Page 8 of Saint
The ceremony had been gratifying—all those tearful parents thanking me, not knowing the same hands that cut the ribbon had, hours earlier, crushed a man’s windpipe for skimming profits from my operation in Queens.
This is the duality I’ve perfected. Saint and sinner. Savior and destroyer. The blood money I launder through legitimate businesses flows back into the community, a cycle of redemption that never quite washes me clean but keeps me functional. Balanced.
And now I’m contemplating throwing it all away for a pair of blue eyes and a silk dress.
I cut through Strawberry Fields, my breathing controlled despite the punishing pace. The mosaic spelling IMAGINE stares up at me, and I almost laugh at the irony. What would John Lennon say about the darkness that lives inside me? About the way I justify the violence, the control, the power I wield in this city’s underbelly? Do I care?
I imagine Lily’s face when she discovers who I really am. What I really am. Those blue eyes widen slightly, her pulse visibly quickens at the hollow of her throat, but no screaming, no desperate scramble for the door. Instead, her pupils dilate, blackeclipsing blue in slow-motion. She doesn't run. That’s what terrifies me most.
I saw the hunger in her eyes last night—not just lust, but something deeper, something that made her gaze lock onto mine across crystal stemware and white linen. She was a predator recognizing its own kind. A recognition, perhaps, of the darkness we might share, coiled and patient beneath our carefully constructed veneers.
By the time I circle back toward Fifth Avenue, the sun has fully risen, bathing the city in golden light. Sweat drenches my shirt as I slow to a walk, my decision crystallizing with each step toward my building.
Two o’clock. Mystic Mocha.
I’ll be there.
Fred holds the door as I return, my body humming with endorphins and resolution. “Good run, sir?"
“Enlightening,” I answer, stepping into the elevator and pressing the button for the penthouse.
As the doors close, I catch my reflection in the polished metal. My eyes—typically cold obsidian—now burn with a predatory gleam I haven’t felt since taking over the Gambino territory. A slow smile creases my stubbled jaw. Governor Moore would put a bullet between my eyes himself if he glimpsed the images flashing through my mind: his angel-faced daughter splayed across my silk sheets, those innocent lips parted in ecstasy, her porcelain skin marked by my hands.
And he’d have every fucking right.
But since when has doing the right thing been my specialty?
I strip off my sweat-soaked clothes, dropping them in a damp heap on imported marble, and step into the shower. Scalding water pounds against the coiled muscles of my shoulders, each tattooed scar a testament to battles won. Steam billows through the glass enclosure, transforming it into a confessional boothwhere I map out my approach. This isn’t just about conquest—it’s about calculating acceptable losses. Lily Moore could be the chink in my armor, the pressure point enemies would exploit without mercy. Or she could be something else entirely. Something worth burning my empire to ash for.
As I dress in a casual button-down and designer jeans—nothing too obvious for a coffee shop—I make a call.
“I need everything you can find on Lily Moore,” I tell Vega, my most trusted information broker whose scarred hands have typed their way into every secured database on the Eastern Seaboard. “Not the public profile—I want the details her father keeps buried. Friends, enemies, indiscretions, debts. Everything that makes her vulnerable.”
Knowledge is power, and I never enter a situation unarmed.
Hours later, as I slide into the back of my Bentley, the buttery leather seats cool against my palms, and I check my platinum Patek Philippe. One-thirty. The manila file on Lily sits beside me, surprisingly thin—barely half an inch thick, its edges crisp and unmarked. Either she’s as pristine as fresh snow, or her father’s influence has scrubbed her digital footprint cleaner than a surgeon’s hands.
“Mystic Mocha in SoHo,” I tell Dominic, my driver of fifteen years, whose loyalty I purchased with a brownstone for his mother in Queens. “And take the scenic route through the park. I need time.”
As we merge into the midday traffic, sunlight glinting off chrome and glass towers, I open the file with manicured fingers that have both signed million-dollar checks and ordered men’s deaths. By the time we arrive, I’ll know exactly what I’m walking into.
Or so I think.
Chapter 7
Lily
“I don’t thinkyou need to try on a third outfit just to study, Lily,” Zoe says, leaning against my bedroom doorframe with folded arms and raised eyebrows.
I ignore her, examining my reflection in the full-length mirror. The cashmere sweater hugs my curves perfectly—not too obvious, but definitely not the baggy hoodie I’d normally throw on for a study session. The leggings make my legs look longer, and when paired with my ankle boots...
“Hello? Earth to Lily?” Zoe waves her hand in front of my face. “Since when do you care about looking cute at Mystic Mocha? You practically live there in pajama pants.”
"I just felt like looking nice today,” I say, reaching for my mascara. “Is that a crime?”
Zoe narrows her eyes until they’re just slits of suspicion, her psychology major instincts practically radiating from her like a superpower. "You’ve changed outfits twice, you’re putting on makeup for a study session, and you’ve checked your phone every thirty seconds in the last hour like it’s going to sprout wings and fly away.” She flops dramatically onto my bed, making the lavender duvet puff around her like a cloud, and propsher chin on her hands. "I’m coming with you, and that’s non-negotiable.”
My stomach drops. “Actually, I’d rather study alone today. I need to focus."
