Page 15 of Gilded Saint

“You’re a member of the syndicate. They won’t fuck with you. Sort it however you want. To them, you’re untouchable. If they do anything to you, the wrath of the gods will rain down. Those guys aren’t the highest educated, but they understand world order.”

I scratch my forehead, envisioning those watery blue eyes pleading. “If I were to marry her, if we got divorced or I died, what would happen to her?”

“God damn. You are such a noble bloke. You’re thinking you’ll marry her, bring her to London, and set her up to live on her own. Playing the knight in shining armor once isn’t enough, so you’ll do it twice?”

“What happens to her?” There are no sounds through the door, and I’m on edge. I crack the door and relax when I see her sitting on the bed. Crying. She’s so fucking young.

“You bring her to London, and if you set her up financially, there will be no reason for her to return.”

“The same protections afforded to me would extend to her?”

“You’re planning on marrying her and divorcing her, aren’t you? So bloody noble. You haven’t even fucked her either, have you? What a fucking saint you are.”

“I’ll call you.”

“If you need a best man, say the word.”

I end the call and open the door.

Orlando sits on a velvet bench, head down as if in prayer. Alessio holds a highball glass, and there’s so much anger soaking his glower I half expect I’ll need to duck.

“Are you going to do the right thing?”

“I haven’t touched her. You can’t force me to marry her. I’m not Italian.” This probably isn’t the best way to go about negotiating for her hand, but I won’t be cornered.

“You want me to call your boss?”

“Be my guest.”

He mutters a string of expletives in Italian. He steps up to Willow and slams his palm against the back of her head. She cries out in pain, and a second later, I have the fuck up against the wall.

What is it with these men?

“Where I’m from, you don’t hit women.” My forearm jams his neck. If he fights me, the pressure will crush his windpipe. Through gritted teeth, I repeat, “You don’t hit women.Capisce?”

Fury blazes in his eyes.

I lift my arm and make a show of straightening his shirt. He brushes my hand away and his lips curl into a snarl. If he was a dog, he’d be growling, and his hackles would be straight up.

“You have my daughter in a hotel room. And you dare to touch me?”

“Papa, let’s go.” A single tear falls down Willow’s cheek, and I look to the heavens for strength.

I’ve lived a lie for five years. What’s one more in the mix?

“Willow, if you will have me, I would be honored to be your husband.”

Hope radiates from her big baby blues, and I don’t want to think about how good that feels, so I look away. Orlando’s head lifts and beams like he hit the jackpot.

A shove to my shoulder knocks me back. “You think that’s the way you win my daughter’s hand? With your hand on my throat? She’s a Gagliano. You don’t ask her. You ask me. I am the father.” He rubs his neck and his face wrinkles. “And no. After what you just did?—”

“Papa,” Willow exclaims, “I love him. Please.”

“Love,” he scoffs.

Yeah, she’s not a talented actress, and he’s not buying her show, but at least I’m pretty sure this wasn’t some complicated scheme he put her up to. He opens his mouth, catches my warning gaze, and shuts it.

“If I give you my daughter’s hand, I want wholesale rates. Better than network pricing. You understand? The best pricing anyone in the world gets. None of this percentage to the syndicate. Nothing on top.” He glares at me. “Capisce?”

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