Page 4 of The Fall of Sin (The Sins of Saint 2)

I looked down at the glass in my hand and absentmindedly drew circles around the rim. “It’s complicated.” It wasn’t a lie. The answer wasn’t simple, and the truth wasn’t a mere black and white statement. There were so many gray areas I was starting to think my world no longer had any color.

“Does that complication have anything to do with the ten percent loophole in my father’s will?”

I glanced up at him from under my lashes, not sure if it was hostility or confusion I heard when he referred to his father’s will. Not ours. His. His father. Maybe I shouldn’t read too much into his words. This was as big a shock for him as it was for me. But I was still hesitant to trust him and to say too much. One would think I’d be screaming from the rooftops about how one of Italy’s wealthiest men kidnapped me and brought me here. Instead, here I was, counting my words because I didn’t want anyone to know. At least not yet.

Ice clinked as I put my glass on the coffee table in front of me. “I know Saint owns shares in the company. And I know he wants more.”

“Is that why he married you? To get his hands on your ten percent?”

Silence settled, and I bit my lip as I pondered the lie. “No.”

He opened his mouth just as someone knocked. Raphael got up and walked to the door as if he already knew who it was.

My stomach coiled, and my lungs forgot to exhale the last breath I took. I didn’t know who I expected it to be, but when Mr. Russo walked in with two other men, I swallowed hard and knew things were about to take another turn into the unknown.

2

Mila

“Miss Torres,”he started, “or is it Mrs. Russo now?” His smile was that of a predator—deceivingly kind with deadly intentions.

I got up on my feet. “You can call me Mila.”

Mr. Russo sat on the couch across from me, leaning back as if he owned the place. The gold chain around his neck did what it was supposed to—show the world his wealth with a shiny glint.

His gaze settled on me. “What did my son offer you?”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. What did my son offer you?”

I sat down on the couch and narrowed my eyes. “I’m not sure what you’re implying.”

“I’m notimplyinganything. I’m asking you a direct question.”

“A direct question that gives me the impression you think your son bought me.”

“Didn’t he?”

“Oh, my God.” I crossed my arms. “Now I see where he gets it from,” I mumbled to myself.

“Mila,” Raphael took a seat next to me, “we’re trying to help.”

“Why?” I looked back at Mr. Russo. “Why on Earth would you want to help me? You don’t even know me.”

Mr. Russo pulled a cigar from his jacket pocket, and I glanced at the no-smoking sign on the back of the door.

“Do you know my son, Mila?’

I shifted in my seat. “I married him.”

“Willingly?”

His question took me by surprise, and my lack of a witty answer had me clenching my jaw.

A puff of smoke escaped his mouth as he pulled the cigar from his lips. “I’m assuming you know about the debt your family owed ours.”

“What debt?” Raphael chimed in.

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