Dark Saint [Romano Brotherhood, #1]

11 | Nina

He's particularly agitated today.

It's bad enough that I'm effectively scared into silence, and when he starts us off—despite it being much too fast a pace—I work hard to keep up, not wanting him to have to slow down this time. It's clear he needs the physical release; I can practically feel the stress leaking from him with each controlled puff of breath, each strike of his shoe on the pavement.

But there comes a point when I inevitably begin to fall back, my legs aching, each breath feeling like fire crawling up my throat.

"Keep going," I pant when he turns around, "I'll just go back."

Santo comes back to my side, glaring. The fucker isn't even slightly out of breath. "Keep going. You're not pushing yourself."

"Yes, I am," I protest, quickly becoming annoyed. "I've pushed myself and now I'm at my limit. I'll go back."

"Bullshit," he snaps, fists clenching.

I weigh my next words, noting how he seems to be looking for a fight. "Look, I'm not a very... fit person. I can't keep up with your pace. If I could, I'd have a stupid sixteen-pack or whatever you have."

"Nobody ever said you're as fit as me. I'm just saying you can do better."

"Well, I don't want to! I want to go back before I pass out. Are you my personal trainer or something?" I huff, propping a hand on my hip. What is with this guy?

"You need one," he mutters.

"Fuck you!"

The words slip past my lips unheeded, before I can think. Before I can recall that the last time I said them, he shoved me against a wall and told me that the only thing holding him back from crushing me was his brother.

The gasp gets caught in my throat as Santo grabs my arm, pulling me along behind him as he storms into a shallow alleyway tucked between two buildings. Hidden from prying eyes, I yank my wrist away, pressing into the cold stone of one of the buildings, but there's not much space for me to get away from him.

"Do I strike you as a man who likes to waste his time?" Santo interlocks his hands behind his back, leaning casually against the wall.

And I do something immeasurably stupid.

Seeing the opening, I dart towards the street, a scream already poised at the tip of my tongue.

Hands latch around my waist, tugging me back into a hard chest. One warm palm covers my mouth, pressing hard enough that I can't utter more than a squeak.

I'm trembling and I know he feels every singular shiver, with his body practically wrapped around mine like this. His breath tickles my ear, raising goosebumps all down my spine as he murmurs, "let's try that again, shall we?"

Then, all the breath returns to me as I'm pushed up against the wall again. "You get one more shot," he says, "and I won't hesitate to end this."

"E-end what?"

"This little game we're playing," he says casually, leaning against the wall again. "You provoking me, while we both continue to pretend that you're not way past your third strike."

"Why pretend?"

He blinks, and I gather all the courage in my weak body that I never knew I had, saying, "you don't strike me as a man who likes to waste his time. You also don't strike me as a man who likes to show mercy. So why keep pretending? Why not just do it?"

For several seconds, we look at each other, all the noises of the city fading to an indecipherable hum. I don't breathe.

Then, he breaks out into chuckles. Real chuckles, like I've just told him the funniest joke. "You're asking me to kill you?"