High Risk Behavior
"So, did you miss me?"
Roman tried his hardest to glare Saint to death, but when it was obvious the prick wouldn't die, he said, "Are you quite done?"
Saint didn't say anything but that didn't stop Roman. The look he aimed at the mob boss was all wrath. "I want out of this place. I have rights you asshole!"
Saint's eyebrows drew together. "Is that all? You interrupted an important business meeting."
Roman pursed his lips. "That's all."
"Federico." One word from the boss, and one of the men hovering outside Roman's door peered inside.
"Yes, boss?"
"Move him up to the west wing." Just like that, the prick was gone.
Well, that wasn't so hard.
With a wary expression, Roman watched as the so called Federico approach his room. The guy was broad and toned, but not overly so. He looked like he could've been ex-military. Roman wondered if he could take the guy in a fist fight. Desperate times called for desperate measures.
"Let's go, Father." He actually beamed. A nice smile too.
Roman willed himself to follow his escort through dimly lit hallways up to an elevator.
Once they came to a stop at the fifteenth floor, Federico announced. "Right. Here we are." He watched Roman's jaw drop at the high quality furnishings with opulent, expensive touches, attention to aesthetic detail and original art hanging on the walls. "Beautiful place, yeah?"
"Maybe if I wasn't a prisoner I would've appreciated it more."
Roman barely caught the faint tug at the corner of Federico's mouth as he led them further inside. He smiled and shook his head. "Try not to piss off the boss while you're here. He's been in a bit of a mood lately." The smile slowly faded. "This will be your room now."
Looking away, Roman did a quick sweep of the space with his eyes. The new room had big windows that actually opened. He could fit between the space easily but the fall he'd have to endure would be fatal. It wasn't worth trying.
"I could get used to this." Roman told Federico.
"Well, suit yourself."
"Does this mean I'll be leaving soon?"
Federico stared, bowled over by Roman's question. Then he laughed gruffly. "Father you're not leaving this place." He looked at Roman with an ounce of pity in his eyes. "I'm not quite sure you really understand the gravity of your situation. You can't take from La Cosa Nostra and expect to just walk away without consequences."
Roman didn't utter a single word after that. He just remained quiet and kept his head down.
"Just so you know Saint's room is just a wall away from yours. Tell you what?" Federico continued. "You were better off in the basement."
"This Saint person you're talking about, should I be worried?" Roman asked falteringly, his face looking genuinely troubled.
"You mean the boss?" Federico raked fingers inside his dark hair and flashed a wolfish grin at Roman. "Are you kidding me? You'd be an idiot not to be worried."
So that's the psycho's name.
Saint Bertinelli.
Thinking about it, there was absolutely nothing about the man that looked particularly "saintly". At least by classical standards. To Roman he was more of a dark archangel who hadn't exactly fallen, yet, but one who operated in the darkest, deepest levels of sin.
After all that talk with Federico, Roman realized he was trapped, by every sense of the word. His life was over. He was never leaving this place. At least not alive. He was going to die here and no one would even bother finding him. That's how pathetic he was.
"I'm gonna go now." Federico quietly left the priest to his thoughts.
Five months had gone by ever since Roman saw Max at his old apartment and he couldn't help but wonder if the man he loved had moved on. If so, was he happy? Did Max still think about him or Roman was now just a phase he'd rather leave untouched in the past?
All these thoughts jolted him, causing an actual tremor to his body.
God it hurt.
***
"It's high time we start discussing about my official ascent as the new Bertinelli Don."
The conversations about annual family budgets and day-to-day business transactions sifting through the conference room ceased immediately, and every pair of eyes in the room turned toward the head of the table, where Saint confidently sat as if he were a king on his throne. Saint's gaze quickly skipped over the dozen capos gawking at him and then landing over to his uncle Antonio, a distant cousin of his father and former consigliere.
His uncle cleared his throat, managing to grab everyone's attention. "Santino, surely you understand we can't swear to you until we know exactly how your father died."
A smirk curled on Saint's lips. He was expecting this from Antonio. He regarded his uncle for a moment with eyes that bordered feral.
One of these days he was going to ice him.
"How my father died is a private matter." He held uncle Antonio's gaze, cool and calculating. "But since you're so curious, my father had a heart attack in his sleep. All that Viagra and nicotine must've finally gotten to him."
Out of the corner of his eye, Saint noticed Nico's jaw twitching but he couldn't take his eyes away from his uncle. He never liked the old man not to mention trust him. Antonio knew how Ciro would morph into a monster—especially after a couple of drinks—finding pleasure in terrorizing his wife and children but not even once did the bastard do anything to stop his brother.
His uncle was the same man who once said, "a woman is not too tender to be whipped" that one time Saint's mother had turned to him for help, face colored in all shades of blue black. Ciro had gone crazy again that night. No one had dared to stop him. He was ruthless. Complicated. Like a tyrant.
One day. His uncle was going to regret saying those words.
"We can all agree there was no autopsy to confirm that theory." Antonio wasn't backing down. "That leaves all of us here with one important question."
Before his uncle could continue, Saint demanded. "What question?"
"Did you kill your father, Santino?" The man boldly asked. "I understand you two never really saw eye to eye especially when it came to parts of your lifestyle."
The words echoed into space. The silence that followed was that of calm after a tornado, surrounded by a visual display of destruction.
"Is that what you think, all of you, that I murdered my own father?" Saint's voice was quiet. Too quiet you could hear a pin drop.
"Antonio." One of the old and most respected capos, Leo Gulliano let out a heavy sigh. "You are way out of line and we'd very much appreciate if you didn't speak on behalf of all of us."
At the table, all the other capos started nodding in agreement.
"All I'm saying is we need to take a closer look at Don Bertinelli's death before we blindly swear to him."
"Enough, Antonio!" Saint boomed, slamming his fist against the glass table and sending water glasses sloshing.
Antonio flinched. The older man instantly wilted into his seat. Humiliation burned his face and he kept his mouth shut after being silenced like a small child throwing a tantrum in the middle of a grocery store.
"In case any of you misunderstood my words," Saint watched the dazed room with a content gleam in his eyes. "I wasn't asking and let the other families know we are done mourning."
"Well," Nico announced, breaking the thick silence that had settled over the conference room yet again. He cocked a brow. "You all heard what the boss said."
"And before any of you make your vows," Saint stalked the room like it wasn't filled with many of the most feared men in the country. "Why the hell would anybody think it would serve their best interest to become a goddamn informant for the government?"
Adriano Moretti deeply scowled. "We have a mole in the famiglia? Unbelievable."
Saint ignored him, his dark eyes flickering across the room. He eyed each one of them with a penetrating glare. "When I find out who's been whispering to the government against your own famiglia, I will exhaust our armory until the threat's been neutralized."
One capo muttered and trailed off. "And by neutralized you mean..."
"Neutralized. Like dead."
When no one said anything, Saint continued, in an unforgiving tone this time. "You stronzo, you the rat. You know who you are. Make no mistake, I will find out."
After a lengthy silence, like a domino's effect one by one, all the men stood up, walking toward Saint to offer their vows and kissing the family ring—officially showing their loyalty to the new Don. Even the old capos were eager to take their vows despite Saint's offer for them to enjoy retirement in the Mediterranean. As soon as they were done, the meeting finally concluded. But because of the mole thing still fresh on everyone's minds, they all left the conference room quite on edge.
"Santino."
Antonio chased after his nephew who was now striding his way to the west wing. Saint paused at the stairs and turned to face his flustered uncle.
"I didn't mean any disrespect to you back there." He murmured. "It's just that Ciro's death has been on my mind lately."
Saint's eyes narrowed, suspicious. "You sounded quite convinced I'm the one who did it."
"I should've known better. I'm sorry."
"Go home, uncle." Saint feigned a smile. "It's all already been forgiven."
One day you old bastard. Mark my words.
Antonio hesitated for a moment, as if he could read Saint's thoughts and then he slowly nodded.
"About the priest..."
"What about him?" Saint frowned.
"Why is that stronzo still breathing up until now, Santino? Enjoying his stay here as if he's on a paid vacation?"
Again, those light brown eyes flashed at the insult. How dare he question his judgment? "Go home to your wife, Antonio."
***
For the life of him, Saint wasn't expecting the sight that greeted him when he entered his suite in the west wing. The priest was working around his kitchen, a navy blue towel wrapped around his trim waist and his hair darker and damp from an obvious shower. Saint immediately recognized Aretha Franklin's I never loved a man the way I loved you playing in the background on his record player.
Enersto Santini, a former boyfriend had forked out a large amount of money for the original copy at an auction for Saint. Signed and everything. It was a long time ago and Saint had almost forgotten about the record's existence up until now.
Looking right back at the priest, he seemed domesticated... was he actually cooking and singing?
"I will be damned." Saint had to suppress a smile as he watched the startled priest.
He really had a death wish.
With a shrug, Roman muttered. "I got bored just sitting around all day doing nothing, hungry?"
"Even if I were dying of starvation I don't trust that food not to be poisoned."
Roman scoffed at that. "You've got serious trust issues buddy."
"Trust is the most dangerous thing you could ever give to someone." Saint watched the priest as he plated steaming chicken enchilada for himself. "I never give out mine."
"It must be exhausting," Roman knew Saint was tempted to ask for a taste of his food from the way he was ogling at it. "Thinking everyone's out to get you."
"In my world that's how you live past thirty."
Fair enough.
The mob boss stopped in front of a wine fridge. He went on to pull out a bottle of Red and poured the thick rich magenta liquid into two party tumblers. He didn't have enough patience to start hunting wine glasses in the cabinets, the tumblers could still do the same job just fine.
He pushed one tumbler over to the priest's side who then surprised him by shaking his head, no to the generous offer.
"Y'know, a single pour... it probably cost twice your annual salary."
"Still doesn't make me a fan of wine."
"What do you prefer then, father, a beer?"
"I prefer keeping a clear head whenever I'm kidnapped."
"Have a glass." It wasn't up for debate. "See what a few years of your worth tastes like."
"Oh piss off, it can't be that good." Roman murmured while accepting the drink nonetheless.
It was excellent wine. Probably the best he'd ever tasted, not those ten dollar bottles you bought as a last minute after thought to a game night with your friends. This was topnotch stuff.
"So, what do you think?" Saint prompted.
"It's good quality wine." Roman admitted, smoothing a tendril of hair behind his ear. "Thanks."
He wasn't wearing fucking underwear underneath that towel.
It took a lot of restraint for Saint not to completly stare at the priest's body. It was a nice body. Why the hell would someone go around cooking in a towel? This was extremely high-risk behavior.
Do not look below his waist.
Saint inhaled sharply trying to placate the newfound heat stirring up in his groin. Cazzo. "Are you scared of dying, Roman?"
"No." Roman nonchalantly responded, completely oblivious to Saint's predicament. "You're only scared of dying when there's someone who cares."
Saint opened his mouth to tell the man he'd quickly change his way of thinking if he was actually faced with death but what came out was a silent hum instead. He didn't want to interrupt his line of thought.
"Family, a child, a lover..." the priest went on. "I'm not scared."
Saint watched him with inquisitive eyes. "You have none of those things?"
"My family wouldn't shed too many tears if I died." Another shrug. "And Max? He probably wouldn't be bothered either."
"Maxwell, that's your boyfriend, yes?"
"Ex boyfriend." Roman grumbled. "How did you know about—"
"I know everything there's to know about you, Roman O'Connor." Saint leaned over the kitchen counter, taking a sip at his wine. "You grew up in Connecticut, found your way to New York when you got accepted into Meyers nursing school which you later on dropped out. And also how you're a gambling addict. Your addiction got you into this mess with me and many others willing to pay almost anything just for your balls to be delivered on a platter."
That pissed Roman off. What was the point of all this talk? To embarrass him?
"Seems like you've got everything about my life figured out then." He snapped.
"How did it start?" Saint didn't care though.
"How did what start?"
"Your gambling disease."
"It's not a disease."
"As much as you may want to deny it, addiction is a disease."
"As far as psychological warfare is concerned." Roman chuckled dryly. "This is pretty ineffective. Don't ever think about quiting your day job to become a shrink because you suck at it."
"This is not a therapy session but rather a mere conversation since you decided to make yourself comfortable in my home."
His traitorous gaze flickered over to a dark patch of hair peaking out of the priest's towel. Everything about him was unapologetically male and raw. At some point Saint thought he must've stopped breathing. He wondered what would happen if the towel just... slipped off. Shit. Now he couldn't get the image out of his head.
"Do not analyze me, Saint." Roman said between clenched teeth. "You don't know anything about me."
The mob boss was slightly taken aback by the sudden use of his name.
He looked at a raving Roman. Took in his flushed face, the fire in those mismatched eyes. Oh boy. "Let me remind you that I've been your guardian angel." Saint growled. "And the fact that you're not rotting in a ditch somewhere right now is only thanks to me."
"Wow, how noble of you to save poor me from my distractive self!"
Saint felt a shift in the room. It actually felt as if the kitchen had gotten smaller. Before he knew what was happening, the priest stomped out. Without thinking, Saint followed him to his room.
"Roman."
"You know what, Saint?" Roman's voice had gotten all hoarse and deep, his eyes dead with fury. "Yes, I took the money from the church vault and blew all of it at a local casino."
"I already knew that."
"So, what are you going to do about it? Because honestly Saint, what exactly am I doing here?" Roman ground out. "Do you get off in knowing I'm forever at your mercy? That I have no freewill?"
Good question.
"I want you to work for me."