Chapter 11 Saint
Saint
The man at the bar doesn’t belong.
You learn to see it after years of working security and combat.
Some people fit a place.
Some people don’t.
This one doesn’t.
Wrong shoes.
Wrong posture.
Wrong eyes.
Eyes that calculate.
Eyes that measure exits, distances, angles.
The kind of eyes that already mapped the room before the bartender set down his drink.
I know him the moment I see him.
“Marco Rossi,” I say.
The tavern goes quiet.
Not completely silent.
But close enough that every head turns just a little.
The man at the bar slowly turns toward me.
Calm.
Controlled.
Like he expected this moment.
“Saint,” he says evenly.
His accent is faint but unmistakable.
“It’s good to finally meet you.”
My jaw tightens.
“We need to talk.”
I don’t give him time.
I cross the floor in three strides and grab him by the front of his jacket.
The stool crashes backward as I slam him into the wall.
Bottles rattle behind the bar.
“You sent killers into my house,” I growl.
My forearm presses hard into his chest.
He doesn’t swing.
Doesn’t shove back.
Doesn’t even tense.
He just looks at me.
Completely unshaken.
“No,” he says quietly.
“My mother did.”