The Sins of Saint: A Dark Romance Novel Read online

  “That’s not what I’m doing.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “No, it’s not.”

  He placed both his palms beside me on the mattress, leaning in and caging me between his arms. “I would caution you not to push me any further since you already tested my patience with your bold display of misplaced courage in the back of that goddamn limo.”

  Words coated with spite and malice oozed from his lips and smothered every chance I had of not being intimidated by him. He provoked fear as easily as he incited lust.

  I held my breath, unsure of what he’d do next, but I refused to cower from looking him in the eye.

  He bit his lower lip, nostrils flaring and eyebrows slanted inward as he studied me. “Get some rest.”

  With that, he pushed himself up and stepped back. I hated whenever he got this way—a powerhouse of hostility, especially after he had given me glimpses into the man who didn’t hide behind those stubborn walls he refused to tear down.

  My heart beat wildly inside my chest while I held my breath, but it left a bitter taste in my mouth, how his poisonous words made me lose my nerve. I wasn’t the helpless victim anymore. I was his wife. I was carrying his child. So, I deserved more.

  “Russo,” I called after him.

  He turned to face me. “Excuse me?”

  “Russo. My name is Milana Katarina Russo. Not Torres. And I am your wife. Remember that.”

  For a second, he lingered, our gazes locked while the rest of the world faded to gray around us. No matter whether we were making love or fighting, the air around us was always palpable, crackling with the most intoxicating energy that just kept pulling us together. It was too strong to fight.

  “Good night…Mrs. Russo.”

  Saint turned and walked out, shutting the door behind him. It was safe to say we wouldn’t be spending the night in the same bed. Maybe that would be a good thing, to get some distance so our thoughts weren’t intoxicated by the sexual chemistry that possessed us within seconds whenever we were together.

  5

  Mila

  It was cold, the gel the doctor squirted onto my stomach. I nervously clutched the edge of the pillowcase and stared up at the ceiling.

  “You okay, Mrs. Russo?”

  I glanced at the doctor, her smile warm and caring. “I’m fine. Just a little nervous.”

  “That’s completely normal with your first pregnancy. Any history of illness I should know about?”

  “None,” Saint answered on my behalf while towering behind the doctor as if he was waiting for her to make one wrong move.

  “Any nausea? Dizzy spells?”

  “I—”

  “She had a dizzy spell last night.” Saint crossed his arms and widened his stance as he placed a finger on his lips, staring at the screen of the portable ultrasound machine like it was a nuclear fucking weapon.

  I wasn’t the least surprised when Dr. Pritchard arrived with her suitcase full of doctor’s equipment, doing a house call instead of us going to a medical center like every other normal pregnant couple. With Saint, everything was to the extreme, paying top dollar for these kinds of favors from just about every goddamn person in the world.

  Dr. Pritchard moved the probe around my lower belly, spreading the gel across my skin. “Dizziness and nausea are completely normal this early in a pregnancy. Try to eat something before you get out of bed to keep your blood sugar from dropping.”

  I nodded, surprised Saint didn’t fucking nod for me since he had been talking for me ever since the doctor arrived.

  “Okay,” Dr. Pritchard pointed to the screen, her chocolate colored hair neatly pinned behind her head, “so this black circle here is the amniotic fluid.”

  I narrowed my eyes, trying to focus on the black and white image. Saint moved in beside the doctor and sat on the mattress, trying to get a better look himself.

  “And this little kidney-shaped form right here,” she pointed to the side of the screen, “this is the fetus.” She pressed a few buttons on the keypad. “Measuring just under one inch.”

  I pushed myself up on my elbows to get a better look since all I saw was a snowy image with a black balloon and a tiny blip inside it. I didn’t see any baby. I didn’t see any feet or hands, legs or arms. Just a blip.

  “I don’t…I can’t see it.”

  “Right here,” she drew a curve with her finger on the screen, “this is your baby. And if you look closely, you’ll see what looks like a tiny line that’s pulsing up and down. That’s the baby’s heart beating.”

  “A heartbeat?” Astonished, I looked at the doctor. “That’s his heart beating?”

  “Or hers.” Dr. Pritchard smiled. “Here, let’s have a listen.”

  I glanced at Saint, who seemed entranced as he stared at the screen. He didn’t move a muscle. It was like he wasn’t even breathing. The expression on his face was something I had never seen before—pained, almost saddened.

  “Saint—”

  But then I heard it. The sound of a heart beating. Fast, yet rhythmical. Soft, yet loud enough to drown out every thought.

  I closed my eyes and sucked in a breath while my own heart tried to leap from my chest. It was the most beautiful sound I had ever heard, and it touched my very essence, reaching to the deepest depths of my soul. It was a pulse. A thud. A melody. I knew it was a heartbeat, but to me it was music that sang to my blood—gentle enough to soothe, yet strong enough to crack me wide open. It was the sound of a life growing inside me. The echo of something beautiful that Saint and I created among all the ugliness that surrounded us.

  A tear slipped down my cheek, and I opened my eyes, my mind, body, and soul already lost to the tiny heartbeat that filled the air around us with so much hope.

  “That’s a strong heartbeat,” I heard the doctor say, but I was frozen when I looked at Saint, the exquisite blue in his eyes shimmering with unshed tears as the sound of the life we created surrounded us.

  This feeling that swept through me, tilting my entire world off its axis, was right there, reflecting in Saint’s eyes. Just like mine, his life had changed within a single heartbeat.

  Dr. Pritchard removed the probe from my stomach, and the sound was gone. “I’ll give you two some privacy.”

  Saint’s lips parted, and he placed his elbows on his knees with his fists touching his chin. I watched him as he couldn’t take his eyes off the screen with the frozen image of our baby.

  All the emotions I felt, he seemed to feel too. It was all there in every line on his face. His expression spoke volumes without him uttering a single word.

  I sat up straight and brushed my curls back. “Every ounce of ugliness just got wiped clean by a single heartbeat,” I whispered, and Saint merely clutched his fists tighter in front of his face. His silence was crushing, and I hated it.

  “Saint—”

  “We’re going to have a baby,” he said softly as if it had only dawned on him now.

  “I know.” I wiped at my tears. “I can’t believe it. I mean…I saw the image, heard the heartbeat. But it feels so surreal.”

  He stood, tension rolling off him in waves. “We’re going to have a baby.” His voice was full of disbelief. “We’re having a baby.”

  Something was wrong. I could feel the weight of it sinking deep into my gut, but I couldn’t speak. The moment was heavy—laden with too many emotions words would never do justice to.

  Saint glanced at me from the side, and what I saw took my breath away.

  Pain. So much pain. It was there swirling in his eyes like a whirlpool of regret.

  “I’m sorry, Mila.”

  I stood and reached for his arm, but he stepped away. “Saint, what are you—”

  “I’m sorry I did this to you.”

  “No, don’t say—” But he stormed out of the bedroom before I could stop him. Frozen to the spot, I stared at the empty doorway and clutched my belly as if it was possible to draw comfort from my unborn child. The dark sense of foreboding crept in, drowning every emotion I felt while listening to the little heartbeat that changed my life within a second.

  Saint apologized.

  My husband apologized after he had told me he would never apologize. He had already done it once and vowed he would never do it again. But now…he did, and I had no idea what that meant, or what he was even apologizing for, and it scared me. There was nothing I feared more than uncertainty when it came to Saint. During the months I had been with him, I had gotten to know his ways, learned to read his actions and let them guide my next move. But the Saint who just turned his back on me, the man who just left me standing in the bedroom alone, I didn’t know him. I had never seen him before and had no idea what to expect from him. I had no idea where we would go from here.

  Confused and filled to brim with stirring emotions that crippled me, I sat down on the bed and stared into open space. I could still hear that little heartbeat—the sound of change and hope, but also the daunting realization that I was going to be a mother after I had to grow up without one. What kind of mother would I be? How would I know if I could be a mother when I had nothing to compare it to?

  That was when it dawned on me. Saint had to have felt it too, wondering how he could be a good father when he hated his own so much. His expression before he left wasn’t that of anger or resentment. It was fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of having a child when his own childhood still haunted him.

  The look in his eyes was that of a man who had come face to face with his own weakness after he had spent his entire life building a fortress of strength around him.

  “Mrs. Russo?”

  I looked up at James standing by the door. “Yes.”

  “Mr. Russo asked me to give you this.” He walked over and handed me a piece of paper.
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  “Thank you.”

  He nodded and walked out.

  My hands shook as I unfolded the white paper, already knowing that I should fear the words that were written. The giant hole inside my gut grew bigger as I started to read the note.

  I sucked in a breath, the piece of paper slipping from my fingers as its words burned through my chest—a branding iron searing the inside of my veins. I might not have known the man who walked out ten minutes ago, but I knew what his letter meant. The message was loud and clear, screaming at me from between the lines.

  He wanted me to run.

  Saint wanted me to leave and know he wouldn’t follow. That he wouldn’t come for me. Not this time.

  He was letting me go.

  He was setting me free.

  “Mrs. Russo?”

  I glanced up at James.

  “I’ve been instructed to take you wherever you want to go.”

  “Where is he?” I choked back tears. “Where is Saint?”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Russo. But I can’t—”

  “Where is he?” I grabbed the piece of paper and shot up to my feet. “Where is my husband?”

  James placed his hands behind his back and simply stood there, silently staring at me, following orders.

  “Where is he, James?” I demanded and stormed in his direction. But he didn’t even flinch, his expression void of any emotion.

  I shoved the note against his chest, anger burning through my tears. “Tell my husband if he wants to get rid of me, he should come do it himself.”

  6

  Saint

  I watched the ice swirl in my drink as it drowned in the amber liquid. Bourbon had always been my poison. I had searched for answers at the bottom of a bottle more times than I could count. Tonight was no different. Only this time I wasn’t searching for answers because I already knew what the answer was to the motherfucker of all questions.

  Can I be a father?

  Of course not. I spent most of my life hating mine. I had carried blood on my hands since I was eighteen, and I made my money in ways that would get me locked up until the day I took my last breath. There was no reason to think I’d be a good father. A good husband. Especially with this one thing I had been hiding from Mila since the day James discovered her father’s latest will. A will none of us knew about.

  But even as desperate as I was to keep this secret from her, it was only a matter of time before she found out. There was nothing I could do about it—not even with all the goddamn money in the world. Time would reveal my secret, and there was no telling what would happen after Mila found out what I had been keeping from her. So, the way I saw it, set her free now. Let her run now, because in the end I would lose her either way.

  It had been hours since I walked into the hotel bar determined to drink until I felt nothing. I wanted to flush all these motherfucking feelings from my system one glass of bourbon at a time. Problem was, it wasn’t fucking working.

  I couldn’t stop thinking of that ultrasound. That tiny thing with a heartbeat that cracked my goddamn soul wide open. It was the sound of a new life—a life Mila and I created. Funny how that worked, though. I knew she was pregnant. I knew Mila was carrying my child. But it wasn’t until I heard that fast, rhythmic pulse that the penny dropped. That I realized this was all fucking real.

  I was going to be a father. I was going to be responsible for a tiny human being. How did this all happen? When did fate decide my life needed to do a complete one-eighty?

  A few months ago, my life was a one-way road to ruining my father. Mila was nothing more than a name on a checklist. Collateral damage in a war that had been raging for years. Now, she was my wife—not because she had no choice, but because somewhere on my path to vengeance, I fell in love. Lines blurred, and my vision got corrupted by the prospects of feeling something other than hate and disdain.

  And now she was pregnant. The biggest what-the-fuck moment of my entire existence.

  The bartender placed a new drink on a napkin in front of me. “Bad day?”

  I picked up the glass. “Do you ask because I look like shit? Or because I look like the kind of man you can just start random conversations with, assuming I wouldn’t think twice before slamming your face into this fucking marble countertop?”

  “Jesus Christ. Relax, man.”

  I grabbed the bottle of bourbon from his hand.

  “Hey.” The bartender reached for the bottle, but I slammed a few hundred-dollar bills on the counter and shot him a cocky grin paired with a glare that could crack through granite.

  “Fine,” he conceded and slipped the money into his pocket before he walked away.

  I tossed back a large gulp of bourbon and refilled the glass myself when I noticed from the corner of my eye a woman taking the seat next to me.

  “Martini, please,” I heard her say, then snuck a glance.

  Fair skin. Blonde hair. Skinny. Too skinny. But I suppose most men preferred their women all tiny and petite. Me, on the other hand? I liked my women with sexy curves I could grab in my palm, feel their flesh burn for me.

  My gaze dropped to her dress. A red fucking dress. I rolled my eyes and focused on the drink in front of me. Were there no other color dresses in New York, or was this just the universe’s way of tossing me a giant fuck-you?

  “I haven’t seen you around here.” Her voice was light. Friendly. Yet I shot my gaze up to the ceiling. The universe was definitely fucking with me.

  “Just moved into the neighborhood.” I gave her the best smile I could muster and tipped my glass in her direction before taking a sip.

  “The accent,” she continued, “Italian?”

  I sighed, not in the mood for small talk. “Yes. I’m from Italy.”

  “I had one of my best vacations there in Milan a few years back.”

  I let out a breath. Even though I wasn’t the best of company tonight, I decided not to be a dick and turned toward her, extending a hand. “Saint Russo.”

  “Lillian Walters.” Her dark chocolate eyes twinkled under the soft light of the bar as she took my hand. “Saint. That’s an interesting name.”

  “Not really.” I turned back in my seat.

  “Business or pleasure?”

  I glanced at her with a cocked brow.

  She smiled, her full lips accentuated with cherry-red lipstick. “Are you in town for business or pleasure?”

  I swirled the glass in my hand, studying her, already knowing her game. The way she sat with her legs crossed, ensuring her short red dress pulled up to expose the side of her thighs. The way she brushed her blonde her from her face every ten seconds while pursing her lips, then flipping her hair over her shoulders to draw attention to her naked neck and flawless skin. This woman was screaming late-night rendezvous and meaningless sex. She practically reeked of it underneath the scent of her expensive perfume. The large hoop earrings and gold Cartier wristwatch paired with her obvious youth had her fit the bill as a rich New York socialite. Her self-confidence that had her approaching me, starting a conversation with absolutely no certainty whether I’d respond, was an indication that the little princess was used to getting what she wanted. And right now, the way her leering gaze settled on me, it was clear what she wanted was the Italian man whose Armani suit and Rolex watch gave away the size of his bank account.

  I had been in this game long enough to spot bad intentions a mile away. It used to be my favorite pastime, my distraction of choice whenever I couldn’t get a grip on my thoughts. A way to silence the demons.

  Until her.

  Until Mila. The woman who managed to change everything without even goddamn trying.

  “Uh-oh,” Lillian tucked her hair behind her ear, “I know that look.”

  I suppressed the need to roll my eyes yet again. “What look?”