Page 71 of Gilded Saint

By the close of the day, I have a vision for a set of three pieces in muted colors that reflect life’s daily subtle variations and time’s more momentous shifts, and I steal my mother’s word. I title the series Vicissitude.

I wrap up, exit the studio, lock it, and, as I approach John’s office, he exits.

“Do you have an umbrella?” he asks.

“I’ll be fine. Rain won’t hurt me.”

Without a word, John returns to his office.

Geoff comes out of his studio down the hall, and I wave. He steps toward me, but when John appears with an extra umbrella in hand, Geoff changes direction. My stomach sinks. Does Geoff believe I’m with organized crime? That’s what happened on campus. Once students figured out I had security trailing me, they connected dots. Why else would a young woman have a bodyguard?

Those first two weeks, John didn’t come with me to the studio, and I lived the life of a normal person. But since Leo’s return, he has insisted John follow me everywhere. It doesn’t quite seem fair, but then my mother’s call and Scarlet’s rumors have me wondering if there’s more going on, and Leo doesn’t trust me to handle it. Meanwhile, I’m the one who handles issues. If I didn’t address my challenges head on, I’d be married to Leandro. And if I didn’t take the first step, Leo would’ve never touched me.

John escorts me wordlessly back to my apartment. I sense his shadow, even though the clouds mask it, and I catch glimpses of him in rain-streaked glass reflections.

“Goodnight,” I tell him when we arrive in the lobby, but he doesn’t make a move to leave. “Are you going home now?”

“Aye, I am. After I see you to the forty-first floor.”

He joins me in the lift, and, wordlessly, we ascend. When the doors open, he peers in.

“It doesn’t appear Mr. Sullivan is back,” he says.

“Was he out today?”

“Business meetings. If you don’t mind, I’m going to look around before I leave.”

“Go right ahead,” I tell him, as I have no choice in the matter. He heads up the stairs as I remove my wellies. I give him a few moments, then climb the stairs. He passes me on the stairwell.

“All’s clear. See you in the morning. Don’t leave or let anyone up until Mr. Sullivan gets home.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” I salute him with my finger, and he might smile. He might not. For someone who spends an awful lot of his time near me, he hasn’t warmed to me much. But I suppose he’s not family, whereas so many of the men around my father’s home were.

Wistfulness for my family home sweeps in out of nowhere. The paths along the beach where I spent so much time, the faint scent of my mother’s gardenias on the breeze, and the sun’s warmth on my skin, I miss them all with a yearning I haven’t felt since those first university days. I had been naive to believe I might be allowed to live in Florence forever. That thefamiglia’srules didn’t apply to me because of my father’s status.

The rain outside soundlessly patters the thick-walled glass, and the dense clouds blur the skyscrapers into nonexistence. Inside, I fix tea and biscuits and await Leo’s return.

Chapter24

Sam, aka Leo, aka Saint

A dull pain pulses behind my temples. Meeting with bankers ranks as my least favorite activity, and today has been nothing but contract reviews and signing documents confirming fund availability from specified accounts, product value, and delivery method. We’re trading in weapons and arms, but at these prices, all parties want to minimize risk and ensure the transactions look as pure and legal as a Catholic Church property transaction.

My windshield wipers slow as the parking garage door rolls up. The multi-level underground car park provides spaces for all occupants within the building. Four spots are allocated for my unit. A black Audi four-door sedan is parked in one of the four spots that’s farthest from the elevator bank entrance.

The black Audi is John’s. Why’s he still here?

I double-check the time on my wrist. He should’ve left thirty minutes ago. He texted me on his way out. Did Willow change her mind and decide to work late? Is she still at the studio?

When I exit the car, an engine idling rumbles through the concrete cave. I still and listen. The car isn’t on this row, and it’s not moving.

I pop the glove box and remove my Glock. I slide the chamber, checking to ensure it’s loaded.

I tuck it in the back of my trousers, scanning the other automobiles for anyone who might see me with a weapon. Across the way, I survey John’s car. His passenger side window is smudged with a dark substance.

Instinctively, I know. All of my senses heighten. The scent of exhaust is stronger, the garage lighter and warmer, the engine’s rumble louder. I wrap my fingers loosely around the grip of the Glock. My skin awakens, the dull headache miraculously eliminated as adrenaline surges.

There’s a body in the driver’s seat, the window down, head slouched to the right. Blood and brain matter splatter the passenger window and the seat. John lowered the window to talk to someone.

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