Page 2 of Saint
“There’s one more thing,” I say, shifting the conversation back to my terms. I run my thumb along the cut-crystal rim of my glass, feeling each precise edge. “I need assurance about the Torrino situation.”
Dante’s expression hardens almost imperceptibly—just a microscopic tightening at the corners of his mouth, a flash of winter in those coal-dark eyes. “Vincent Torrino is a problem that solves itself eventually.” His silver signet ring catches the amber light as he dismisses the man with a flick of his wrist.
“Not eventually. Now.” I lean back against buttery leather, letting my Brooklyn edge creep into my voice, the carefully cultivated Harvard consonants giving way to something sharper, something that remembers concrete playgrounds and bloody knuckles. “He’s been moving product through my legitimate shipping routes without permission. Three containers last month alone. That kind of heat draws federal attention I don’t need during a campaign—the kind that comes with wiretaps and surveillance vans parked outside my headquarters.”
“Vincent is old school. He doesn’t understand the delicate balance you’ve created.” Dante drums his fingers against the armrest. “What do you propose?”
“A conversation.” I trace the rim of my whiskey glass with one finger, watching the light catch in the amber liquid. “One that makes it clear my shipping containers, my docks, my manifests—all of it—are off-limits to his product.”
“And if Vincent doesn’t listen to reason?” Dante’s eyes narrow, the wrinkles at their corners deepening like fault lines in weathered stone.
I meet his gaze without flinching, my reflection in his pupils showing nothing but cold certainty. “Then we’ll speak in a language he understands better. The kind written in red and read at funerals.”
Dante chuckles, raising his glass in a mock toast. “There’s the Ravello I remember. Your father had the same steel beneath the silk.” He takes a sip, then sets the glass down with deliberate care. “Consider Torrino handled. But Luca...” His voice drops to barely above a whisper. “When you’re sitting in City Hall, remember who helped put you there.”
“I remember everything, Dante. Every favor, every debt, every handshake.” I stand, straightening my cufflinks. “That’s what makes me valuable to you.”
He rises as well, extending his hand. “To Mayor Ravello.”
I shake it, feeling the weight of decades of power in his grip. “To New York.”
As I walk toward the elevator, I catch my reflection in the dark windows—a man balanced on the razor’s edge between two worlds, about to leap into a third. The city spreads below me like a chessboard, and I’ve just made my opening move.
Chapter 2
Lily
“I’m late,I’m so unbelievably late!” I mutter, dodging through the crowded sidewalk while balancing my half-spilled latte in one hand and three massive textbooks in the other. My backpack is unzipped—of course—trailing loose papers like breadcrumbs behind me.
A businessman in an expensive suit gives me the stink-eye as I nearly collide with him. I flash my most apologetic smile and keep moving.
Professor Martinez is going to kill me. This is the third time this week I’ll be late to Political Theory, and it’s only Wednesday. Dad would have a conniption if he knew. Governor Moore’s daughter is perpetually tardy and perpetually disheveled.
My phone buzzes somewhere in the abyss of my bag. I ignore it, focusing instead on not face-planting on the sidewalk as I sprint the final block to Thompson Hall.
“Hold the door!” I call to a guy entering the building. He turns, sees me coming, and his eyes widen—probably at the hurricane of a human being barreling toward him.
I slide into class seven minutes late, hair wild, cheeks flushed. Martinez pauses mid-sentence, arching a single devastating eyebrow in my direction.
“Ms. Moore.” Professor Martinez’s voice cuts through the lecture hall, each syllable sharp as a scalpel. “How kind of you to grace us with your presence.”
"Sorry,” I whisper, cheeks burning as I slink down the aisle. My boots squeak against the polished floor with each step, amplifying my humiliation. I slide into my usual seat beside Zoe, whose shoulders are trembling with suppressed laughter, her dark curls bouncing as she bites her lip.
“What happened this time?” she whispers behind her notebook, green eyes dancing with amusement as I collapse into my chair, the ancient wood creaking in protest.
“Overslept. Again.” I tug my tangled hair into a messy bun, still damp from my thirty-second shower. “Then I couldn’t find my student ID. Again. Tore apart my entire room looking for it.”
"Better than last week when you lost your keys and had to climb down the fire escape in that ridiculous yellow dress,” she murmurs, her breath smelling of cinnamon gum.
I snort, then quickly muffle it with a fake cough when Martinez’s steel-gray eyes lock onto me like heat-seeking missiles from behind his wire-rimmed glasses.
After class, Zoe links her slender arm through mine as we step into the October sunshine that dapples the brick pathways of the quad with golden light. Her silver bangles jingle against my wrist. “Please tell me you at least remembered we’re meeting everyone at Luciano’s for dinner tonight? The one with the red-checkered tablecloths and that tiramisu you practically devoured last time?”
My face must crumple like a failed soufflé because she groans, her freckled nose wrinkling in disappointment. “Lily! We’ve been planning this for weeks!"
“I know, I know! It’s just—” My phone buzzes again, vibrating against my thigh through the canvas of my bag. I plunge my hand into the chaotic abyss, fingers brushing pastcrumpled receipts with faded ink, a squashed granola bar still in its half-torn wrapper, and something sticky that might have been a strawberry lip gloss from 2021, before finally closing around the cool metal case. The screen flashes with three missed calls, all from the same contact photo—Dad in his official gubernatorial portrait, looking distinguished and slightly uncomfortable. “Dad’s been calling non-stop."
“Governor Daddy checking in?” Zoe teases, her glossy lips curving into a smirk.
