Chapter eight
Aria
The maze incident had left me feeling raw and vulnerable, like someone had taken a knife to my emotions and twisted it. I wanted a hug from someone who loved me.
I settled for wrapping my arms around myself.
The hours after Saint left felt like a blur of sleeping, eating, numbing myself. Saint had left me alone, and I was grateful for that, but I knew it wouldn’t last, so I enjoyed it while it did.
But as soon as evening started to settle in, the tension crept back into my body, causing my muscles to coil and ache again. I felt like I was living in the calm before the storm. The calm before sitting down to break bread with a man I’d hated since I was eight.
Saint’s father represented the worst time in my life.
A knock on the door pulled me out of my head. The maid who had been helping me all day, a short Afro-Latina woman with a heavy accent, stepped in. She was the only other person I’d seen. I think she was Saint’s only staff. Inside the house was always so quiet. She was carrying a dress. She placed it on the bed. “Saint wants you to wear this for dinner,” she said with a soft smile. She set down a collection of hair products beside the dress, then paused. "You'll be beautiful, Mija. You remind me of my granddaughter," she added, like she was trying to calm my nerves. "Don’t worry, okay? Everything will be alright. Mr. Saint is a nice man, just grouchy."
I barely had time to process her words before she slipped out the door, leaving only the soft click behind her. Saint was a nice man? Tuh, please. That wasn’t something I was about to entertain. Instead of retreating into the comfort of the bed like I wanted to, I made a quick decision to take another shower. I didn’t need the control freak coming into the room and seeing me lying there, trying to exert his power over me.
After washing, I got out and stared at my reflection. I saw a woman in the middle of a mess she didn’t create looking back at me. I wanted to scream, to punch something, do anything but participate in Saint’s madness, but I didn’t have a choice. I just took a long breath and wiped the fogged mirror. I squeezed gel into my palm and worked it through my curls, performing a little magic, watching as my hair went from dry to coiled. I stared at myself for a moment, took another deep breath, then turned and walked to the dress waiting for me on the bed. I realized again—there were no underwear. I rolled my eyes.
I had just slipped into the dress when Saint entered the room without knocking, his presence filling the space like a storm cloud. I wanted to throw a full-blown temper tantrum, but I knew it would do me no good and probably entertain him.
My eyes took him in. He was dressed impeccably in a tailored black suit, his tie was perfectly knotted, his shoes polished. He looked every inch the mafia prince, and I hated how my disloyal heart skipped a beat at the sight of him.
I blamed it on the childhood crush that had lasted too damn long and on all the nights I had fantasized about the man he would become.
The reality was even better than the fantasy, a bit more violent.
But I’d sooner die than admit it to him or anybody.
“It’s time,” he said, his voice calm.
I didn’t respond. I simply nodded.
“Still not talking?” Saint stepped closer, his eyes sweeping over me in a way that made my skin prickle.
I sighed but held my tongue.
“Turn around. The zipper on the dress is still down,” His tone left no room for argument.
I hesitated. The last thing I wanted was him touching me.
Reluctantly, I turned, exposing my back to him. His fingers brushed along my spine, slowly, like he knew what it would do to me. The contact was brief, a ghost of sensation but it left a trail of fire in its wake. Deliberate. Designed. Enough to make my body tingle and goosebumps spread across my skin.
I spun back around to face him, our eyes locking. A moment heavy with electricity passed between us. Neither of us said a word. We just stared at each other, knowing there was nothing to say and everything to figure out.
“Sit,” he said, breaking the silence and gesturing to the edge of the bed. I sat, tucking my lips as he knelt in front of me. He pulled out a pair of black heels from what seemed like nowhere.
With a ridiculous amount of care, he slipped them onto my feet. One. Then the other.
I should’ve looked away. I should’ve ignored the way his white shirt stretched across his chest, the way the fabric pulled, just enough to tease me with a flash of the ink along his neck.
But I didn’t.
I looked my fill.
When he was done, he leaned in, his lips brushing against my inner knee in a kiss that was laced with poison, I felt it seep into my blood stream. His lips on my skin, made my flesh hum, sending electricity straight to my pussy.
Damn. I almost moaned.
This moment was devastatingly sexy to me. Shamefully so.
His voice was velvet, low and knowing when he spoke.
“You don’t have to talk, Aria. You’re still stuck with me either way.” His fingers crept up my thigh, stopping just short of touching my pussy.
I couldn't fucking breath.I waited for him to touch it. I wanted him too.
I should’ve shoved his hand away. I should’ve slapped him. But I didn’t.
His fingers flexed, gripping my thigh, just hard enough to make me dizzy.
And still, I didn’t move.
I had to force myself to remember—who he was, what he had done to me, what he was threatening to do.
He wasn’t someone I could fall for.
He wasn’t someone I should feel this for.
He wasn’t the cute ten-year-old boy I would have fought his daddy over. I avoided looking directly at him. I made myself stand. He stood, forcefully wrappingmy hand in his and pulled me toward the door.
I let him pull me through the cold, open space of the house. My heels clicked against the marble floor. We got on a golf cart, rode past hundreds of guards until we pulled up at his father’s house. I didn’t know we had been so close. I almost recoiled. I didn’t want to go inside there. But I didn’t want to show Saint a weakness. I was sure he’d find a way to use it against me.
I thought I was just walking into a quiet dinner, but the moment we entered the formal dinning room, I froze. It wasn’t just dinner—it was a frontline in a warzone. I was trapped in a room full of men, with hard-faces, cold eyes, and they all turned on me the second I stepped in. My stomach dropped. They stared at me like I was their enemy, all of them did, and I was. I had made a name for myself on my road to revenge.
I recognized all of the faces. Two in particular. Aaron and Sage Dillinger. The brother and father of the man I had killed in revenge. Their eyes burned with hatred. I felt the same way about them.
I tried to pull away from Saint’s but his grip on my hand tightened, holding me in place.
“Stay,” Saint whispered, and I gritted my teeth, forcing myself not to snatch away because who in the fuck did he think he was talking to?
“You all know Aria Heart,” Saint said, his voice cutting through the whispers. “You know who her father was. You’re here because all of you have spent years looking for her to harm her.” His hand slashed through the air. “All of that stops now.”
My heart pounded in my chest as Saint continued, his tone calm but deadly. “She will soon be my wife. In thirteen days, on Valentine’s Day. You all know me. You all know my reputation. You all know I will scorch the earth if even one of her pretty curls is touched before or after that day.”
Aaron Dillinger, the father of the man I had killed, stood up from his chair, it echoed when it hit the hardwood floor, his face twisted with rage. “You expect us to just accept this? This murderous bitch killed my son!”
George "Bugs" Moran chimed in, cosigning.
My temper flared, and before I could stop myself, I shot back, “Your son killed somebody I loved. I was being generous by not killing your entire fucking family.” If I had a gun, I would have shot him in his fucking face just like I’d done to his bastard. My blood felt like it was boiling inside my veins. Saint’s hand tightened around mine, a silent warning, I understood. But fuck him.
“Your spawn is exactly where the fuck he deserves to be—in hell.”
Dillinger’s face twisted with rage, and he stepped closer. “My son’s blood is on your hands, and you’ll pay for it,” he yelled at the top of his lungs.
“You’re wrong. I didn’t get any blood on my hands when I shot him in his ugly fucking face,” I rebutted.
His weird, lizard-looking son was being held back by Frank Rossi, which surprised me. I’d blown up his car when I thought he had something to do with my family’s loss. He didn’t seem as angry as everyone else.
Even as I was arguing with Dillinger, I kept Saint’s father in my peripheral. During all the chaos, Donato Valentine didn’t move, didn’t react, didn’t say as much as a word. He just watched me, his eyes cold and calculating. What I felt radiating off of him wasn’t just anger—it was something akin to loathing. I was a problem he wanted to get rid of. He had every reason in the world to hate me. One day, I’d be the reason for his death.
Saint started raising his voice. He let my hand go. I focused on his father. A taunting smirk curved my lips. I wasn’t scared of him when I was an eight-year-old girl, and I damn sure wasn’t now. And that bothered him. It bothered him that his son now had more influence and power than him, and he couldn’t touch me. I existed outside of his control.
I knew how he saw my father—as beneath him—and so I knew he saw me the same way. And yet—his son, his ruthless heir, wanted me.
A sociopath with a body count in the hundreds—and his daddy thought I wasn’t good enough for him?
Hilarious.
My staring contest with Donato was broken by the sound of a high-pitched scream. By the time anyone noticed Saint was in kill mode it was already too late.
He now had a steak knife sticking out of the older Dillinger’s shoulder and a Desert Eagle pressed to the son’s head. I couldn’t help it.
My thighs clenched, my stomach tightened, and my pussy pulsed—my lust for this man was a shameful, traitorous thing.
He looked dangerous. I suddenly had a thing for dangerous men.
There was dead silent, except for the sound of my blood rushing in my ears.
“I don’t like your tone when you’re speaking to her, Dillinger,” Saint said, his voice low and dangerous. “Apologize.”
Dillinger clutched his shoulder, blood seeping through his fingers. His face was pale as a light-skinned Black man’s could get, his eyes wide with fear. “I-I’m sorry,” he stammered, his voice trembling. “I’m sorry.”
Just like that, Saint holstered his gun and stepped back, his gaze sweeping over the room. “Now that we have an understanding, Aria and I are going to excuse ourselves. We won’t be joining you for dinner. We have reservations.”
The switch-up was head-spinning. Saint’s long legs ate up the distance between us, his grip was tight on my hand as he pulled me toward the door. The cool night air hit my face, but before I could take in a full breath, my eyes landed on Jason and Isabella. They were standing by an SUV, dressed nicely, surrounded by four men dressed in black, holding guns pressed to their heads. They both looked weak-kneed and ready to pass out.
“Saint—what the hell is this?” I demanded, trying to pull away from him, forgetting I wasn’t supposed to be speaking to him.
“It’s a surprise. I wanted you to see what holding up your end of a bargain looks like,” he said smoothly. “Your friends are safe, see? And they’re even coming to dinner with us. You and Isabella can discuss our wedding, isn’t that right, Isabella?”
Isabella shook her head violently. Her dark hair obscured her pretty face slightly. But I could see he looked like she was a second away from bursting into tears. Poor girl.
Saint leaned down. “I think I deserve a kiss.”
I barely had time to process his words before he moved. His teeth sank into my bottom lip, forcing my mouth open. His tongue slid inside, slow, tasting me, taking what he wanted before pulling back. His mouth tasted like fruity candy. He had prepared for that kiss. That pissed me off.
The breath I sucked in burned.
Saint smirked. "See? That was nice, wasn’t it?"
My body moved before my brain stopped it.
Crack.
My hand connecting with his cheek echoed through the night, sharp as a gunshot, vibrating in the empty space between us.
Saint barely flinched.
Everybody and everything froze. Saint’s head snapped to the side, but when he turned back to me, the corner of his mouth was curled up. His tongue swept over his lower lip.
Then he laughed.
“That’s strike two, Aria. Please hit me again,” he said, his voice low.
For a second, I entertained the idea of doing it. Just to see what he’d do.
He knew I wouldn’t.
He turned his focus to one of his men and ordered them to take Isabella and Jason to the other car. Then he whispered something to one who nodded, and he went back into the house.
I watched as Isabella and Jason were led away, my stomach twisting with worry, but there was nothing I could do that wouldn’t get them killed.
Saint opened the car door for me, and I slid in, scooting as far into the corner as I could. He didn’t let me stay there long. His hand shot out, gripping my hips and pulling me next to him.
I gritted my teeth, trying to shift away again, but he was faster. Anticipating it. He leaned in, his voice a low growl. “If I have to move you again, I’ll sit you on my lap.” He threatened.
I couldn’t let that happen. He’d find out how saturated my pussy was.
He smiled—slow, knowing, and wicked. Like he was able to read my thoughts. That look crawled under my skin, then it seeped into my bones. He wanted me to try him.
I didn’t move.
His smirk deepened. He laced his fingers through mine. I hated how my body reacted to his touch, how my heart raced even as my mind screamed at me to pull away. But I didn’t. And as the car pulled away, I realized how little control I had despite me thinking otherwise.