Chapter 23
Saint
The road stretched ahead like a black river, the convoy of SUVs cutting through the night, fast and silent. We were moving with purpose. With blood in our veins and war on our backs.
My grip on my gun was too tight. My jaw felt like it might snap from how hard I was clenching it.
What the fuck was she thinking?
“She won’t listen,” I growled, more to myself than to Luciano. “Doesn’t fucking listen.”
He didn’t answer. Of course, he didn’t. He was sitting there like a goddamn statue, staring ahead. He was in a dark place. I could feel it radiating off him.
I knew him.
Luciano wasn’t calm.
Luciano was the eye of the storm.
I kept ranting, unable to stop myself, though I knew I was talking to myself. I just needed to distract myself from losing my mind. “She’s pregnant, and she’s out there playing fucking hero?” My nails dug into my palms. “I swear to God, I’m putting a tracker in her neck when we get back.”
Luciano didn’t even look at me when he spoke. His voice was flat.
“Why would you expect her to listen? She lies to you,” he continued, his tone void of judgment—just stating a fact. “She’s manipulative. She tricked you into killing your own father.”
A muscle in my cheek jumped.
“But she’s also smart. Resourceful. Fearless. Those are good qualities.” He exhaled, like it took a lot out of him to compliment her. He glanced toward the window as the city flew by.
His gaze finally flicked to me, emotionless. “You need to start thinking with your brain and not your heart and dick. Maybe then she wouldn’t always be ten steps ahead of you.”
My grip on my gun tightened. He was pissing me off. But I also noticed the shift in his opinion of Aria—it was less abrasive, for him. He was also less cold, and talking. Ava was good for him. I was happy for him.
I opened my mouth to ask him why the change.
red and blue lights lit up the night, cutting me off.
Shit.
Up ahead, two sheriff’s cars blocked the road.
The SUVs slowed.
Luciano barely blinked.
I exhaled through my nose. Cops were a problem I could handle. But this? A lineup of men strapped with enough ammunition to level a goddamn city? If the cops took too long, if one of them got nervous, if someone pulled their gun before we could shut it down—this would turn into something ugly.
One of the officers approached the driver’s window.
“We got reports of a line of black SUVs driving recklessly down 275. Where’s the fire?” he asked the driver.
Luciano rolled down his window.
“Miguel Herrera,” Luciano said his name. Flat. Casual. Like he wasn’t holding a loaded gun in his lap, like there weren’t twenty fucking SUVs behind us full of men ready to maim and kill.
I stared at the side of his face.
“I made it my business to learn about all 131 members of this sheriff’s office,” Luciano said “I know your family. Your wife. Your little boy.”
Luciano leaned slightly forward. “My name is Luciano Genovese. You know who I am.”
I watched the officer process his words. His bodylanguage screamed that he wanted to retreat but he stood his ground.
Luciano didn’t blink before he threatened an officer of the law.
“If you don’t walk away right now, your family will be dead by tomorrow.”
The weight of his words settled heavy in the humid night air. There was no yelling, no theatrics. Just fact.
Deputy Miguel Herrera stumbled back, his face losing all color. His partner opened his mouth—maybe to object, maybe to be stupid—but Herrera spun fast, snapping, “Let them through.”
The other deputy hesitated.
“Let them fucking through!” Herrera screamed, voice raw with something close to terror.
The other deputy gave the order over their radio.
The blockade dissolved.
The road opened.
Our convoy surged forward, twenty SUVs deep, tires screeching against asphalt as the engines growled in unison.
I let out a humorless laugh. “Damn, man.”
Luciano didn’t respond. He wasn’t here. Not really. His body sat still, hands loose on his knees, but I could tell his mind was already inside that warehouse—already tearing through walls, already peeling flesh from bone.
My phone rang.
I answered before the first buzz ended. “Aria?”
Nothing.
Just static.
Then I heard a sharp inhale. A chair scraping against concrete.
My whole body locked up. “Hello?”
More static.
A ragged breath.
The sound of my heart hammering filled my ears.
I turned to the driver, my voice sharp. “Drive faster.”
Ten long minutes later, we arrived at the location. Our men spilled out of the SUVS, checking clips, loading rounds.
My eyes were locked on the warehouse door.
Luciano stood next to me, still as a grave.
I turned to my men. “If our wives don’t make it out,” I said, voice cold, absolute, “nobody in there does.”
They nodded.
That was it. That was the whole conversation.
A second stretched long.
The warehouse door creaked open.
Aria stepped out.
Untouched.
She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes dragging over the line of armed men, the sea of black SUVs, the pure, violent chaos she had dragged us into.
Then—she smirked.
“Come in. Leave the men.”
Then she was gone.
My grip on my gun tightened.
I wanted to fucking strangle her.
No matter how fast I was, no matter how many times I told her to stay put, to be careful, to just once listen—she never did.
She never fucking would.
I couldn’t abide by it anymore.
Not the recklessness. Not the arrogance. Not the way she played these games, knowing damn well the stakes weren’t just hers to bear.
At some point, she had to learn.
At some point, she had to understand that if she kept testing my limits, one day, she’d cross a line she couldn’t come back from.
We were going to have a talk.
A real one.
Not a fight. Not a warning. Not a growled "Aria, what the fuck were you thinking?" before she kissed me and laughed it off and I let her.
No.
This time, she was going to sit the fuck down and listen.