Dark Saint [Romano Brotherhood, #1]

07 | Nina

It turns out that on top of being a murderer, kidnapper, and whatever other illicit titles Santo can proudly claim for himself, he's also a mind reader.

I never have the chance to put my poorly thought out plan to work—which was really just me fantasizing about blowing up the mansion in between deliriously wondering which room would be best to start a fire in.

I wake up to hands on my body.

My eyes aren't even open before I'm screaming and thrashing away from the unwanted touch, my body acting without my explicit knowledge or permission.

"Fuck, you can be loud when you want to be," a low-timbre voice intones, and I don't care who it is or how dangerous they are, anybody who wakes me up and throws me in a state of mental distress in such quick succession is going to get slapped.

Santo tuts as I twist in his hold, grabbing my hand from the air a mere three inches from his face. "At least take me out to dinner first," he drawls, voice extra gritty with the early hour.

"Pig." My stomach swoops, and I attempt to pull away from him.

He chuckles derisively, the sound sinking beneath my skin. "Do you ever do what you're told?"

"No," I mutter rebelliously. Not until you. "Why are you in my room?"

He shakes his head, but he looks more amused than anything else. "We're going on a little trip, you and I. Get up and meet me downstairs in fifteen."

"I—what? Where are we going? Why—"

"Fuck, just get ready," he snaps exasperatedly. "It's too early for all your questions."

My mouth is agape as he slides off my bed and pauses in the doorway. "By the way, you don't need to pack anything. There's clothes on the jet. Chop chop."

"The jet?" I mutter to myself after he leaves.

I force myself out of bed and into the bathroom, freshening up for the day in record time. It's not every day I'm told I'll be going on a jet, and by the time I'm heading downstairs, my mind is whirring with possibilities.

None of them seem all that great.

I pass Tommaso and do a double take when I see the skin around his eye darkened black and blue. He glares at me and I quicken my pace.

It doesn't take a genius to guess how that happened.

When Santo sees me, it's like I've ruined his morning. He's immediately tensing and scowling. I'm not late, so I can only assume my mere presence pisses him off—in which case, I can say the feeling is mutual.

Especially as he jerks his head for me to follow him, and it's all I can do to keep up with his long legs as he heads out the door. A car is idling in front and we slide in the back, our driver taking off before Santo has fully shut the door. I'm quiet the whole time, not wanting to mess with his mood, but my leg bounces with the effort it takes to hold back all my questions.

The longer we drive, the more anxious I get.

Would he take me somewhere else just to kill me? Somewhere nobody could hear my screams? The thought kickstarts my heart into a rapid pitter patter but I force myself to calm down, reassuring myself with the fact that if he wanted to kill me, he wouldn't need to take me elsehwhere to do it.

The cold bites into my skin as we hurry across the tarmac to a small, sleek jet with a few men stationed in front of its doors. As we draw nearer, I see it's the pilot and crew.

"They work for me," Santo informs me. "I see those pretty little gears turning."

I scowl. It had crossed my mind to beg them for help, but of course that's idiotic. Of course they work for him.