Page 22 of Saint
Luca
I checkmy watch for the tenth time in as many minutes, the weight of it heavy against my wrist. Midnight came and went six hours ago, and Lily still hasn’t arrived. My texts—twenty-seven of them—go unanswered, my calls straight to voicemail after a single hollow ring. The Manhattan skyline outside my window has shifted from pitch black to the hazy purple-gray of predawn, the city lights blurring through the rain streaking down the glass. Each passing hour feeds the rage building inside me, a living thing with teeth and claws, scraping against my ribcage like a beast trying to break free.
“Enough,” I growl, the word echoing in the empty office as I slam my fist against the mahogany desk and push my chair back with enough force to dent the wall behind me. I snatch my keys from the silver dish where they rest, the Ferrari emblem catching the light as I curl my fingers around them.
The drive to her apartment takes fifteen minutes. I could have sent one of my men, but this is a personal matter. When something belongs to Luca Ravello, he retrieves it himself.
The hallway outside her door is silent except for the electric hum of cheap fluorescent lights that cast everything in a jaundiced glow, turning the faded beige carpet the color of driedvomit. I knock once, my knuckles striking the hollow wood with enough force to rattle the brass numbers—413—screwed into the peeling veneer. The sound echoes down the empty corridor like a gunshot.
The door swings open to reveal her roommate—Zoe, if I remember correctly—dressed in oversized NYU sweatpants and a threadbare tank top that hugs her slender frame. Her dark hair is piled messily atop her head, and her eyes—blue with flecks of amber—widen like a cornered animal’s at the sight of me standing in her doorway at this ungodly hour.
“Mr. Ravello, right?” she says, her voice pitched higher than usual, fingers nervously twisting the silver ring on her thumb. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
"Where is she?” I ask, keeping my voice level, pleasant even, though every muscle in my body is coiled tight.
Zoe shifts her weight from one foot to the other. "Lily’s not here. She, um, asked me to tell you she’ll be in Albany all week. Visiting her parents.”
Albany. The governor’s mansion. The one fucking place in this state where my reach is limited by a moat of state troopers and political red tape.
I force a smile, one that has charmed countless women and intimidated countless men. My lips stretch, but my eyes remain cold as ice. “I see. That’s unfortunate. I was hoping to surprise her."
“She left pretty suddenly,” Zoe offers, her fingers twisting that silver ring faster now, her shoulders hunching slightly beneath the thin cotton of her tank top. “Family thing, I guess."
“Of course.” I nod, tilting my head with practiced concern, the perfect picture of a disappointed boyfriend. “When you speak to her, please let her know I called. Tell her I hope she’s enjoying her time with her family.”
Relief floods Zoe’s face, her tight shoulders dropping a full inch as the color returns to her knuckles. “Sure, I’ll tell her.”
"Thank you.” I turn to leave, then pause, my Italian leather shoes pivoting silently on the threadbare hallway carpet. “One more thing—did she happen to mention when she’ll be back?"
“End of the week, I think? She wasn’t specific." Zoe’s eyes dart to the left—a tell I’ve exploited in a hundred negotiations.
I nod again, my jaw muscles flexing beneath my carefully maintained five o’clock shadow. “Well, please give her my best.”
The moment the elevator doors close with a tinny chime, I slam my fist against the brushed metal wall, leaving a concave impression the size of a grapefruit. Blood seeps from my split knuckles, crimson droplets spattering the polished floor like rubies. The sharp, metallic pain that shoots through my hand does nothing to calm the white-hot fury blazing behind my ribs, threatening to incinerate my carefully constructed control.
Albany. She ran to fucking Albany.
In the privacy of my car, I let the mask slip completely. I grip the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turn white, breathing through clenched teeth. She thinks she can run from me? After what we shared? After I opened myself to her in ways I’ve never done with anyone else?
“Goddammit!” I slam my palm against the dashboard.
She invited me into her world. She came on to me—not the other way around. She was the one who looked at me with those innocent blue eyes, who pressed her perfect body against mine, who begged me to take her. And now she runs to daddy’s mansion, like I’m some mistake she can hide from?
I start the engine, tires squealing as I pull away from the curb. The drive back to my penthouse is a blur of rage and plans forming and dissolving. Governor Moore might be untouchable in some circles, but every has his weakness.
And Jackson Moore’s weakness is currently hiding behind his security detail.
By the time I reach my building, I’ve calmed enough to think clearly. Storming the governor’s mansion would be suicide, both personally and professionally. No, this requires finesse. Strategy.
I make a single call as I ride the elevator to my penthouse.
“Find me everything on the governor’s schedule for the next week,” I tell Dominic, my most trusted lieutenant. “Public appearances, private meetings, family outings—everything. I want to know where he’ll be, who he’ll be with, and how tight security will be.”
"Boss, are we moving against Moore?” Dominic sounds surprised, and with good reason. The governor and I have maintained a mutually beneficial relationship for years.
“No,” I say firmly. “This is personal. His daughter is with him.”
A pause. “The college girl? The one you’ve been?—"
