Page 19 of Gilded Saint

Sam, aka Leo, aka Saint

“Satellite imagery confirmed the shipment is en route.”

“Should be around the Horn of Africa tomorrow. This file includes every item in the shipment. The names are those who financially benefitted when the US administration declined to authorize the sales.”

Nomad released a long-winded sigh I identified as weary of this game. We dedicated too much of our careers to passing information with no sign our efforts were paying off.

A cardinal’s high-pitched tune eclipsed the thrumming forest, a reminder that light thrives, even in the shadows.

“Any plans this weekend?” I didn’t expect Nomad to answer me. I asked to wind up our covert meeting and to force an end to the growing apprehension that my efforts were futile and my sacrifices in vain.

“You won’t believe me if I tell you, mate.”

Nomad smiled and stood, brushing off his pants and adjusting his cufflinks.

“Try me.” Hell, entertain me.

“I’m getting married.”

“No shit. For real?”

“Before God in a church. I’m not a particularly religious chap, as you may have gathered over the years.” He paused, raised an eyebrow.

We’d both killed and been responsible for killings. We’d never waxed poetic over philosophical matters, so I assumed he referred to the killings.

“But her family is. Her aunt and uncle. It’s happening tomorrow.”

Friends of mine, in my former life, had had the same beam to them. “Congrats, mate.” I bounced the British friendship term back at him and clapped him on the back. “Your family excited?”

He stiffened and said, “It’ll just be her family.”

“Don’t be an ass. When you get married, you need the important people there.”

That’s what I’d said. The brief conversation from years ago with Nomad, my Interpol contact, comes out of nowhere. It’s obvious why that memory would surface on my wedding day, but this one’s an arrangement. It’s not a real wedding. I’m helping a young woman. She’s a mafia princess who could become a mafia queen, but she wants more for herself, and I’m assisting. I’m doing something good, something that’s within my power to do.

That day in the woods, when Nomad talked about his wedding, marked the day a true friendship sparked between us. After that day, along with sharing photos of my sisters, he started sharing photos of his wife and then later, his daughter, breaking every rule in the book.

Will I tell Nomad about my little arrangement? I might as well. There’s no way other sources won’t inform him. And if I can’t trust a contact willing to show me photos of his daughter, who the fuck can I trust?

“Papa sent me to get you.” Orlando approaches, wearing what I’d bet is the same suit from Friday. The sunlight reflects on a path of sparse dark hairs the kid missed when shaving.

“How old are you?” He’s tall but gangly and baby-faced.

“Fifteen.” His back straightens. “Almost sixteen.” He’s nearly up to my chin, but at fifteen, he’s likely got some inches in front of him. “Why?”

“I’m shit at pegging ages.”

His eyes narrow, and I guess that means he doesn’t understand my American vernacular, but he doesn’t need to.

“So, is it time to get the show on the road?” I ask.

“Five minutes. Willow will be arriving soon, and they want you inside, so you don’t see her until she enters the church.”

I can’t believe this shit. “Everyone knows this isn’t…” I exhale both amusement and frustration.

Orlando bites on the corner of his lip, looking more prepubescent than teen. His hands fall to his waist and he blows out his lips. “You have my eternal gratitude. I didn’t want to see her with…” He hesitates, and I sense he’s been told to not speak badly about the men in his outfit. “If there’s ever anything, if you ever need anything, I owe you.”

I understand him more than he knows. If someone saved one of my sisters, I’d be all kinds of grateful, too.

---