Page 6 of Gilded Saint

“You should’ve gotten that taken in. It’s too big.” Mamma complains he’s impossible to dress these days, and when she alters his clothes, he can only get one wear before he’s grown more inches. But today, other than the shoulders of his jacket being too broad, his clothes fit well and he could almost be mistaken for a man.

“Did Mamma pick that dress out for you?”

Avoiding Orlando’s ribbing, I hold the terrace railing and take in the expanse of sea. The breeze lifts my hair and circles my exposed décolletage. If the scooped neckline were any lower, my nipples would show, and yes, my mother purchased and forced me to wear this dress. It could be worse. Other than the neckline, the dress is demure, falling to my calves. In the mirror, I told myself the pastel floral pattern made me appear younger. It’s the push-up bra she forced on me that undercuts my hope and feeds my anxiety.

“How’re the meetings going?” I do not wish to discuss my dress.

“Eh, they’re smoking cigars and drinking. If any business is getting done, it’s behind closed doors.”

“Is father mingling?” He’s far too approachable at gatherings like this one.

“I haven’t seen him in hours.”

My stomach plunges like it does on the freefall ride at the Universal theme park in Spain.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I answer.

“Dinner will be soon. Look, the meeting is breaking up.”

Men, some in jackets, others in linen button-down shirts, all in trousers, filter onto the stone patio through the series of French doors that line the hotel exterior.

“Are you like this because of Scarlet?”

“What do you mean?”

“Afraid. Nervous. You don’t need to be, you know? Papa would never choose a man like Vincent for you.”

I cut an eye at Orlando. He’s heard what happened, but that’s not the same as seeing. He was too young, but I saw.

“Don’t look now, but Leandro De Luca is headed over here.”

The brother of our capo, Leandro De Luca, infamously quartered an enemy, and soaked with blood, sat down to dine. All the Grigi men are killers, but that one story will forever set him apart from the others. Papa disagreed with Massimo stepping in as capo because he believed Leandro would be a distraction for Massimo, as he’d always be cleaning up his messes. He believes Leandro’s hotheaded and lacks impulse control. But Papa didn’t fight the decision for Massimo to take over. He told Mamma it is best to choose your battles.

Black shades hide Leandro’s cruel eyes, and gold necklaces glitter above curly white chest hairs that spill from his black linen button-down shirt. He steps close to me, and my unsettled stomach churns.

“Appreciating the view,bella?” he asks in Italian.

My brother and I speak English at home. My father insisted we both perfect the language, as in father’s business English is important. Thanks to the booming tourism industry, his mandate felt quite normal growing up. Lots of children are expected to learn English, but it’s more common in my generation than Leandro’s.

I nod meekly, shifting to face the banister so my breasts aren’t on direct display.

“Alessio didn’t mention what a beauty you’ve become.” He disregards Orlando, and my cheeks burn as he steps closer and his gaze lowers. I slouch, and the fabric dips, exposing my bra. I quickly straighten.Damn this dress.

The stench of cigars fills my nostrils. His fingers brush over my hips. Bile rises in my throat. I have to get away. If I don’t, my upset stomach will release everything. I mumble in Italian as polite of an excuse as I can muster and clasp my jaw closed, breathing in my nose, one foot in front of the other, until I’m at the stone steps and I break out into a run.

Mamma will yell later. She’ll say I must show respect, but her wrath is preferable to getting pawed by a dirty, creepy, old man with a serial killer vibe.

It’s not until I reach the paved street below that I risk a glance over my shoulder at the railing above. Dark, circular shades stare down upon me, watching me above an unsettling grin. If you added clown make-up, he could be mistaken for the joker.

Heart racing, I don’t stop running until I reach the shore and inhale the sea air. I remove my heels and let my toes sink into the sand.

Chapter4

Sam, aka Leo, aka Saint

My feet fucking throb, and my throat is sore from straining to talk above the quartet and the hum of the crowd. The cigar smoke probably doesn’t help.

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