Chapter 24
Gemma
A week passes, and Saint and I pretend that things are fine. Neither of us brings up the past, nor do we discuss Alexei's murder.
The sex helps.
God, the sex helps.
I forget how much I miss his touch. It's addictive. Like the best kind of drug, and I can't get enough.
Saint touches me like he's afraid I'll disappear.
Like I'm something precious. His hands on my skin feel like absolution.
Like forgiveness we haven't earned. We are not okay.
There's so much pain between us, and it isn't washed off as easily as Alexei's blood, and yet, neither of us wants to admit it, so we don't.
We fuck our problems to the back of our minds until we are too boneless to think.
It's not love and softness. It's desperate and hungry. Trying to fill the holes we put in each other with physical affection instead of truths. I know I should stop it, but I can't.
It almost works to erase everything, but sometimes, I can't help but remember the look on Alexei's face as I jam the letter opener into the soft skin of his throat, and I'm jolted awake from my sleep by the sight.
What's worse is that I can't stop thinking about that feeling of power I have when I take Alexei's life.
I'm no longer content to just sit back and be taken care of.
I got a taste of power, and now, I want more.
Saint won't give it to me, and as he fucks me, I wonder if there's going to be a time I'm desperate enough to take it for myself.
"Come with me today," Saint says on the morning of the eighth day. "I have meetings. I want you there."
I'm sitting at the vanity, doing my makeup. My face has filled out slightly. I've been eating. Sleeping. In some ways, I'm thriving. I wish the void I feel when Saint goes to see his men, without me, would close. Maybe if it did, I would be happy.
Content.
Saint is trying, but I know he's really just placating me, and it pisses me off. And then, I feel guilty. It's a sick cycle, but I can't break out of it.
"Why do you want me there?" I ask, turning to look at him. "You've never asked me to join before."
In fact, it's always been the opposite. He's kept me so far from Marini business that when Alexei told me he wanted info on them, I realized I had none. So, this is a wild turn in events.
"You're my wife. The family needs to see you, know you." He comes up behind me. "I want you by my side."
In the mirror, we look like a power couple. The Don and his beautiful wife.
I wonder if he can see the cracks that we are trying to hide as well as I can.
"You want me by your side?" I repeat, looking at his eyes in the mirror.
"Yes," he presses a kiss to my neck. "I want to show you off."
Alexei's words echo in my ears. What a pretty pet, he'd said. I shiver and pull away.
"Okay."
I slip into an elegant black dress that's heavy satin and comes down to my mid-calf. The bodice though is deadly. The tiny cutouts down the chest, held together by bows, shows peekaboos of flesh. It's elegant and sexy.
Saint's eyes darken when he sees me.
"You look—" He takes me in his arms, kissing me. "Beautiful."
"Thank you." I pick up my purse and slip on a pair of black pumps. I look deadly, and I like it.
Saint studies me for a moment. Like he's trying to figure out what's wrong.
He won't find it. I've gotten good at hiding.
"Yeah. Let's go."
The meeting is in our dining room. Fifteen men. Captains. Soldiers. Family.
I recognize some from the wedding. Others from Antonio's funeral.
The fact that I know so little about them reminds me of how closed off I'd been, and it makes me feel like Saint really didn't mean to keep me.
They all stand when I enter, and I smile softly as Saint introduces me. I'm sure that he should have introduced me ages ago, but he didn't. I try not to stiffen as it reminds me of the words that Antonio spoke.
"Gentlemen," Saint says. "You all know my wife, Gemma."
Nods. Murmurs of greeting. Eyes that assess and dismiss in the same glance.
This is symbolic to me, but not to them.
I'm decoration. A pretty accessory to prove Saint is settled and worthy of leading.
I want to scream at them that I took down the Pakhan of the Russian outfit in New York. Instead, I smile.
I'm gracious, demure. Everything a mob wife should be. Inside, I am fuming. Saint knows I am more than a trophy, and yet, here I am serving that purpose for him. This is a set-up.
"Please, sit," Saint gestures. "Gemma, you'll be here." He pulls out the chair to his right.
The position of honor. The seat that says this woman matters.
But as the meeting starts, I realize I'm correct in my initial assessment—he's placating me.
I'm not permitted to talk. No one even looks at me.
The focus is on Saint, the Don.
He talks. The captains respond. They discuss business.
When someone addresses me, it's to compliment my dress or ask how I'm settling in. Everyone seems politely confused as to why I am here.
An hour in, I'm ready to scream. My cheeks ache from smiling, and I'm ready to pull my hair out.
What the fuck is Saint thinking?
Later, in Saint's office, I confront him.
"Was that a test?"
He looks up from his paperwork. "What?"
"The meeting. Having me sit there while you talked around me. Was that a test to see if I'd obey you?"
Saint glares, folding his hands over top of his document. "You always think the worst of me."
I cross my arms over my chest in challenge. "Are you serious?"
Something flickers in his green eyes, guilt? Unsure. It's always been hard to decipher his true self. There's a time I think we are on the same page, and boy, am I wrong. Saint wears a mask, same as me, only, his is much harder to shatter.
"I wanted your input." He sets down his pen. "I wanted you to sit there and learn. You're smart, Gemma. I'd be an idiot not to use that."
"Use." I lean against his desk. "That's an interesting word choice."
He squeezes the bridge of his nose and releases a heavy sigh.
"You know what I mean."
"Do I?" I move closer. "Because from where I'm sitting, I'm still just an accessory. A pretty wife who occasionally gets asked questions to make her feel included."
"That's not—"
"Isn't it?" I'm in his space now. "I killed a man, Saint. I took down the Pakhan of the Russian Bratva. But in that meeting, I was just the Don's wife. Quiet. Decorative. Useful only when you decide to use me, and sometimes, that is just for you to fuck."
He stands with a growl. "Don't fucking say that." We're eye to eye now, both of us breathing heavy. Saint backs down first. "What do you want?" he asks calmly.
I don't expect it, and for a moment, I wonder if this is another test. I hate how we don't trust one another. But I don't spend too much time focusing on that. Instead, I think about the question.
"I want a role."
"A role?"
"I want to be your equal."
He shakes his head. "No."
"Saint—" I mean to issue a warning, but it comes out as more of a plea.
"You aren't equal in this family," he says. "No one is. You know that."
I'm so frustrated I could scream. I might. I can feel it bubbling to the surface.
"But that doesn't mean there isn't a role for you."
"As your wife?" I challenge. "An extension of you." My voice rises. "I've been property my whole life. Bianca's daughter. Adrian's sister. Your wife. When do I get to be someone for myself?"
He glares at me, green eyes barely more than slits. "When you earn it."
The words hit like a slap.
"What?"
"You heard me." His voice is gentle but firm. "You want a role? Figure out what that looks like. I can tell you what it won't be. It won't be equal." He cups my face, squeezing slightly. "But it can be something. Tell me what it should be, and we will negotiate."
I don't have an answer. Because I didn't even expect him to take it seriously.
"That's what I thought." He kisses my forehead. "Figure it out. And then tell me what you want. What you really want. And we'll work on it."
He leaves me standing there.
Hating him. Hating myself more.
And mostly, being fucking confused.
Things feel normal.
Saint has more meetings. I'm not invited to these, and even if he asked me to join, I wouldn't. He clearly doesn't want me there.
When I ask about them, he gives me a vague answer.
"Business," he says. "Boring shit. You'd hate it."
Maybe I would. Maybe I wouldn't.
I'm not given the choice.
I spend the day in the compound. Reading. Thinking through the dilemma he gave me. He didn't give me a timeframe, and he hasn't brought it up since, but it's all I can think about.
Trying to define what I want. Once, Bianca gave me a role. I was an Heiress, future head of the family. Through no fault of my own, I lost it. Then, I became the architecture of our security, secretly of course.
Then, a pawn. Something to marry off for the security of alliance.
None of those are roles I choose for myself though. And honestly, this whole thing has made me realize how little I know about my own desires.
I'm in the library contemplating all of this when Lyla finds me.
"Mrs. Marini? There's someone here to see you."
"Who?" I'm not expecting anyone. These days, there's no one to come and see me anyway. Luca and Adrian have cut me from the family, and all my friends from school have dropped off.
"He didn't give a name. Just said he had business with you and Mr. Marini." She looks nervous. "He's...Russian. From another family."
My heart is in my throat. Shit.
"Where's Saint?" My voice is breathless, and I realize my hands are shaking slightly. I clench and unclench my fingers.
"Still in his meeting. I can interrupt—"
"No. I'll handle it." Saint doesn't need to be involved—yet.
I stand. Smooth my dress. There's no way a Russian would come here to kill me. The compound is teaming with guards. Saint and Marcello are so worried about security, they have sharpshooters stationed around. Whoever this is, they are here for something else. "Where is he?"
"The front parlor," she glances around. "I didn't want to let him in, but the guards allowed him entrance, so I assumed…"
I swallow. Of course, Lyla would assume he'd been given access. Who the hell is this? The guards wouldn't let just anyone through, especially someone from another family. At the very least, they'd check with Saint, disrupt his meeting…
I smile, trying to calm Lyla. "It's alright," I say, my voice unusually high. "I'll see him."
I make my way to the parlor.
I reach it. Take a breath and open the door.
A man stands by the window. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark hair. Expensive suit that doesn't quite hide the predator underneath.
He turns when I enter, and smiles.
It's not a nice smile. There's something feral in it. Maybe the fact that it doesn't reach his eyes. It's false. Rehearsed. It's like he's pretending to be a person instead of actually being warm and genuine.
I'm immediately on edge. This is not a friendly visitor. This is someone dangerous. Immediately, I regret not getting Saint.
"Mrs. Marini. How lovely to finally meet you."
His accent is Russian but refined. Educated. Nothing like Alexei's rough edges.
"I'm sorry, do I know you?" I plaster on my own fake smile, pulling on every bit of training Bianca ever gave me.
"Not yet. But you knew my—" He pauses. "You knew Alexei quite well, I understand."
My blood turns to ice.
"I knew of Alexei," I say, not breaking character. "A shame. We weren't able to attend the funeral. I was ill."
He makes a noise in the back of his throat. "I suppose it is tacky to attend the farewell of a man your husband nearly killed." He moves closer. Slowly. Like he has all the time in the world. "How does he feel about you finishing the job?"
Fuck.
Fuck fuck fuck.
I square my shoulders, determined not to show fear. "I think you should leave."
He doesn't even blink. "I think your husband would want to be part of this conversation." He's still smiling. "Why don't you fetch him? I'll wait."
The word makes my skin crawl. Fetch. Like Alexei's "pet."
But I can't afford to react. Can't show him he's gotten to me.
Because this man knows. He knows what I did. And he's here to—what? Blackmail us? Kill me?
I force my voice to stay steady. "Who are you?"
"Artem." He extends his hand. "Artem Orlov."
I don't take it. The name is familiar, but I can't place it. My mind is racing, and I'm struggling to keep my thoughts straight.
"What do you want?"
"Just to talk." He looks me up and down. Not in a sexual way. He's assessing me, and I wonder if I'm lacking. "You're very pretty. I'm sure that helped. Alexei liked pretty things. Never thought they could be vicious."
The words hang in the air.
He knows.
He knows, and he's here and Saint is in a meeting and—
"I'll get my husband." The walls are closing in, and I feel like I can't breathe.
"Please do." He sits. Makes himself comfortable. Spreads out his arms like he's the King. "I'm very interested in meeting the man who married such a... capable woman."
I back out of the room, close the door, and run to Saint's office as quickly as I can.
I don't knock. Just burst in.
"Saint—"
He's mid-sentence with three captains, and he looks up, annoyed. "Gemma, I'm in the middle—"
"There's a Russian in the parlor." My voice is shaking. I want to say more, but I can't. We covered everything up, but apparently, not well enough.
Everyone goes very still, and it feels like the air in the room weighs a ton.
Saint stands slowly. "Name?"
"Artem. Artem Orlov."
Saint's face goes white. In fear? Anger? I'm not sure.
"Get out," he says to the captains. "Now."
They scramble. Leave without question.
Saint's already moving. Gun from his desk drawer. Phone out.
"Marcello. We have a problem. Artem Orlov is in my house." He listens. "I don't give a fuck how he got past security. He's here."
He hangs up. Looks at me.
"Stay behind me. Don't speak unless I tell you to. And Gemma?" His eyes are hard. "Do not, under any circumstances, admit to anything. Understood?"
I nod.
"Good," he straightens his jacket, and I see the man I married. The one who beat a man nearly to death and laughed.
I'm worried. That man is unpredictable, and right now, we need Saint the Don. Not the enforcer.
"Saint—" I caution.
He kisses me softly. "It'll be fine."
His hand goes to my lower back, and he guides me back to the parlor.
We enter together.
Artem is still sitting. Still smiling.
"Saint Marini. What a pleasure." He doesn't stand, and I know it's on purpose. He's showing Saint he's in control. It's a slap to Saint's leadership. "I've heard so much about you."
"Orlov." Saint's voice is ice. "You're a long way from home."
"Yes, well. I had business in New York. Thought I'd pay my respects." His eyes slide to me. "And meet the woman who did what I've been trying to do for years."
"And what's that?"
Artem's smile widens.
"Killed Alexei Morozov, of course."