Chapter 23
Saint
She's in the shower.
Has been for forty minutes.
I can hear the water running. Constant. Unending.
I sit on the bed in the safe house, staring at the bathroom door.
My wife just killed the Pakhan of the Russian Bratva.
Stabbed him to death. Brutally. In his own office.
The thought keeps circling, and I can barely focus on them. It's one thing for me to brutally murder someone, but Gemma…
Gemma. My Gemma, just committed one of the most brutal murders I've ever seen.
And I've seen a lot.
It takes a lot of energy to stab someone, a lot of strength, and even more anger.
Overkill doesn't even begin to cover what Gemma did to him.
She went feral on him.
I should be horrified.
I should be worried about what this means. About what she's become.
Instead, I feel excited. Proud. A lot of emotions that I can't quite put my finger on.
Alexei tried to play her, wanting to use her to get to me and likely Adrian. She completely turned the tables on him. And he didn't see it coming. That's the most satisfying part. She killed a man who was bigger and more powerful than her, and all because he never saw her as a threat.
The water finally shuts off, and I wait. We have a lot to discuss.
She's wearing my t-shirt. It hangs to her thighs. Her hair is wet, dripping onto the floor, and I notice that her skin is red, scrubbed raw and heated, but there's no more blood. She did what I told her to do.
She looks at me. Those silver eyes that were dead for weeks are alive now.
Different. Harder. But alive, and I'd willingly sacrifice a hundred men to make sure they don't die again.
"I can still smell it," she says, bringing a shaky hand to her hair. "The blood. Even though it's gone, I can still smell it."
"That'll fade," I tell her. "It's in your head. You smell like soap to me."
She sits beside me on the bed and makes sure to scoot far enough away that we are barely touching.
"I killed him." Her voice is calm. I can't tell if she is shocked still, or if she is processing.
"Yes."
"I didn't plan it. I took the letter opener from his desk, but I didn't—" She stops. She told me this before. "I don't know why I grabbed it."
I turn to face her, not saying anything. I just let her talk.
"I thought he might kill me."
I freeze at her admission. I know this, logically. There was no other reason for her to go there, but still, there's something uncanny about hearing her say it.
"Would you have let him?" I'm not sure if I want the answer, but I need it. I need to know where the fuck we go from here.
She's quiet for a long moment. "I don't know. Maybe. A few hours ago, death seemed easier than—" She gestures vaguely. "This. Existing as nothing."
I want to tell her she matters. That, to me, she's everything. I bite back the words. She needs more from me than empty reassurances. She needs proof. Apologies without action are baseless, and I've done a lot to prove her right, and nothing to prove her wrong.
That changes.
"But you fought back."
"No." She looks at her hands. Clean now, but she's staring at them like she can still see the blood. "Honestly, he wasn't trying to kill me."
"No?" I'm surprised.
She shakes her head. Her dark hair is wet, and she shivers slightly. "No," she blinks, like she is clearing a fog from her mind. "At least, I don't think so. We didn't get too far."
"What made you kill him?"
Her eyes turn hard, like steel. She's pissed. Whatever Alexei did, it was bad, and I bite my tongue so that she can come to me. This is what she needs, to tell me this herself. "He called me a fucking pet."
My brow raises in surprise, and I breathe out a sigh of relief. Shit, I was expecting something so much worse. Something I couldn't fix. After all, Alexei has a reputation.
She looks at me sharply, frowning, and I try to hide my happiness. "He called me a pet, a pretty bird who needs a master, and I don't know, Saint, I just snapped."
Her hands are steady, but she's twisting the skin around her ring finger. I want to bring up the engagement and wedding rings in my pocket, but this doesn't feel like the time. "I should have just left," she says. "I put us all in danger."
"Yes," I say. Her eyes flicker, but luckily, that fire, that steel, remains. "But you handled it."
"I'm a murderer, and I didn't just kill anyone. I killed the head of a family."
"Everyone in this world is a killer." I squeeze her hand. "Alexei was a predator. He hurt people. Used them. He was going to use you, trust me on that. Even Igor knew it. It's why he called me that night. Alexei was dangerous—to you most of all."
"Don't justify this," she says, getting up and pacing. "Not like that."
"Meaning?"
She glares. "Don't be stupid, Saint. You just described our relationship." She places her hands on her hips. "Should I stab you?"
The words make rage flare in my chest. "Don't fucking compare me to that asshole. I never wanted to own you," I remind her. "Everything we did, you consented to."
"I feel—" She struggles for words. "I should feel guilty. Or horrified. Or something."
"Do you?"
"No." The admission seems to cost her. "I feel powerful. And that scares me."
"Why?"
"Because good people don't feel powerful after killing someone."
"Says who?" I turn her face to me. "Gemma, you've been told your whole life what good women do. How they act. How they feel. Fuck all of that." I lean closer.
"Is that how you justify it? The killing?"
"I don't justify anything. I just do what needs to be done." I trace her jawline. "And sometimes, what needs to be done is violent. That doesn't make you a monster. It makes you a survivor."
She's quiet, processing.
"You're proud of me."
It's not a question. She can see it in my eyes, and I'm not going to deny it.
"Yes."
"That's fucked up."
"Probably." I smile. "But I've never claimed to be normal." I reach out and cup her cheek. The feeling of her skin against mine reminds me of how much I've missed her.
"I'm not normal anymore either," she whispers, leaning into my touch. Her eyes close slightly, and I know she has missed me as much as I've missed her.
"No." I pull her closer. "You're dangerous. And alive. And mine."
"Am I?" She looks up at me. "Am I still yours? After everything?"
"You've always been mine. Even when I was too stupid to see it. Even when I betrayed you." I stop. "Yes. You're mine."
She leans into me and rests her head on my shoulder.
A small laugh escapes her.
"We're so fucked up."
"Extremely." I kiss the top of her head. "But we're fucked up together."
Marcello arrives an hour later.
He takes one look at Gemma, clean, wearing my clothes, sitting on the bed, and then at me.
"Are you two out of your fucking minds?"
"Good to see you too."
"Don't." He points at me. His face is red, and I feel a flash of satisfaction.
Marcello, who pretends to be in control, clearly isn't ready for this kind of bullshit.
The reality of being in charge means you've got to pivot, even when bullshit is delivered at your door.
"Don't give me that casual bullshit. Do you have any idea what kind of mess she created? "
"We handled it—"
"You didn't handle shit. I handled it. And I had to pull a bunch of strings.
" He's pacing now, and I raise a brow as I watch him.
"Do you know how hard it is to make it look like the Pakhan died in a fire?
We had to move the body, stage it in the warehouse, make the stab wounds look like—" He stops.
Shakes his head. "You don't want to know. "
"You pulled it off though." I keep my voice calm. "That's why I made you my second. You've got a good brain, though the dramatics aren't necessary."
I've done similar things for Antonio. That's what it means to be second. You clean up all the messes.
"Barely. BARELY." He runs a hand through his hair. "The body had multiple stab wounds, Saint. She went crazy on his neck. We had to stage the entire scene, get stories straight, pay off half the precinct to keep them away from the real crime scene."
"I'll cover the costs—"
"It's not about the fucking money!" He's in my face now. "It's about the fact that your wife—" He looks at Gemma. "No offense."
"None taken," she says quietly. She has been sitting there the whole time letting Marcello rail at her. I don't like it, but he needs to get it out, so we can get down to business.
"—walked into Russian territory, killed their Pakhan, and could potentially start a war."
"He was touching me," Gemma says. Her voice is flat. "He said I needed a master. That I'd be his good girl."
Marcello goes very still.
"What?"
"You heard me."
He looks at her. Really looks at her. At the raw skin. The hollow eyes. The steel underneath.
"Okay." His voice is different now. "Okay, yeah, he had that coming. What a prick."
I snort.
"No one is going to be sad to see him go," I say with a shrug. "His own men despised him. Igor is probably throwing a fucking party."
"That doesn't make this easier." But his anger has cooled. Slightly. He sits down. "Here's where we are. The official story is there was a warehouse fire next to Eclipse. Alexei was inside checking inventory. Accelerant everywhere. He didn't make it out."
"Do his men believe it?"
"Igor does. Or he's pretending to. Smart man." Marcello pulls out his phone and shows me photos. "We cleaned the office scene. Moved the body to the warehouse before setting it. The fire damage covers the stab wounds. Just looks like he got caught in the blaze."
I look at the photos. Professional job. You'd never know what really happened. I'm impressed. Marcello hasn't been by my side long, but I'm starting to see his worth.
Antonio trained him well. He knew I'd need him.
"The letter opener?" Gemma asks.
"Melted down. Along with your clothes." He looks at her. "You were never there. You were home. All day. Staff can confirm."
"I didn't tell the staff where I was going."