Chapter 4
Gemma
I don't sleep.
All night, I lie there planning and calculating as I listen to Saint’s breathing beside me.
Last night changed things. Maybe not for him, but for me. I feel a hunger developing inside of me, and I can't ignore it.
I need to do something. I need to find an outlet for this energy, for this idea. I need to take control.
I’ve been married for almost three months, and the idea of just sitting in the house waiting to get fucked every night makes my skin crawl.
No, there’s more to be done. Saint gave me an opening, and now, I need to take it.
It’s what my mother would have done.
I wake at eight, and Saint is long gone, but I feel refreshed. I eat the breakfast left outside my door, shower, and dress.
At nine, I find Lyla in the kitchen.
"I need to see Saint," I tell her. "Where does he work?" It’s kind of ridiculous I don’t know it, and I can tell from the surprised look on her face she’s shocked by the question.
I've never asked to leave the compound to see Saint. Hell, we basically avoid one another unless absolutely necessary.
And yet, here I am, asking about him.
"He's at the shipping office in Long Island City. But Mrs. Marini, he doesn't like to be disturbed during—"
"Can you call me a car? Or do I need permission from Antonio?" I wish I'd paid more attention to how things work here. Whenever I've gone out, a car has been waiting, but that’s when I want to have shopping or lunch—approved activities.
This is something else.
Lyla is already on the phone. "I'll have Emmanuel drive you. He's been assigned to you. He’ll act as your driver and guard.”
I feel stupid for not realizing this, but oh well. Time is of the essence, and I’m not interested in sitting around and dwelling on what I should have done.
“Thank you, Lyla,” I say, grabbing an apple and taking a huge bite as I walk to the front entrance.
Twenty minutes later, I'm in the back of a black SUV, watching Queens slide past the window. My heart pounds, my earlier confidence shriveling up slightly as I’ve had more time to mull over this plan.
This could go very wrong. Saint could laugh at me, dismiss me, get angry that I showed up uninvited.
And that’s the good reactions.
He could do a number of things including go to his uncle, or worse, my brother, which would be very, very bad.
But I have to try. If I don't, I worry I am going to wither and die in his mansion, and you can't get an heir out of a corpse.
That’s the crux of it. Saint wants something from me. He wants a child, so that his uncle will get off his back. I was stupid not to see it before, but that, that desire, it gives me leverage.
Not much, but I can work with it.
The shipping office is in a converted warehouse near the docks. Emmanuel parks and opens my door.
"I'll wait here, Mrs. Marini."
I nod, walking inside, surprised at the sparseness of the reception area.
"Can I help you?" the receptionist asks.
"I'm here to see Saint Marini."
"Do you have an appointment?"
"I'm his wife."
Her eyes widen, and she nearly jumps out of her seat. "Oh. Oh! Mrs. Marini. I'll—let me just—" She picks up the phone, presses a button. "Mr. Marini? Your wife is here to see you."
A pause. I can't hear his response, but her face says it's not enthusiastic.
I smirk. Good. Saint married me, locked me in a tower, and enjoyed his life like nothing changed. Fucker is going to find out that I’m not that easy to escape.
"Yes, sir." She hangs up. "He'll see you. Third floor, office at the end of the hall."
I focus on the space to calm my nerves. The hallway is industrial—concrete floors, exposed pipes—very different from the Nero offices I grew up visiting. There is no warmth, and if I were to draw an example of a mafia business front, this would be it. Cold, sterile, non-descript.
It practically screams “We launder money.”
But as I knock on Saint’s office door, a courtesy he doesn’t really deserve, I decide to keep my thoughts to myself. I’m here to negotiate. I can’t do that if Saint and I are at one another’s throats.
"Come in."
He's behind a desk, laptop open, phone to his ear. He glances at me, raises an eyebrow, then continues his conversation as though I'm not even there.
I cross my arms and glare at him, wishing I had the ability to blow his brain up with my mind. I think about it for a moment—the blood and gore painting my dress. The look of surprise that would cross his face a split second before his life is ended.
I shake the thought away slightly scared by them.
"I don't care what the union rep says. We move the shipment tonight or we don't move it at all." Pause. "Then deal with it. That's what I pay you for."
He hangs up, slamming the phone down hard enough to break. But his anger is gone quickly, and he leans back in his chair and studies me, a bored expression on his face.
"This is unexpected."
"May I sit?"
He gestures to the chair across from him. I sit, crossing my legs, trying to project more confidence than I feel. If he looks too closely, he'd notice my bitten thumbnail and picked cuticle.
"You've never come here," he observes. "Special occasion?"
"I have a proposition."
It's best to get right to the point. I sat at Bianca's feet when she negotiated deals, and she liked a straightforward approach. She manipulated people on the backend, after they underestimated her.
It proved an effective strategy.
His mouth quirks. Almost a smile, but he says nothing, and I feel myself getting anxious.
"I want to make a deal.”
"I'm listening." He's mocking me, and he's not even trying to hide it.
"I know every aspect of Adrian's security protocols. His schedules. His routines. His vulnerabilities. I helped Bianca design some of them." I shrug. "Well, most of them."
Saint's expression shifts. Just slightly, but I notice a spark of interest replacing the amusement. Just barely. He's not bought in.
Not yet.
But I can work with this. I can stroke that spark until it’s an ember. Because Saint is just as angry as I am.
"Interesting."
"I studied art history, but my real focus was art preservation, specifically, how to protect valuable pieces. Security systems. Climate control. Surveillance. Bianca saw value in that. She had me help design the security for some of the Nero properties including the gallery."
"The gallery?"
I nod. "Art is how we clean money from the other things…" The illegal things.
"Adrian never mentioned—"
I laugh sardonically. "Adrian doesn't know. Bianca was grooming me to help manage the legitimate side of the business." I bite my lip so hard I nearly pierce it. "Obviously, she changed her mind."
"Guess she saw more value in what exists between your legs than between your ears."
I wring my hands and take a deep breath, ignoring him. This is what Saint does. He pushes people until they snap.
But I’ve already snapped. He just doesn’t know me well enough to realize it.
Saint leans forward, elbows on the desk. "Why should I care about any of this?"
"Because I want to fuck with my brother, badly, and so do you." I meet his eyes. I want him to see my anger. "He sold me. Traded me like I was nothing. I want him to suffer for that,” I lean back.
His expression doesn't change.
"Don't pretend you don't hate him too. You resent being beholden to the Neros. This marriage was forced on you because Antonio was worried about the Marini’s standing once my brother took over. He didn’t trust you enough to slot into his place without the bonds of matrimony.”
"Watch it," he says, but there's no real heat.
"It's true. And we both know it. So, here's what I'm proposing: I give you intel. You use it to destabilize Adrian's operations. Make him desperate. Make him need to offer concessions to keep the alliance strong. There's got to be something you want from him.”
I hate that I can't read Saint. It makes this whole thing more challenging. I'm taking a risk here, and I have no idea if it will pay off.
"Adrian isn't the bargaining type. You should have seen him negotiating the contracts for our marriage. He was more ruthless than your mother. He was fine with you being Antonio’s broodmare as long as he kept control of the shipping routes we’d given him.”
I swallow. "That was before he was a father. Sera and Angelo are your leverage.” The words slip out before I can stop them, and I feel immense guilt at what I'm suggesting.
"Family has made Adrian weaker. If he thinks there's a threat he can't control, he'll cave to make sure that the alliance stands.”
Saint chuckles. "That's cold, little Nero."
He's not wrong. "It's no different than what Adrian did to me."
His brow raises. "You are willing to put your nephew in danger."
I shake my head emphatically. "No," my voice is breathy, and I hate it. I'm trying not to shake. "Angelo isn't in any danger. No one is."
"Really?"
I nod. "That's part of our deal. No putting Angelo or Sera in harm's way."
"What about Adrian or Luciano?" Saint asks. "What would you do if I put a bullet in their heads?"
I roll my eyes. "You aren't going to do that. We are still allies. Once Antonio dies, you take over his seat. You wouldn’t jeopardize that.”
"I’m impulsive,” Saint says, with a shrug. "Sometimes I don’t know what I’ll do.”
"Don't be ridiculous,” my mother has gone a bit dry. “This…this intel…it's a game. I just want to scare Adrian, make him feel the way I have.”
Saint licks his lips, just slightly. “It’s a dangerous game.”
"Only kind to play."
I sound more confident than I feel.
"Why do all this?" The playfulness has gone from his face, and his green eyes narrow in on me with intensity.
"What?"