Page 52 of The Rise of Saint (The Sins of Saint 1)

I got up and followed him to the flybridge just as a speedboat pulled up, an older man and young woman boarding the Empress.

“Mr. Saint.” The older man extended a hand, and Saint obliged.

“Morone,” he greeted before turning his attention to the tall blonde whose dress might be considered more a longer sized shirt than a summer dress. “Anete.”

“Saint.” One could have spotted her blushing cheeks from a mile away, and she leaned in to give him a peck on the cheek, an act I didn’t like. At all.

“I didn’t expect you to accompany your father here today,” Saint said with a slight hint of surprise.

Her smile was too wide and her batting eyelashes too long. “It’s such a beautiful day, I simply had to get out of the house.” Her thick Italian accent was smeared with a sensual pitch as she stressed the consonants in every word. I wondered if she dressed to match her overly sexy accent, or if she spoke in a way to match her revealing wardrobe.

“And who is this?” Anete, the shirt-wearing goddess, turned her attention to me.

My lips parted with an answer, but Saint took my hand. “This is Milana. My wife.”

If shocked and dumbfounded had babies, it would look like Anete’s face as she gaped first at me and then at Saint. “Your wife?”

Saint tightened his grip on my hand, forcing me to step closer to his side. “Yes.”

“Well, I didn’t…” She flipped her blonde hair over her shoulder. “I didn’t even know you were seeing anyone.”

Saint shrugged. “It’s just one of those things that kind of happened.”

Cherry red lips pursed, and honey-colored eyes glared. She went from a pretty, polite princess to a pretty, peeved person.

I smiled, secretly bathing in her blatant disappointment in my existence. “It’s nice to meet you, Anete.”

“Yes,” she replied. “Likewise.”

The older man stepped up. “Mario Marone. I’m Mr. Saint’s lawyer. I suppose this makes you Mrs. Saint? Mrs. Russo?” He seemed slightly confused and looked at Saint for confirmation, but I reached out and took his hand.

“Just call me Milana.”

“Of course,” he responded politely before turning to Saint. “I suppose this is why you asked me to come out here today.”

Saint nodded. “I have documentation I need you to take care of for me.”

“Sure. I assume a prenuptial agreement is among them.”

Saint let go of my hand and summoned Mario with a single nod. “Let’s discuss this in private, shall we?”

Mario nodded, and Saint looked my way, his eyes almost the same color as the ocean. He glanced at Anete with what seemed like a hidden warning. It was brief, but I caught it—an obvious sign there was something familiar between them, especially in the way Anete batted her lashes and plastered on a fake smile for him. It reminded me of the stewardess he fired. The one he admitted so blatantly to have fucked.

The men walked off, leaving Anete and me in an excruciatingly uncomfortable bubble.

“So,” she clutched the top of her large, white sunhat and slipped on her black designer sunglasses that oddly reminded me of an insect, “how long have you known Saint?”

“One would say I’ve known him my entire life.” It wasn’t too far a stretch from the truth since I was practically born to marry him.

“Odd,” she replied dryly. “I’ve known Saint for years, and he never once mentioned a Milana.”

I couldn’t help but smirk. “Segreto.”

She cocked a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“Secret. I guess I was one of his many secrets.”

“Uh huh.” Her pale green eyes studied me from top to bottom. “Nope, I don’t see it.” She pranced around me. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I’d say it’s probably time for a mimosa. Or six.”

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