Page 70 of The Rise of Saint (The Sins of Saint 1)

“You died.” Raphael’s eyes were wide, cheeks pale. “I remember Mom and Dad taking me to your grave. I saw your grave.”

A tear escaped. I couldn’t stop it. It was so surreal to look at a man and know he was my brother. The same blood that ran through my veins pulsed in his.

“Is it really—”

I nodded and pressed my lips together, desperate to not break down.

“Oh, my God.” He reached out, his arms open wide, and I wanted to go to him. But Saint pulled me back and placed a threatening hand on Raphael’s chest.

“Touch my wife, and you’ll lose your hands.”

Instantly, Raphael backed down, his eyes cold and hardened. The way he and Saint glared at each other made their dislike painfully clear. And Saint’s tight grip on my hand was a silent warning for me to remember what mattered most here today. And that was Saint getting what he wanted.

Raphael pulled a hand through his hair before returning to his seat. Saint took the opportunity to lean down and whispered against my ear, “Keep your shit together.”

I swallowed hard and shifted from one leg to the other. I turned so I could see Elena, needing just a glance of comfort. Only then did I notice she wasn’t there. It was only James who stood by the door as if he was ready to stop anyone from getting in or out.

Saint straightened. “Oh, and congratulations on celebrating your twenty-first birthday, Raphael. Here to collect your shares?”

“As the matter of fact, yes.”

“And then sell them to me,” Saint’s father chimed in with a smirk. “All fifty-six percent of it, to be exact.”

“Oh, about that—Mario, please enlighten these gentlemen.” Saint didn’t take his eyes off his father, and I felt his hatred radiate off him.

Mario cleared his throat and pulled a set of documents form his briefcase. “As you know, Mr. Torres,” he pointed at Raphael, “inherits a total of forty-six percent shares now that he is of age.”

“Fifty-six,” he stated dryly.

“I’ll get to that in a bit.” Mario handed the documents to Raphael and Mr. Russo, who then gave them to the man sitting next to him—who I assumed was his attorney. “These are all the documents to prove Milana Torres did not, in fact, die at birth, but was placed in the US child welfare system. Birth certificate, DNA reports. It’s all there.”

“Well, hooray.” Mr. Russo sat down. “I’m ecstatic for the Torres family. Although I don’t see what this has to do with what is happening here today.”

Mario opened his mouth, but Saint let go of my hand and stepped forward. “You see, Father, that last little clause on Francesco Torres’s will clearly states that ten percent of the company shares goes to the firstborn child.”

“And that’s me,” Raphael interrupted, but the way Mr. Russo’s face paled, eyes wide and dark, he knew what Saint was about to say next.

Saint grinned like the Cheshire cat who was just served his favorite meal. “Think about it, Raphael. Think about it very hard.”

“What are you doing, son?” Mr. Russo leaned back in his seat.

“Those ten percent shares belong to Mila, and that means even if Raphael is stupid enough to sell you his shares, I own the majority shares now since my wife has willingly given me ownership of her shares. So, let’s do the math for the poor boy who is still trying to figure out how his older sister is, in fact, the firstborn.” Saint’s every word was laced with sarcasm. “My thirty-nine percent, plus Mila’s ten, gives me a forty-nine percent share in Torres Shipping. That’s three percent more than you’ll own after Raphael signs his over to you for what I can only assume is way less than it’s worth since we all know what a fucking lying bastard you are.”

This wasn’t right. Nothing about what was happening felt right, and the longer I stood there, the heavier this sickening feeling started to weigh inside my stomach. The atmosphere was far beyond toxic, and with each breath, the air that settled in my lungs became less and less. Bile was slowly creeping up my throat, my skin nothing but cold chills against the soft fabric of my blouse.

Raphael leaned toward who I assumed was his attorney and glared at me as he whispered while Saint and Mr. Russo stared like wild animals who were seconds away from tearing each other apart.

I took a step back, my heel dipping into the carpet.

“We both know the real reason you want those shares, Father,” Saint sneered.

“You don’t know anything, son.”

“Oh, trust me. I know fucking everything.”

Hate. Rage. Disdain. Malevolence. The atmosphere was laden with it, and I was finally able to grasp a tiny piece of the puzzle, of why Saint went to such drastic measures to get his hands on the ten percent I didn’t even know I owned. It was a power struggle. A power struggle between two men—two beasts who clearly only wanted to destroy each other.

I took another step back, and another. James had moved to stand closer to Saint, the perfect guard dog protecting his master. But me, I couldn’t be there any longer. This square room had become the Colosseum, Saint and his father, along with my brother, were the gladiators about to brutally destroy one another. I couldn’t stand there and be stuck in the middle of this war, listen how they spoke about me as if I was nothing but an object—a weapon they could use to ruin one another. So, I stormed out the door, and the click of my heels on floors resonated around me. Tears poured down my cheeks, a whirlpool of emotion raging in me, threatening to pull me underwater. I wasn’t strong enough to keep myself from drowning—not anymore. Running away from it all was the only way I could stop the storm from sucking me in.

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