Saint Valentine

Chapter one

Saint

The summons to my father’s side of the compound came without explanation, as it always did. The message said I was needed it at home.

But this place wasn’t a home to me, though I had grown up in it. It was just a structure, a stage where performances of family and duty played out. It was a battlefield. A fucking dump, where the air reeked with memories of a childhood filled with abuse and manipulation.

My father’s guards didn’t look at me as I passed. They knew better. Their loyalty was to him—but their fear? That was mine.

I nodded at the guard in front of his office door. “Where is he?” I asked.

“In the room,” he answered.

I didn’t need to ask which room. I knew.

I made my way a few feet to the elevator. The doors slid open, and I stepped inside, pressing the button for the bottom floor. The elevator dropped, and as the doors opened, the metallic tang of blood hit me. The pungent smell of iron was unmistakable. It clung to the walls, the floor, the air—like the house itself was bleeding.

But the violence that happened down there had lost the power to disturb me a long time ago.

I kept walking. The muffled sounds of my father’s anger echoed in the distance.

When I pushed open the door to the makeshift dungeon, I found a man in the chair, barely conscious, his ribs being cracked by my father’s baseball bat. The sound of metal meeting flesh was loud, jarring, and visceral the first time you heard it, but the thousandth time didn’t even register. It was background noise.

When my father saw me, he let the bat drop from his hands. He was covered in sweat and blood, his white button-up sticking to his skin, his thinning hair looking like it hadn’t been combed in days. His sunken eyes met mine—his breath coming in heavy pants that made him wheeze, his face splattered with blood. He wiped his hands with a towel while he caught his breath.

“Saint.” His tone was clipped and serious. “This motherfucker stole from us.”

He tossed the towel aside and reached for his phone.

“Kill his son. I just sent the address to your phone.” He ordered me like I was a dog he had told to go fetch.

The man in the chair, about fifty, overweight, bloody, broken, and barely able to speak, pleaded through cracked lips. “Please... kill me... not my son...”

He was wasting his breath. His son was as good as dead.

My father grabbed the man by his shirt, holding him still, then he folded himself to look him directly in the eyes. “Your son will die. And you? You’ll live. A father shouldn’t have to bury his child. But you—you’ll carry that weight until it buries you because you were stupid enough to cross me.”

He released the man with a shove, letting him collapse back into the chair, broken and gasping.

Something about my father’s cold, detached words made me think harder than they should have. A father shouldn’t bury his child? But he sent me out every day to do his bidding, risking my life without a second thought.

Why wasn’t he afraid to bury his son? To bury me?

A wave of resentment threatened to wash over me, but I pushed it back. There was no room for weakness or emotions.

My father turned to glare at me, his jaw tightening. “Go. Now,” he barked.

I gritted my teeth and walked out of the room with his words still hissing in my head, but I had to focus now.

I signaled for the guards outside the room to follow me. Without question, they trailed behind like shadows.

In the car, I made my mind go blank as the city outside the window passed me by. The hum of the engine was the only sound filling the silence. My men were in the back, not speaking, not moving—waiting for orders.

When we arrived at our destination, I stepped out of the car. The night air was harsh against my face. The weather in Florida during February wasn’t usually this cold. The guards moved ahead of me, their footsteps silent on the pavement. It was barely midnight, and we were in a residential neighborhood, but I wasn’t worried.

Everybody in this city knew that when it came to me, even if they heard something, they heard nothing.

I had already explained what I needed from my father’s men. One kicked in the door with a single, clean strike, the wood splintering like it was paper.

We flooded the small house. It smelled like cheap candles, though the furniture was expensive.

“Go get him,” I ordered.

All four men didn’t hesitate. They marched off like soldiers ready for war.

A few minutes later, they came back out, dragging the victim with them, his hands cuffed behind his back.

“There was a girl in the room too,” one of the guards said, dragging her in front of him and pushing her to her knees.

I looked at her, then at the boy, who was already pleading.

“I’ll give it all back. I swear I will. I didn’t mean to take so much. Just—just don’t hurt her.”

I found his pleas for her admirable, in a way. The self-sacrifice he was willing to make—it spoke to something in me.

But it didn’t matter to me if he begged or pleaded for her life. He’d stolen from my family. He knew better.

I never understood why people always thought they could defy the rules, push the boundaries, and not face the consequences.

“Make it look like a robbery,” I said, my voice low. “Tear this place apart.”

My guys moved off toward the back, searching the house for anything valuable. I stayed with Jason, watching as he continued to beg for his life, for her life. His voice cracked, desperation in his eyes.

“Please, please,” he begged. “Just... just let me make it right.”

He looked so pathetic. I’d die before groveling.

It wasn’t my job to listen to his pleas. I only had one job—to make sure my father’s orders were carried out.

The sound of footsteps behind us drew my attention.

I turned around and found a woman at the door, her gun aimed at my face. Her stance was firm, her hand steady. No fear. She was ready and prepared to shoot me.

“Who the fuck are you?” Her voice was commanding.

I studied her, my gaze moving over every thick inch of her. Her hood was pulled low, covering most of her face, but I could still catch the fire in her eyes. She was shorter than me, but not small—all curves, all presence.

Then I saw it.

The ring. My ring.

Gleaming, right next to her trigger finger.

It was the ring I’d stolen from my mother’s jewelry box and given to her. I got my ass beat brutally when my father noticed it was gone. But it was worth it.

Aria Heart.

Of all the places to find each other again... the world was bringing us back together in the worst way.

I had only met her twice as a child, but those moments were burned into my memory. I had never stopped thinking about her. I had always wondered what had happened to her.

“You gave me a gun once,” I said. “Now you have one drawn on me. Oh, how times have changed, Aria.”

She squinted, her eyes narrowing as she took a step closer, her voice dropping to a whisper.

“Saint?” she breathed out.

I didn’t move. I didn’t say anything else. I couldn’t.

The gun was still trained on me, but I could see it in her eyes—everything had shifted.

I was not a man of myth, but this felt like the moment where fate decided it was time to push us together again.