21. Saint
Chapter twenty-one
Saint
T he night clings to my skin like a second shadow as we pull to the end of the long driveway, the car's engine humming to a stop. I can't stop running through everything that happened, and I can't shake the image of her from my mind—her green eyes fierce, yet vulnerable, under the porch light.
Thick tension wraps around us as we sit in silence, no one moving to get out of the car.
"I need to get back to Carmen," Chess murmurs, breaking the silence as we all finally pile out of the car. I nod, distracted. My thoughts are a tangled mess—a mix of concern, possessiveness, and an anger that simmers under my skin. I want to own her, I want to put her in her place, but doubts gnaw at me, whispers of whether I'm seeing the reality of things.
"Saint? You coming?" Dre calls, jolting me back. I grunt an acknowledgment and follow him and Gen inside, my boots thudding against the polished floor.
"Mason should know we're back," I say more to myself than to anyone in particular, my voice low. They disperse, leaving me to navigate the labyrinthine halls of the house alone, the weight of my thoughts heavy on my shoulders.
I reach Mason's office and hesitate at the door, my hand poised to knock. That's when I hear it—the tinny voice of his secretary through the half-open door.
"Senator Winthrop has extended another dinner invitation," she says, her voice laced with a formality that feels out of place in this home.
"Another one?" Mason grumbles, irritation clear even through the thick oak door. "Decline it. You know I have no interest in pandering to that man's ego."
I should knock, announce my presence, but something holds me back. A spark of an idea flickers to life, dangerous and daring. It's crazy, maybe, but it could be our way in, a crack in the Winthrops' armor. If there's something to uncover, if there's a way to wield their secrets against them...
"Actually," I interrupt, pushing the door open and stepping into the lion's den. Mason looks up, a mixture of surprise and annoyance crossing his features. But he waits, his gaze expectant. There's a play here, a power move that I can't fully understand yet, but my instincts scream that it's right. I square my shoulders, ready to make my move. "Maybe we should accept the invitation this time."
The scent of old leather and the subtle tang of cigar smoke linger in the air as I lean against the door frame of Mason's dark-wood office. It's a silent standoff, one that has less to do with who'll blink first and more about who'll bend. Mason's hard gaze is a fortress, his skepticism a moat I have yet to bridge.
"Accept it?" Mason's voice is low, dangerous. "And why, pray tell, would I entertain such an absurd change of heart?"
"Because," I start, my words deliberate, "it's not just your heart we're talking about here. It's strategic."
"Strategic," he echoes, the skepticism in his tone like grit against my resolve.
I nod, feeling the game unfold, pieces moving on a board only I can see. "Exactly. Think of it as a favor to me."
He leans back, his eyes narrowing to slits as he studies me. Mason's office, usually a sanctuary of mahogany and aged books, feels like a battlefield now.
"Since when do you ask for favors, Rhett? Especially ones involving... socializing with politicians?"
"Since it concerns Adelaide." I let her name hang between us, a talisman with more power than I'm ready to admit.
"What's the endgame?"
I wish I knew.
"I'm working an angle with the daughter. We need an in."
"Adelaide Winthrop," he muses, tapping a finger against the desk, its sound a staccato in the silence. "Something I should know? You're awfully willing to waltz right into the lion's den for her."
"Something like that," I acknowledge, my thoughts turning inward as I picture the Ice Princess's guarded green eyes, the way she seems to shield herself even when she thinks no one's watching. She's a puzzle wrapped in an enigma, and I can't shake the feeling that solving her mysteries will lead to some kind of salvation—maybe for both of us.
Not that she deserves it.
Mason sighs, a calculated exhalation that tells me he's weighing options, outcomes, risks. "You're playing a dangerous game, nephew."
"Maybe so," I concede, "but aren't the most dangerous games often the most rewarding?" I stand firm despite the quiver in my gut because I know this play, this move, could change everything. For us. Maybe her too.
Gen speaks up from the doorway. "Something's not adding up, Daddy," she says, and I hear the unspoken alliance in her tone. She's already thrown in her lot with the Ice Princess. And, I think she means it. I'm not sure how I feel about that. I'm not sure how Gen will react when she realizes the angle I'm playing, because it doesn't align with hers.
"Addy's like a ghost in her own life," she continues. "I... I know this isn't how we normally play things, but I'm worried. A family dinner could give us insight into the Winthrops' world."
"Insight?" Mason echoes, arching an eyebrow. "Or leverage?"
"Maybe both." My words are steel cloaked in velvet. Then, I soften them to lean into Gen's angle, knowing Mason is more likely to feed his daughter's hero complex than my need to conquer. "We can't protect her if we're blind to the threats she faces. And, those threats may help us take down a family like the Winthrops."
Mason's fingers drum against the desk, a rhythm of contemplation. "I don't like it," he finally admits. "But if Gen sees merit in this..."
"Think of it as recon," I suggest, stepping closer, the floorboards creaking beneath my weight. "We uncover their secrets, their weaknesses. Knowledge is power, Uncle."
"Power," Mason murmurs, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "And what do you plan to do with this power if you get it?"
"Save her," I confess, the truth ringing clear even to my own ears. "And maybe save ourselves from whatever game the Winthrops are playing." That's what really mattered here, anyway.
"Alright," Mason relents with a heavy sigh, interlocking his fingers as he considers me. "I'm listening. But remember, Rhett, every step into their world is a step into quicksand. Be sure you're ready to pull yourself out if you sink too deep."
I relax marginally, the first piece moved, the game truly begun. I've laid my cards on the table, but whether they'll win me the hand or cost me everything remains to be seen.
"Understood," I reply, feeling the gravity of the potential mire I'm suggesting we tread. And, I know he's really not going to like my plan. But, it serves multiple purposes for me, and the boys. "Here's what I'm thinking..."