Page 32 of Gilded Saint

“Lost it. Set loose an assault rifle at the hotel. Two employees died. I’m not clear if that was intentional or if they caught stray fire.”

The memory of him holding Lucia against a wall flashes, as does my anger.

“Piece of work, that one. Quite mad,” Tristan says.

“Assume he’s still on the loose? Didn’t get into any trouble?”

“You mean with the authorities?” Tristan scoffs. “Massimo owns them. The fact a suite at the Regis getting shot to bits isn’t all over the telly is proof he owns the journalists too. But, bright spot, my source says Massimo is calming Leandro.”

“How?”

“Drugs?” He shrugs. “Your guess is as good as mine. My money is on anything other than the psychiatrist he needs.”

“I suppose every family needs a member who will kill, no questions asked.”

“Kill and derive enjoyment from it. He’s a sick fuck. I recommend you stay away from Italy.”

“No plans to return. But now you see why I helped her out.”

Tristan places his weight on the back of the sofa, leaning onto it. From his perch, he looks down at me, and I know damn well he’s about to dig.

“There’s nothing to it.” I hold up a hand before he can start. “She was being forced to marry Leandro, and that hotel incident is not an outlier.”

“How did you end up?—”

“It’s a crazy story.” He folds his hands, waiting. “She reminded me of…” I stop myself from saying my sisters, because while Tristan knows my real name, mentioning my family out loud is an unnecessary risk. You never know who’s listening. The risk is minimal, but it’s never nonexistent.

“A little birdy you wanted to shag?” he supplies.

“Fuck off.” My grip on the glass tightens and I have half a mind to hurl it at Tristan’s head.

The pisser is, he’s not far off. I can’t get that vision of her in her skimpy sexy-as-fuck white lingerie out of my head, and that’s problematic. She’s way too young, and aside from the matter of age, she doesn’t know who I am and never will.

Tristan’s right. I want to fuck her and walk away. But I can’t fuck her and walk away because she lives with me now. When she reminded me of my sisters, the attraction was negligible. Throw in lingerie and put her on the no-touch list, and suddenly I’m fucking obsessed.

“Eye-opening news. Your betrothal, that is. Doesn’t seem having her move in with you was the brightest. To do so, I assumed there had to be something…”

“There’s nothing.” I slam the bourbon back and lean into the burn. “Bad decision making at its finest.”

“You may end up caring for her.” I give him a sharp look that informs him exactly how wrong he is. “Never know. I didn’t anticipate Lucia…and look at us now.”

“Parents? Well, you see, when you don’t use a condom?—”

“Sod off.” He rubs his hand briskly over the back of his head and mutters, “She’s the best thing that ever happened to me. It’s a miracle I haven’t cocked it up.”

“I won’t bother asking how you think you’d do that.” You never really know someone, but what I know of the man I called Nomad for years, and more recently Tristan, he’s a decent guy. I expect he’s a devoted husband and father.

“Well, as long as she trusts me, I suppose I won’t. It’s a fine line to walk. Deciding what I can tell her and what I can’t.”

“And I’m on the side of the no-tell line?” I study him, hoping he’s smart enough to keep his loved ones out of the bullshit world we live in. Sure, we mostly interact with educated, affluent business executives. But those men met success by leveraging a subcurrent of thugs and killers.

I’m way past giving a shit about my life. It’s a fucking miracle I haven’t been burned yet. But I take seriously the risk of burning the innocent.

“That you are. You shan’t meet Lucia.”

“Good. Keep your loved ones safe.”

“She works for us. She’s aware enough.” His expression goes blank. Unreadable.

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