Dark Saint [Romano Brotherhood, #1]

34 | Nina

The days leading up to Christmas are busier than ever before. There's a constant flow of men tromping in and out of the mansion, bringing with them more weapons than I've ever seen in my life. I didn't realize there were so many different kinds of guns.

So much for the brothers' much preferred privacy. Their home is a hub of commotion, and Santo does his best to keep me in the loop, but he's constantly tied up talking with Massimo, in meetings, sometimes leaving at odd hours and returning with bruised fists and blood streaking his clothes. Every night, he slips between the sheets at some point close to dawn, holding me for a few hours until he has to get up again. I wait there for him every night; it's the only time we get alone, and sometimes we spend the hours talking, while others the exhaustion is too much and we drift off the second our skin touches. 

He's exhausted, drained, stretched thin—but still, he's steady. He's not shutting me out. If anything, he seems to desperately need the precious time we get just the two of us. During that time, when it's just us and the moon and stars, I watch his eyes get less cloudy, listen to the tightness leave his voice. 

My days are strange. Every time I turn the corner, there's someone I haven't met yet. A different kind of criminal—or maybe they're all the same; another man I'd pass on the other side of the street if I saw him in public. As it is, they're all currently posting up in my home. 

There's a couple I recognize, like Angelo Scaloni and his sleazy hair. I don't necessarily find a problem with him, but I can tell he rubs Santo the wrong way for whatever reason. Mantus is another. Santo seems to trust him more, not tensing up and anchoring me to him when the black-eyed artist is around. And I find that my trust in Santo extends so far that I'm able to be around Mantus without an ounce of discomfort. 

Mantus, for all the unease his appearance evokes, seems undeniably harmless. He smiles constantly and smokes enough weed to make everyone in the room feel like they're high too.

The one demon I don't see is a Son of Serpentine. I don't expect to. Santo told me this isn't their fight, nor is it the purpose of the society, and I believed him. Which is why I'm caught off guard when I see one waiting casually in the kitchen one chilly morning.

I bang my hip into the corner of the table, and the man hisses sympathetically. He's leaning casually against the counter, twirling an apple in his hands. He's sinfully large, and I vaguely wonder if everyone in this fucking secret society needs to be damn near seven feet tall.

"Alessandro," he says in a smooth voice. "And you're Nina."

I hesitantly nod, immediately aware that Santo isn't around. He's in a meeting, has been all night. He didn't come to bed yesterday. 

Alessandro pushes off the counter, and I feel like his prey as he leisurely prowls towards me. "I won't hurt you," he smirks, but I don't trust him. "I just want to ask you about your father."

"Um, I don't kn—"

"Now hold on," he chuckles, stopping a few inches from me. His cologne is so strong that I'm sure it would give me a headache after five minutes. "I haven't even asked you yet."

I wait, straightening my shoulders, and he smiles as if he's making fun of my efforts to appear confident. 

"You're aware that your father made a threat against Serpentine, and that your boyfriend won't let us do anything about it?"

"The woman he killed? And marked with..." I trail my gaze down to his wrist, and the 'S' carved there. 

Surprise flickers in Alessandro's eyes. "So he told you. I certainly don't see the point of letting a woman know these things, but to each his own."