Page 57 of The Fall of Sin (The Sins of Saint 2)

I glanced halfway over my shoulder. “What?”

“She’s here.”

“You mean here, at the gala?”

“No. She’s in her hotel room. Mom doesn’t do well with crowds, but she asked to come, knowing you’d be here. She wants to meet you, Mila.”

I stepped closer. “Which hotel room?”

“Meet me by the elevators in half an hour, then I’ll take you to her. I’ll introduce you to our mother. And if you’re smart, you won’t tell your husband.”

“Why?”

“Because I can guarantee he’ll try to stop you. Think about it, Mila. Why hasn’t he offered to take you to your mother yet?”

He turned and walked away, the sea of people swallowing him. My feet were too heavy, the little girl who used to cry herself to sleep thinking of her mom stopping me from moving. Every emotion any orphan could feel torpedoed through me, almost knocking me to the ground.

Rejection.

Loneliness.

Heartache.

Lost.

It was all coming back to the surface while I stood there in an expensive dress and high heels, surrounded by hundreds of people—all the fucking riches any orphan could ever dream of. But it did nothing to ward off the nasty feelings from which my childhood nightmares stemmed.

“Mrs. Russo.”

I turned toward James’s voice.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” I turned to face him, and he seemed unsettled.

“Let’s get you back to Mr. Russo.”

“I’m just going to the ladies’. I won’t be long.” Hastily, I brushed past him, relieved James didn’t see me with Raphael. Saint hated my brother with a passion. I knew if I had to tell him about Raphael wanting to take me to my mom, he’d stop me. Make it impossible for me to finally meet my mother—not that I had made up my mind yet. There was something off with Raphael tonight, my instinct screaming at me to be careful. That alone had me hesitating to trust him, and rather do as my husband had told me. To trust him and stay at his side.

I walked into the ladies’ room only to find Anete standing there, dragging her pink lipstick around her lips.

“Murphy, you motherfucker,” I mumbled to myself before straightening.

Anete glanced at me in the mirror. “I must say, Mila, red is most definitely your color.”

“So I’ve been told.”

In a bid to ignore the blonde, I busied myself tucking a few curls back into place.

“Vera Wang.”

I frowned. “Excuse me?”

Anete turned my way. “Your dress. Vera Wang?”

“Prada.”

She flipped a blonde strand out of her face, her smile fake and eyes malignant. “Oh, there is a Prada boutique in Milan you simply have to go to.”

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