Page 56 of Saint Valentine

Chapter Thirty

Saint

The next day…

“You don’t have to do this.”

Aria’s tone was softer than she had ever used with me, barely audible over the low hum of the car’s engine. She was feeling guilty but had no reason to be. This day had been coming.

We sat parked outside my father’s club, the neon sign casting a sickly glow over the cracked pavement. Drake Heart was beside me, his fingers tapping an absent rhythm on the dashboard. His eyes were fixed on the building, as if he were already envisioning the carnage he’d leave behind.

I knew my father would be inside. He was a man of routine—every Wednesday, he came to collect the club’s earnings. Giovanni would be with him, along with a handful of guards. Not enough to stop me. Not even close.

Drake exhaled sharply, his breath fogging the glass. “We got this, Saint. I’ll call Brooker, we go in, clean house, and we’re out in five. You stay here.”

I shook my head. “I need to do this.”

He shrugged. I could see in his eyes he really didn’t want me to do this. “Cold. But I get it, after what he put you through.”

Aria’s hand clenched mine. “If this is going to change you… don’t do it.”

I turned to reassure her. “This was always going to happen.” I leaned in, kissing her slowly, deeply, then I stepped out of the car.

The street was quiet, the air thick with the scent of rain and hot asphalt cooling. My heart beat a steady rhythm, my mind clear. This wasn’t rage. This wasn’t revenge.

This was necessary.

I pushed through the club’s doors like I owned the place.

Giovanni was at the bar, his back to me. He turned, his face a mask of surprise, but I didn’t give him time to speak. The gunshot echoed through the room, and he crumpled to the floor. The two guards fumbled for their weapons, but they were too slow. One fell with a bullet through his throat, the other through his chest. The bartender dropped behind the counter, wisely staying out of it.

Blood spread across the floor, dark and glistening. I stepped over it, heading for the stairs.

Upstairs, my father was waiting. He sat behind his desk, his skin ashen, his breathing labored. A coughing fit wracked his body, each hack sounding wet and painful. He was already dying. But not fast enough.

I took the seat across from him, the gun resting on my thigh.

His lips twisted into a weak smile. “Knew this day would come. Just didn’t think it’d be over some girl.” He coughed again, his eyes glinting with malice. “That girl has been your weakness since the day she jumped in front of you. You think you own her? She owns you.”

I didn’t respond. Just stared at him, calm, features schooled.

“I have one question.”

He chuckled, the sound wet and ragged. “Ask.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t my father?”

His brow furrowed. “What the hell are you talking about?”

I leaned forward, my voice low. “I took a test. You’re not my father.”

For a moment, he looked genuinely confused. Then anger flashed in his eyes. “That test is bullshit.”

I said nothing. I didn’t believe him.

He slammed a fist on the desk, his breath coming in shallow gasps. “I was there when you were born. I held you in my arms the day your mother died. She smiled at you, you know. Even as she bled out.” His voice cracked, something raw and unspoken bleeding through. “I made you strong. I made you a man. I raised you even after you killed her? Why would I do that if you weren’t mine?”

I shook my head. “You’re lying. You just don’t want to die.”

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