Dark Saint [Romano Brotherhood, #1]

01 | Nina

Do I let him know I'm here?

"It's done," he switches to accented English, his voice taking on a more guttural, raspy tone. "Yes, I carved the words into the body. Simo let me. They didn't even hit me." A dark, humorless laugh. "Luciano will get the message loud and clear."

He's speaking in short and sharp sentences, punctuated by small pauses as the person on the other end replies. My face is frozen in fear at hearing my father's name when the stranger makes eye contact with me in the rear-view mirror.

For a second, everything is still. His eyes are the deepest brown I've ever seen, glinting at me with barely restrained madness from beneath dark brows. I think even my heart slows, too, the very blood in my veins sensing the importance of this moment. We pass through time sluggishly, like swimming through syrup. This stranger and I exist in a small, insignificant pocket of time where we are untouched by the world around us. Where I forget everything.

Then, the moment breaks. The car swerves as he takes his hand from the wheel and grabs his gun, aiming it at me. I watch in horror as we drift straight for an SUV in the next lane.

I screw my eyes shut. I think I scream. All I know when I open them is that we haven't crashed, but this guy is keeping one hand on the wheel and the other on his gun as he simultaneously drives and holds me at gunpoint.

"Who the fuck are you?"

I almost can't breathe at the sound of that voice directed at me, grating out in the silence of the limo and cutting into my chest.

"I—my name is Nina; this is my car. Or, well, it was—"

"Last name," he barks.

"Look, I'm not armed." I'm amazed that he even sees me as a threat. Doesn't he know that's impossible? Women aren't threats, not to men like him. "Could you maybe focus on the road a little more?" He's glancing back and forth between me and the road, spending too much time on the former for my comfort.

"Last. Name."

My eyes widen at his tone and genuine fear pangs at my belly. It's so genuine that I blurt out my real last name, which is quite possibly the worst word in the entire English language—and every other language—that I could utter in that moment.

"Genovese."

I've just heard that this man killed someone—and carved some letters into their corpse, it sounds like—in order to send a message to my father, and I'm in a car alone with him as we race through the city.

I can now safely say that I've fucked up.

The man's face breaks out into a surprised smile. It looks unnatural, a little sick, against his hardened features. He's laughing, black hair flopping over one glittering eye, but there's no warmth in his expression. Finally, he puts away his gun and focuses on the road.

"Incredible. Che bella ricompensa. Penso che ti terrò, gemma preziosa. I wonder what prize I'll get for capturing the treasured Genovese princess."

My mouth goes dry and my hand drifts to the door. Seeing this, he raises both brows, running his tongue along his lower lip.

"Come on, gemma preziosa, I'm not that bad, am I?"

It's a question I actually consider.

Is he going to lead me to a worse fate than the one I would suffer if I jumped out of this car going 85 miles per hour? I never learned self-defense. I don't know how to defend myself. I'm completely at the mercy of this man and whatever he decides to do to me.