Page 7 of Saint
I steal a glance at Luca Ravello sitting across from me, his impossibly blue eyes—the color of deep ocean water at sunrise—focused on my father with respectful attention. The charcoal suit stretches across his broad shoulders, the fabric straining slightly when he shifts, hinting at the hard planes of muscle beneath.My mouth goes dry as I slowly walk my fingers onto his palm, tracing small circles against his warm skin, imagining those strong hands gripping my thighs, pinning my wrists above my head.
His expression never changes as he replies to my father, “I couldn’t agree more, Governor. Public sentiment is fickle. My team is prepared to increase contributions to your campaign fund as we discussed.”
But beneath the white tablecloth, his thumb traces the sensitive skin between my fingers before capturing mine in a grip both possessive and tender. Heat blooms low in my belly, spreading like wildfire through my veins. I run my tongue slowly across my bottom lip, savoring the tart-sweet remnants of cherry reduction sauce, letting my teeth graze the plump flesh. His eyes darken instantly, pupils dilating as they lock onto my mouth with such raw hunger that my thighs instinctively press together beneath my silk dress. For one breathless moment, the air between us crackles with dangerous possibility.
“More tea, Lily?” my father asked, breaking the spell.
“No, thank you, Dad. I have an early study session tomorrow, and I’ll need to leave soon,” I reply, withdrawing my hand from Luca’s with reluctance.
“Always the dedicated student,” my father beams with pride.
“Speaking of studying,” I say casually, twirling my fork between my fingers, “I've found the most perfect little coffee shop near my apartment in SoHo. Mystic Mocha. They make this incredible lavender latte that powers me through my Saturday afternoon study sessions.”
Luca’s eyebrow raised slightly. “SoHo? That’s a vibrant neighborhood for a young woman.”
"I love it there,” I continue, letting my voice linger on the word ‘love’ while holding Luca’s gaze for a heartbeat longer than necessary. “Especially on Saturday afternoons around two." Itrace the rim of my water glass with my index finger, leaving a faint smudge on the crystal.
Still completely oblivious, my father checks his watch, the one his own father gave him when he won his first election. “It’s getting late, sweetheart. Do you need Thomas to drive you home? The streets aren’t safe for a young woman after dark, even in your neighborhood.”
“I can manage,” I say, placing my cream linen napkin on the table and rising with deliberate slowness, arching my back just enough to accentuate the curve where my waist meets my hips. I steady myself against the mahogany chair, praying I won’t trip over the Louboutins I’ve only worn once before. “The car service app is already open on my phone.”
I round the table to hug my father, inhaling his familiar cologne—that distinctive blend of sandalwood and bergamot he’s worn since I was a kid. “Thank you for dinner. Love you.”
Then I turn to Luca, extending my hand with practiced grace, my manicured fingertips angled downward. His massive palm envelops mine completely, calloused yet smooth, sending electric currents racing up my arm and settling like warm honey in my chest.
“It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Ravello,” I say, my voice dropping half an octave, each syllable dripping like nectar from my lips.
“The pleasure was entirely mine, Ms. Moore,” he replies, his Brooklyn accent softening the formal words.
As I pull my hand away, his fingertips linger against my palm, sending a delicious shiver up my spine. I catch his eye and give him the subtlest wink, watching his jaw clench with barely restrained desire. I turn toward the exit, feeling his hungry gaze burning into me as I walk away, my silk dress whispering against my thighs with each deliberate step.
I must be out of my mind teasing a man nineteen years older than me—a man whose powerful hands could probably break me in half or bring me to ecstasy with equal skill. As I round the corner, I press my thighs together to quell the throbbing ache between them. My nipples tighten against the lace of my bra as I imagine his hot mouth claiming mine, his weight pinning me against satin sheets. Tomorrow at the coffee shop, I’ll wear that pink cashmere sweater that leaves little to the imagination. Whatever happens, I know one thing for sure: the hours until two o’clock will be the longest of my life.
Chapter 6
Luca
I wake to darkness,the city still dreaming beneath a navy sky streaked with the faint purple promise of dawn. The digital clock on my nightstand glows 4:30 AM, its red numbers harsh against the shadows of my penthouse bedroom. Sleep has been a stranger these past hours, slipping through my fingers like smoke whenever I close my eyes. My mind remains consumed by thoughts of Lily—those sky-blue eyes framed by thick lashes, that deliberate wink across the governor’s banquet table, the champagne-colored silk dress that whispered against curves that haunt me even now, tormenting me with what remains forbidden.
I rise, muscles already tense with anticipation of the day ahead. My penthouse sits in silence as I pull on compression shorts and a moisture-wicking shirt, lace up my custom-fitted running shoes. The routine is mechanical, practiced, but today my movements feel charged with something new. Something dangerous.
The doorman nods as I exit the building. “Morning run, Mr. Ravello?”
"As always, Fred,” I reply, voice still rough with sleep.
The predawn air hits my lungs, sharp and clarifying. Central Park waits, a dark oasis in the midst of the concrete jungle. My feet find their rhythm against the path, the steady percussion of sole against pavement drowning out everything but my thoughts.
Lily Moore. Those plump lips parted when she laughed, revealing perfect teeth that had probably cost the governor a small fortune. That silk dress clinging to curves still ripening, the swell of her breasts rising with each breath she took beside me. Nineteen years old. Nineteen fucking years old, with skin like cream that would bruise so easily under my hands.
I increase my pace, my cock hardening despite the physical exertion. The math burns in my brain: she’s half my age plus one. Her father’s princess. The kind of forbidden fruit that, once tasted, would have men like the governor calling for my head on a spike, my empire dismantled brick by bloody brick, everything I’ve built reduced to ashes for daring to touch what wasn’t mine to take.
And yet.
The way her fingertips—delicate yet deliberate—traced figure eights and spiraling constellations on my palm under that starched white tablecloth, mere inches from her father’s watchful gaze. The unmistakable invitation in her honeyed words, spoken with her lips brushing the rim of a glass. Mystic Mocha. Two o’clock. Her scent still haunts me—Madagascar vanilla layered with jasmine and something uniquely her, something ripe and forbidden—lingering in my nostrils even as droplets of sweat begin to slide down my temples and into the hollows beneath my cheekbones.
I push harder, my Nikes pounding the gravel path, lungs scorching like I’ve inhaled fire as I round the glassy reservoir. Dawn fractures the darkness, spilling over the ancient elm treetops, painting the sky in watercolor washes of salmon pinkand molten gold. New York awakens around me—steam rising from manholes, delivery trucks rumbling, early risers clutching paper coffee cups—the sprawling metropolis I’ve conquered both in the harsh light of legitimacy and the shadows of criminality.
By day, I’m Luca Ravello, philanthropist extraordinaire. The papers love me—the middle-class boy from Brooklyn who clawed his way to Harvard, built an empire, and now gives generously to those still struggling in the neighborhoods I escaped. Last month, I funded scholarships for fifty kids from my old block. The month before, a new wing for the children’s hospital was built.
