22. Saint
Saint
“ J ust so we’re clear…” I straighten the stapler on my father’s desk, aligning it correctly with the Post-It holder. “You’ve known about whatever the fuck is going on since January, and I’m just finding out about it now?”
He watches carefully as I move on to the mess of pens littered all over the surface, placing them one by one back into the “World’s Best Dad” mug Theory got for him. “Yes, Saint. But I’ve got it under control.”
“And what about Theory? Huh?”
“What about her?”
The sound of my fist hitting his desk has my father clenching his jaw. “She’s been across the fucking world this entire time. At risk and out of my reach.”
“She had Stanley by her side. Surveillance and undercover security around the entire campus. You should know more than anyone that my eyes are never off your sister.”
“And you should know more than anyone that I don’t trust any of those motherfuckers with Theory.”
“Our security details undergo immense training, Saint. C’mon. Almost half of them are form
er agents.”
“Feds!” I bark out a laugh. “Point fucking proven.”
“Not the F—”
“NSA, FBI.” I collapse onto the chair in front of him with a pissed off grunt. “Same asshole, different dick.”
“Saint. You know I don’t like—”
“Not really giving much of a fuck what you like or don’t like right now. Sorry, Dad. Not when you’re keeping shit from me I need to know.”
“Things have been…complicated this past year. You know that.” He leans back to cross his legs. “Between the unfortunate incidents at Riverside, work, you, your mental health, your sister’s wellbeing.”
“Don’t spoon feed me that bullshit. Our entire life is a series of unfortunate incidents. It’s practically a birth rite.”
“Yes.” He nods. “But this time every single one affected you in some way. Starting with what happened to your best friend.”
The Crayton card.
Why am I not surprised he’s playing it?
I mean…my father’s been watching me like a hawk ever since he left in the spring. I could see it in his eyes every single time I’d pitch a fit. There was Victor Lavell finger waiting on the dial, wondering if that day would be the day Saint goes off the rails.
Little did he know I already had my ducks in place to make sure it didn’t happen…and it was working.
At least for the most part.
For years, courtesy of a few ticks and chemical imbalances, my modus operandi for fucked up behavior rarely had the pleasure of acting first and thinking later. Which may come as an unpleasant surprise to many who’ve been on the receiving end of said fucked up behaviors.
Violence, revenge, sexual misconduct, etcetera.
If it was Saint Lavell who committed the sin, then it was calculated, controlled, and done for good reason.
Okay, fine, reason .
Truth be told, I may enjoy it, but I don’t actually like hurting people. Or making mistakes I can never come back from.
A fact about me most people don’t know.
Resting my elbows on my knees, I tell him, “Gaslighting. I’m impressed.”
“I am not gaslighting you, Saint.”
“Doubling down too? Watchout.”
“I’m not—” He pauses, letting out a tired sigh. “I’m not doing any of those things.”
I swipe the back of my hand across my forehead and lean back in the chair. “Shew. That’s a relief. ’Cause I was gonna say you’ve been pulling pages out of the wrong book, mister.”
“Are you done with the theatrics?”
“Sorry, wrong Heathen.” I spin on the chair. “Or maybe Good Guy?”
“Saint.” My father beckons in his ‘I wish Jesus handed out shots instead of wine’ voice.
“Meh. You’re right.” I come to an abrupt stop. “Hard to tell those two love birds apart these days.”
The look of confusion surrounding my father’s usual stoic features makes it clear I’m doing that thing again…
“You’re getting quite comical for someone who barged into my office like a lunatic demanding explanations.”
Yup. That’s the one.
With a roll of my shoulders I sit up straight. “Agreed. Where were we?”
“Well, I was willing to cue you in on some of the situation, but now I’m not so sure it’s a good idea.”
Anger crashes into me, but I hold it back enough to grind out an, “I’m fine. Now tell me.”
My dad observes me for a few seconds before reaching into a drawer on his desk, sliding a manilla folder between us labeled in the center with an S.
Another with an I.
And another with an M.
I’m hit with a realization so blunt, my brain doesn’t process me reaching for a folder until my father slaps his hand down on it.
I. Fucking. Knew it.
“I’m gonna take a wild guess that those three letters are not here to represent the shitty computer game.”
“Your assumption is correct.”
My jaw aches from how hard it’s set. “Which one, Dad?”
“Which one, what?” One of the smartest men in the world continues to play stupid.
“Which fucking mafia did you piss off?”
And it better not be the Salvinis, because we both know how ruthless those motherfuckers are.
Especially the former head of the family, who was a straight sociopath known for his murder sprees for kicks before cancer had him kicking the bucket.
My father’s eyes widen. “How did you know?”
“Because I’m your fucking son.” With a yank of each folder, I read off, “Salvini, Ivanov, Montgomery.”
“Okay, okay. You’re right.”
“This motherfucker Carlo following Hendrix around…you better know who he really is.”
“Of course I do.”
“Does this have something to do with you or Hendrix?”
He gulps, and I want nothing more than to rip his jugular out.
“Tell me. Now.”
“It’s complicated, Saint, and I’m willing to explain but I need you to promise me you will keep this between us.”
“You don’t deserve my secrecy…not when you’re putting a Russian target on my sister’s back.”
“You’re right. I don’t. But someone else does.”
“Are you talking about Hendrix?”
“Yes.” He signals for me to give back the folders, which I do, only because I’m finally getting some answers.
“Her father was nothing but a fall guy.”
With a heavy glance at the closed door, his voice turns hushed. “There’s a lot about her you don’t know, son. She doesn’t either, and we must keep it that way.”
“Hendrix doesn’t deserve to be in the dark. Not when this affects her enough to rattle you.”
“You’re right. But she deserves to be kept safe. She needs to be kept safe, Saint.”
“So does Theory!” I yell through a whisper. “And you brought the danger right to our doorstep.”
“Theory will be fine, I promise. It’s why I’m setting her up in a provisional.”
Provisional rooms. A.K.A. the Royal Families’ self-made panic rooms for “just in case” incidents.
Auto seal doors and windows. Stocked up supplies.
Vomits paranoia.
But I guess forefathers and fathers like mine, Crayton’s, Riggs’, and Levi’s can never be too careful.
“I take it your offer for me to hold up in one wasn’t out of the kindness of your heart.”
“Of course it was, Saint. For so many reasons.”
Reasons I have no choice but to delay pressing about, because a new one just hit the forefront.
“Do you know how hard it’s gonna be for me to keep an eye on both Theory and Hendrix?”
“This is why Hendrix needs to be with you.”
“Yeah. I could smell the bullshit about shticks from a mile away.”
“The shtick is true, but not because of the fire. We’re a little behind setting Hendrix’s room up as a provisional. It won’t be for much longer, and I’m sure you’ll find a way to convince her to stay with you until it’s done.”
Oh, I’ve got a few methods.
Not any he’ll like.
But that’s beside the point.
“Even if I do, it won’t stop Theory from worshipping at Hendrix’s altar.”
“Theory will make friends here, she’ll keep busy.”
“Are you blind? Deaf? Both? You know how hard it is for her to make friends. Almost as hard as she’s trying to be sister besties with Hendrix.”
“Gaining love for a sister is good for her.”
“Not when said fucking sister has ties to the Salvinis.”
My father scrubs his face, because he knows I’m right. Theory is not only the type to cling, but she’s the type to need to feel wanted. As much as she tries to deny it.
Being abandoned by her mother will do that to a girl.
“I’d consider sending her away to live with my brother.”
“Absolutely not. Travis can barely keep his daughters under control.”
With a shrug and shake of his head he responds, “Then you need to get on board.”
Knowing most times my father’s heart gets in the way of his brains and common sense, I decide it’s best to let this shit go to make sure Theory and Hendrix are kept safe on my terms.
“I’ll figure it out.”
“Good.” He lets out a breath of relief. “But do so with Carlo’s help.”
“Tell me who he is, then I’ll decide.”
“Who do you think he is, Saint? C’mon. I doubt you need me to tell you who sent him.”
“How can all of this shit be because of a hit that took place eighteen years ago?”
A hit so meaningless it wasn’t even covered by the media. I know because I did a night’s worth of digging.
“Where are we on that promise?” he questions, arms folded.
I’m stuck between countless rocks and a hard place, so what choice do I really have but to give him my word to keep quiet?
“This conversation stays between us, alright?”
With that, my father picks up the folder labeled M, holds it out, and says, “Then I can tell you the hit is the least of our problems.”