Page 36 of No Saint

“It’s what you have,” I tell her, “The cards that have been dealt.”

I lean into her, inhaling the scent of her shampoo, a sweet, fruity smell that intoxicates me. Turning my face, my lips brush against her cheek.

Her breathing stops and I feel her turn into me, my lips start to tip up into a smile right before she lunges away from me.

“Stay away from me, Gabriel.” She growls, any vulnerability gone.

I cock a brow, watching as she marches across the room, grabs the wine glass and the two bottles, one red, one white that the staff had placed out and storms from the room. I hear her angry steps up the stairs and the slam of a door.

“That went well,” Devon saunters into the room, glancing to the food on the table. He heads to it, swiping a warm bread roll from the basket. I let out a sigh.

“Where is Asher and Atlas?”

“Sweeping the city with a few other men,” he shrugs, “After the shipping vessel incident they wanted to make sure the streets remained clean.”

“These streets will never be clean.” I grab a bottle of whiskey from my shelf, pouring it into my glass, “We’ve still no leads on who stole from me,” I growl, “How?”

Devon shakes his head, “I don’t know. Whoever the fuck they are have inside information and it’s only a matter of time before the next incident.”

“Don’t fucking remind me.”

“Perhaps bringing in the girl now was the wrong move.”

I glare at him, “When would have been the right time?”

On top of all that, any leads and information on my missing brother have dried up. I have connections everywhere, there isn’t a single inch of this city that doesn’t belong to me and mine, so how the fuck is this happening.

I throw back the whiskey and exit the dining room, pausing at the stairs to listen for Amelia. I wouldn’t go up there, my frustrations would only lead to more arguments with the woman and that would only fuel the animosity she has for me.

“Have someone check on her in a few hours,” I tell Devon, “That wine will go to her head.”

Devon nods and I leave him, heading through the house to the study and shutting the door, sliding behind my desk. I open my laptop and pluck a cigar from the box, lighting the end and drawing the smoke in.

I remember the first time I had a cigar. Sixteen years old and given to me by my father. He wanted me in on more of the business now that I was older. Lucas had been running with him for a few years at this point.

We’re unstoppable, my boy, at the very top. It is your job, your brother’s job to keep us here. This city is going to be yours one day.

He died a year later.

I couldn’t remain still. The restless energy and anger found me leaving the house close to midnight, my keys gripped in my hand, biting into my palm. The drive across the city is quiet, refreshing, people stumbling on the sidewalks drunken and cats dipping down darkened alleys.

The car comes to a stop across from the rundown apartment building, shattered glass laying on the pavement and trash overflowing from the community bins. Inside I hear wails and crying, men shouting and TVs blasting but I ignore that and head up the stairs, using the key to unlock the faded red door and step inside. Stale air meets me, the smell of rotting food and stagnant water permeating the space.

Amelia never belonged in a place like this where the walls sweat, and the carpet is threadbare, scratchy and rough. The evidence of her life sits on wonky shelves and across scratched tabletops, pen marks and stains long engrained into the surfaces. Dust lingers in the air, disturbed now by my presence. I wanted to know what made up the girl. What made her who she is.

A file with words only tells a part of a story.

Children’s toys lay scattered around the apartment, stuffed bears and building blocks hidden behind cabinets as if they fell there and were forgotten while children’s books are piled on the table and windowsill, the covers worn from use. There’s a pile of clean laundry on a chair and a dead plant on the shelf. Nothing matches and the couch has patches of various colors where she has mended it over the years.

Money was a problem, but I knew that from the amount of debt she has to her name, debt I’ve already cleared for her, though she has no idea. I continue through the apartment, opening cabinets and drawers but finding nothing that truly tells who she is, what she likes to do. What were her hobbies? Her interests?

There’s a few dog eared books scattered around but once I enter the bedroom, it’s the book on the bedside table that catches my attention.

Fashion Design.

I pick it up and a photo falls from within the pages. Looking down at it I see Amelia smiling back at me and in her arms is Lincoln, tiny, a few weeks old if that. He’s swaddled in blankets, cradled in her arms. She looks happy, tired but happy, with her teeth on show and a brightness on her skin.

I tuck it back into the book and place it on the bed before crouching and pulling out the box beneath. Opening the lid, I find a stack of sketchbooks and pencils along with aged watercolor paints and pens. I flip through the first book, seeing the countless dresses she’s designed, some bright and pretty, others dark, short, the sketched models wearing them drawn with ease and perfection. I flip open the next one, finding lingerie and nightwear and the one after that is shoes. The girl was an artist and an aspiring designer if these were anything to go by.

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