Chapter 13 Gemma
Gemma
"Pack a bag," Saint says, appearing in the bedroom doorway at six in the morning. I'm blinking rapidly, trying to clear the sleep from my eyes. I'm not a morning person, and Saint is wildly awake.
I swear the man never sleeps.
"What?" I'm trying to process Saint's words, but I need caffeine and a moment to rub the sleep from my eyes.
Luckily, Saint takes care of one of those, as he walks toward me and holds out a cup of coffee.
The smell of the roasted beans tickles my nose, and I sit up, taking a sip of the brown liquid. I close my eyes, enjoying the flavor. Lyla knows how to make a good-ass cup of coffee.
"We're leaving for the weekend."
I glance around, sure that this is a dream. His side of the bed is still cold, and he looks like hell. "Have you slept?"
His green eyes narrow. "No, but I'm fine to drive. Be ready in ten minutes."
My sleep-fogged brain is still trying to process. "Where are we going?" My heart is thrumming against my ribs as I kick off the blankets. This isn't like Saint. I've come to learn that his particular brand of maniac is rooted in violence.
In every other aspect of life, he's controlled.
He doesn't do spontaneous, which means something has happened.
I don't like it.
Saint wanting to go away for the weekend doesn't sit well with me. Does he know what I had done?
Did Alexei betray me already?
"Is it Alexei?" I swallow around the name, trying not to sound guilty.
"No, Gemma," he runs a hand through his hair. "I'm taking my wife to the beach for the weekend. That's all."
"The beach?"
He growls in frustration. "Yes. You know, sand and fucking sun. The beach. Ever heard of it?"
My heart does something complicated. "What about Antonio? The operations? The—"
"Handled." He's already pulling my overnight bag from the closet. "Come on. We're wasting daylight."
He throws the bag on the ground, smiling at me. It's not a happy one. It's predatory, one I've seen before. The space between my thighs lights up, and I remember how long it's been since he's been inside of me.
"Wear that red bikini in your closet. The pool is heated."
That's all he says before he storms out, and somehow, I don't feel much better.
The Marini beach house is in the Hamptons. Not the flashy part where hedge fund managers throw parties, but the quiet part, where old money hides.
It's a beautiful cottage with weathered shingles, white trim, surrounded by dunes and beach grass. The kind of place that looks like it's been here forever.
I love it.
It's simple and elegant. It reminds me of summer BBQs and children's laughter.
The sight of it causes a pang in my chest.
Saint parks and grabs our bags. He's been quiet since we left the city.
We took a helicopter, which he flew, insanely enough, and I didn't feel comfortable talking to him when he's stuck in his head.
This impromptu vacation has me on edge, and I'm doing my best not to show it.
"I spent summers here as a kid," he tells me. "Before everything went to shit."
It's the most personal thing he's ever shared, and as much as I want to push, I don't. I let Saint come to me.
He opens the door, and I'm taken aback by the décor. It's simple. Elegant and classy but comfortable with worn overstuffed furniture and soft watercolors.
Large windows look out over an expansive yard that leads to the beach, and the kitchen is open-concept and full of fruits and vegetables.
This is a home. Not a fortress. A place for a family.
"It's beautiful here," I say, wistfully.
"My mother decorated it," Saint sets the bags down. "I don't come here often. It's not my scene, but I thought you might like it."
He's not wrong. This is the type of place I've always dreamed about having. Something simple and warm.
I walk to the windows. The ocean stretches endlessly, gray-blue under the November sky. I want to ask him more about his mother. He's never mentioned her. But I can't bring myself to ask. Instead, I go with the second worst question I can think of.
"Why did you bring me here?" I cross my arms over my chest; my thick sweater does little to warm me from the chill. "With everything happening, why now?"
He comes up to me. Not touching me but close enough that I can smell the mint of his toothpaste. "Because I wanted to. Because we needed to get away from everything." A pause. "Because I wanted you to myself for a few days."
My chest tightens. I hate that even when I'm angry with him, he knows how to play me. He knows that I want nothing more than to be wanted. "Saint—"
"Come on." He grabs my hand. "Let's walk. The beach is empty this time of year."
Saint isn't wrong. The beach is empty. It's cold and windy, but Saint keeps his hand in mine as we walk along the water's edge, and something about his nearness makes me warm.
"Tell me something," I say. "Something real. Not about operations or territory or any of that. Something about you."
He's quiet for so long I think he won't answer. "I was twelve when I killed for the first time."
I stop walking, my mouth drying up immediately. I don't know what I expected him to tell me, but it wasn't that. "You killed someone at twelve?"
He looks at me, green eyes intense. "I was out with my cousins. We were playing. Antonio's sons are only a few years younger than me. We were riding our bikes when three men came by. Eliminated our guards. Started shooting at us."
I shiver. Saint's voice is emotionless like he's recounting the weather.
"I had a knife on me." He pulls it out, shows me. "It was my father's. I inherited it when he died. He was a good man. He believed that if you were ordering a death as Don, you needed to swing the hammer yourself. That knife was his preferred weapon."
I hold my breath. I'm not sure what to say. Sure, I grew up in the life, but as a girl, I'd been sheltered from this violence.
I've never killed anyone.
Saint continues. His eyes are slightly out of focus, as though he's lost in the memory.
"My cousins and I managed to run, escape in the firefight. We split up—it's what we're taught to do. Not that it mattered," he chuckles, "they weren't the target."
My head spins as I try to imagine four little boys running for their lives.
"One of my father's men grabbed me. Convinced me to go with him.
Turns out," Saint's green eyes are full of hatred as he speaks, "he betrayed us.
He sold out my parents, and now that I was coming of age, he decided the job needed to be done.
" Saint is playing with the knife, flipping it back and forth in his hand.
"But I'd been ready. He came at me, and I drove this blade into his throat.
" He smiles as he says it. His thumb caresses the tip of the knife.
"I'll never forget how powerful I felt in that moment.
How righteous." He chuckles and puts the knife away.
"It was heady, thinking I controlled the game—"
There's something pointed in his expression when he looks at me, and I worry again that he knows. Did he bring me here, to this lovely house, to kill me?
I didn't think so.
Not because I didn't think he was capable of killing me, but because I saw the way he spoke of this house—with reverence. He wouldn't murder someone here.
"But I had a lot to learn." He runs a hand through his dark hair. "Still do, it seems."
We continue walking in silence. I don't know what to say. My mind is racing. Where is he going with this?
"Antonio won't survive much longer."
He looks forlorn, like he is already heavy with grief. It's heartbreaking. Not just because Saint is losing the last parental figure he has, but because he's not one to express emotions so freely.
"Antonio raised me. Trained me. Made me who I am, and now, the fucker wants me to end his life."
I inhale sharply. There it is—why we are here. Saint is trying to escape the immense weight that Antonio has placed on his shoulders.
"It's not even fucking something I'm opposed to," he says. "Death can be a gift. I know that. And Antonio wants to go while he can still think. As a man, I understand that." His eyes are sharp. "Killing. It's easy. It's what I'm built for. Leading…" He shakes his head.
"I'm sorry," I say, squeezing his hand. He untangles himself from me and walks to the water. I don't know what else to say or do. How can I be there for someone who is being faced with the impossible? Who the fuck asks their surrogate son to kill them?
He picks up a piece of driftwood, tosses it into the waves. "He's the only family I have left. When he dies..." He trails off.
"You'll have me," I say before I can stop myself.
He looks at me, something unreadable in his eyes. "True."
We walk in silence for a while, and I let myself pretend this is normal. That we're a normal couple on a normal weekend getaway. That we chose each other. That we aren't talking about murder and mayhem. I allow myself to feel the warmth of his skin.
"Your turn," he says, turning to me as though he hadn't just told me he was a child killer and potentially contemplating murdering his dying uncle. "Tell me something real."
I search my mind.
"There was a time when Bianca wanted me to take over the family.
" I laugh bitterly. I've never shared this with anyone.
"Adrian was off being rebellious, and Luca was doing the same out in L.A.
She said they were unreliable. Not fit to inherit.
So, for a year, I sat at her feet, learning everything there is to know.
Preparing." The words taste sour in my mouth.
I look at Saint, expecting shock, or something worse.
Instead, he's just listening. I wish I knew what he was thinking.
Did he think it was a silly idea? Bianca certainly did.
Or did he think I had the stuff to lead?
"Adrian got it together. Decided he was ready to lead.
And Bianca told me I wasn't necessary any longer. "
I keep my eyes forward, not wanting tears to fall.