldn’t sleep that night. I waited until the house was quiet, then I’d crept into my father’s office, heart pounding, hands shaking as I searched for Drake’s number. I dialed, barely breathing as I whispered to him what was coming. I wasn’t even sure if it had really happened or if I’d just wanted it so badly that I dreamed it.

The next morning, my father said he was dead. I dismissed it as a dream and packed it away as another failure.

He continued talking, “I left the city, but unfortunately, my brother Brooker Sr. was mistaken for me by the Dillinger boy. He wasn’t in the life, but he paid. If only I would have gotten out when he told me.”

I took a slow sip, letting the burn slide down my throat. “So you ran.”

“Yes, burying my brother knowing I was the reason he had died fucked me up. I moved to Ghana,” Drake admitted. “Been there ever since. Then Brooker Junior calls me up two weeks ago, says Aria’s missing, but before she disappeared she left him a strange message and an address. By the time he got there, she was already gone. I arrived back in town four days ago, ready to burn this bitch down.”

Drake chuckled. “Then I heard you had her. And I didn’t know what to think of that because Aria would not go a day without calling me, then I heard you took her against her will and thought I was going to have to kill you. But then you pulled that stunt with the Dillinger’s.” He visibly cringed. “Cutting off their heads? A bit messy, dramatic, but hey, if it keeps my daughter safe, go for it.”

I studied him. “If you weren’t here, why did Aria come back?”

Drake leaned back, swirling his drink in his face, trying to hide a smirk. “I’ll let her tell you that story. She’s waiting for you.”

I turned. Aria and her mother—Cordelia Heart—stood side by side, watching me.

Her mother stepped forward, a bright smile on her face, blocking my view of Aria. She was almost as tall as me in heels. “I’m Cordelia Heart,” she said, her voice warm. “I’ve been waiting to meet you for years.” She leaned in and whispered, “Cora never stopped talking about you. She’s mean as a rattlesnake when she wants to be, but she likes you, always has.”

Before I could respond, she wrapped her arms around me, hugging me despite the blood and water still clinging to me. The gesture felt foreign, unexpected, but I didn’t hate it.

“Move, Mom,” Aria said, grabbing my wrist and pulling me toward the back of the warehouse apartment into a bedroom.

I let her drag me, but I didn’t speak. I was so fucking angry. But I knew she didn’t care.

The moment we stepped into a small room, she shoved me into a chair and straddled me. She was in a short pink pajama set. I could feel the heat of her pussy against my wet pants. I willed my body not to react.

Her hands braced against my chest, her gaze searching mine.

“I would like to start by saying this all could have been different if you hadn’t been an evil asshole who kidnapped me.”

Did she see my fucking face? I knew it had to look as bad as it felt, and I was soaking fucking wet. I was evil? She was evil.

I shook my head while standing up, lifting her with me before setting her down on her feet. I started for the door. She huffed and grabbed my wrist again, pulling me back.

“Come on, Saint,” she said, frustration lacing her words.

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