Page 2 of The Fall of Sin (The Sins of Saint 2)

Could I trust him?

Could I trust anyone?

God. I was alone in a city I didn’t know. Alone and caught in the middle of what seemed like a power struggle between giants. Saint and his father. It was the loneliest feeling in the world thinking I had no reason to trust anyone.

“Where are we going?”

Raphael stretched his arms and pushed back in his seat. “Well, we can’t go back to my place since Saint is probably ransacking it as we speak. So, I think our best option is to stop at a hotel.” He looked my way. “And then just…talk.”

I nodded with a hint of a smile. “We do have a lot to talk about.”

“Yeah, we do. But for now, just try to relax. We’ll get this all sorted. I promise.”

While Raphael made some calls, his fluent Italian words filled the car with its foreign appeal. Pity I didn’t understand the language even though the blood in my veins was pure Italian.

I leaned against the window, people and streets passing by in a blur. A few weeks ago, I was nothing more than an orphan with abandonment issues and a few scars from the occasional abuse by psychotic foster parents. I was Mila Black. A nobody. But now…now I was Milana Katarina Torres—or rather, Russo. I was a woman caught in a war I knew nothing about. A daughter and a sister to people I didn’t know. There was a time in my life when I could predict my every step, and every direction I would go. But that was no longer the case. I had no idea what would happen from one minute to the next. How my life would change going from one moment to the other. It was unnerving, and I had nothing but unease prickling down the back of my neck.

Raphael made a sharp turn to the right and drove into an underground parking area. It took my eyes a second to adjust from the summer glow outside to the sudden shadow of concrete that surrounded us.

He pulled into a parking space, tires screeching to a halt, and switched off the ignition. “We’re taking the back entrance. Knowing Russo, that bastard has eyes and ears everywhere.”

There was a sudden surge of nostalgia that swept through my gut. It reminded me of when Saint had rushed me from the hotel back in New York, taking me through the kitchen and back exit. He was right. I was the world’s best kept secret, and obviously, I still was.

Raphael turned to face me. “I think for now, until we have this all figured out, we shouldn’t go around telling people who you are. Not just yet. You okay with that?”

“I don’t even know who I am anymore, so yes. I’m more than okay with that.”

“Good. Don’t get out until I open the door for you.” Raphael got out, and I watched as he rounded the car. Back in New York, a guy his age would be wearing designer jeans and some or other branded t-shirt. Not a black suit and a white dress shirt and open collar.

The passenger side door opened, and I hopped out, my heels clicking on the concrete.

“Come on.” Raphael grabbed my hand, and I was surprised to find his touch cold through the summer heat that blazed down. I followed him to a back door where a man stood waiting for us.

“Raphael,” he greeted politely. “Second floor, room eighteen.”

“Thanks, man. I owe you one.”

We walked through the laundry room, women buzzing around washing, drying, and folding linen. The heavy scent of laundry detergent and overbearing smell of fabric softener assaulted my nostrils. Tumble dryers and washing machines created a chaotic noise, and the steam from the irons made it almost impossible to breathe.

Raphael pushed open the metal door of the fire escape, and we rushed up two flights of stairs. His desperation to get me out of sight was evident in the way he clutched my hand tightly—almost too tightly. The click of my heels resounded around us. It was so loud I contemplated taking them off so I could sprint the rest of the way barefoot.

Room eighteen was the first door on our right when we got to the second floor. A bellboy waited for us and handed Raphael the key card.

Raphael simply nodded and slid the card through the lock and opened the door. We were so rushed I only managed to take a breath when I heard the door slam shut behind us.

“You okay?” Raphael stepped closer, his eyes wide with worry.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Then why are you crying?”

“I’m no—” I felt the tear trickle down my cheek, unaware of how my emotion took control. “I’m okay, really.” I wiped at the tear with the back of my hand. “Just a little overwhelmed.” The large corner couch beckoned me, and I sat down. My feet hurt, my body was exhausted, and my mind kept spinning in a thousand different directions at once.

No longer caring about keeping up appearances, I pulled the shoes from my feet and rubbed my heels. I cursed the pencil skirt that clung to my every curve and wished for a pair of tights and an oversized t-shirt so I could just cuddle into a ball and be comfortable in my misery.

“Drink?” Raphael held a bottle of vodka in his hand. Up until now, I tried to remain level-headed and sober. But if there ever was a time I needed alcohol to take the edge off, it was now.

“Will you assume I’m an alcoholic if I asked for a double?”

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