Page 43 of The Sins of Saint (The Sins of Saint 3)

I grabbed the phone and swiped across the screen, then held my breath for a few long seconds before finally answering. “Hello?”

It was quiet on the other side for a moment, then came the familiar voice. “Elena?”

“No. It’s Mila.”

“Mila?”

“Mr. Russo. Saint, ah, he just quickly stepped out. Can I take a message for him?”

He remained silent, and I could feel my heart throb in my throat, already regretting my decision to answer the damn phone.

“I’ll tell him you called.”

“I hear congratulations are in order.”

I swallowed. “I’m…I’m not sure—”

“The pregnancy.”

“How did you—”

“The same way my son always knows everything. It’s something I taught him when he was a young boy. To know who your friends are, and to make sure you know everything there is to know about those who aren’t.”

His voice had the same familiar low tenor as Saint’s, laced with smooth, cunning notes of intimidation. Lucky for me, I had more than enough time to grow a spine when it came to the Russo men and their talent to put the fear of God in people around them.

I clutched the silk sheet tight and sat up. “He told me what you did.”

Silence.

“He told me about his mother and her apparent suicide.”

There was a slight pause, and I wished I could have seen the look on his face right at that moment.

“Trust me, girl, there’s nothing apparent about it.”

“Your son seems to think otherwise.”

“I’m well aware of what my son thinks.”

I pushed my curls back. “Did you do it?”

He scoffed, followed by an amused laugh. “You are either incredibly brave, Torres girl, or incredibly stupid.”

“I don’t think you did.”

Again, he remained silent for a few moments, and I knew Saint would return at any second.

“If you were a murderer you would have let Raphael kill me that night at the hotel.”

More silence. His lack in response had me convinced I was on the right road, headed in the right direction.

“Word of advice, Mila,” his voice remained monotone, “don’t tell my son about our little conversation.”

“Did you not want to leave—”

He hung up before I could finish my sentence. Confused and perplexed, I stared at the phone before placing it on the pillow where I had found it. Perhaps Mr. Russo was right. Saint shouldn’t know I had hijacked his phone and had a short, yet confusing discussion with his father. A discussion where we touched the subject of Saint’s mom, suicide, and that the fact that a very large part of me didn’t think his father had anything to do with it. Saint was so convinced his father was behind it, if he had to know about my doubts, it would cause a rift between us. And right now, I just wanted to enjoy the sense of peace while it lasted. If I had learned anything during my time with Saint, it was to never expect things to stay the same for long. Change was inevitable. But for now, I was still riding the smooth wave of hope and a sickening amount of happiness.

Footsteps creaked on the wooden path of the deck, and I looked in the direction from where Saint was coming. Shirtless and with the top button of his pants undone, the moonlight painted him like he was a canvas of broad shoulders and perfectly ripped abs. The defined V that left an enticing trail which disappeared beneath the top of his pants was enough to make any girl swoon.

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