Page 16 of Ruthless Saint

“Oooh, intriguing. But I doubt it’ll change my mind.” She smiles as I fix the gold beads around my hips. “Honestly, I can’t get over how hot you look in that gold bikini. If I swung that way, I’d be all over you like white on rice,” she sighs, shaking her head. “It’s unfair, really.”

“If you keep this up, I’ll move in just for the steady stream of compliments,” I laugh.

“Whatever works,” she giggles. “Hey, but since we’re telling each other things, there’s something you should probably know about Blackwood—”

“Steeevieee!” Martina shouts from behind the door. “Hurry up. You’re on in five.”

“Let’s talk after my shift,” I whisper to Mel as she ushers me out of the changing room and into the now familiar corridor. It feels so natural, walking barefoot on the plush carpet towards my golden cage. In a trance, I step onto the platform, pushing the lift button, and wait until I’m in position. When the music starts, I lift both my arms above my head and move my hips in a figure eight, slowly, while sliding my right hand down my left arm until it reaches my head. With my eyes closed, I drag my fingers down my face, neck, over my breast to my hips, my other arm joining with the first. For the first time in a week, I feel confident enough to open my eyes, and when the song changes, I sway to the music, lifting my eyelids.

Five men wearing expensive suits are sitting at the poker table behind the glass wall. A thick string of smoke lifts from an ashtray where one of them is resting his cigar, his eyes fixed on me. I move my gaze to the man next to him. He’s in his late forties maybe, a mountain of poker chips sitsby his left arm as he watches me move, a glass of whiskey lifted halfway to his lips. Their attention feels too much and suddenly I want to close my eyes again, no longer curious as to who is looking at me, wanting to be in my own world once again.

Then I see a flash of blonde hair, mixed with black and gold, and my eyes land on Mel, grinning at me from behind the table. I lift my lips into a barely perceptible smile then close my eyes once again, but the spell has been broken and I’m finding it hard to get back to that place where it was just me and the music. Frustrated, I lift the hair away from the nape of my neck, twisting it up, until I can feel the cool of the air conditioning hit my back. It’s like the breeze from the ocean. As I keep dancing, I imagine the waves, the bay, the port. I can almost taste the salty air on my tongue. The third song kicks in, then the fourth as my anticipation grows. Will I feel that gaze on me again today?

Every night without fail, when the tenth song rolls around, it’s alwaysI Want Toby Rosenfeld. And every time, without fail, as I dance to this song, I feel this prickling sensation on my back, like someone is watching me dance not from one of the poker rooms but from somewhere behind me. The song is short, and as soon as it’s over, so is the sensation of being watched. I have never had enough courage to turn around and find out whose attention I captured, even for just a short time. But tonight I’m riding high from the expressions on the faces of the men watching me from behind the glass and from the possibility of moving in with Mel and staying in Blackwood for longer. So the moment the song starts, I turn around, opening my eyes.

The music still plays, but everything else comes to a screeching halt. Even the air doesn’t move as I stand still and watch Dante Santoro drink me in. He must not realise whohe’s looking at as his eyes travel hungrily from my feet, over my stomach and breasts, until they finally land on my face. The hunger in his eyes turns into shock as he tries to comprehend what he’s seeing. Sweat gathers at my temple for every single one of the ten seconds it takes for his shock to subside and turn into rage.

6

DANTE

I’m not a nice person.

Never been one and never pretended to be one. If you were to ask any of my men, they’d tell you I’m ruthless and I never hesitate to pull the trigger. They’d tell you I’m easy to anger and I don’t tolerate insubordination.

It’s in my blood. It would be in yours too, if you grew up being groomed to become the head of the mafia, a job I didn’t want, yet had been given the moment my father’s health started deteriorating. At seventeen, I had to work twice as hard and be twice as cruel as my father for his men to realise they had to answer to me. The road has not been easy and most people still think my father is pulling the strings. But it’s me. It has been for well over a decade now.

People know not to mess with me, or the hard work I have put into Blackwood becoming the place it is now. So, you can imagine my surprise when two weeks ago I found a low-level accountant trying to steal money from me. He should have known better. Killing him wasn’t just about setting an example and reminding everyone not to cross the Santoros. It was just as much about quenching the thirst for violence always brimming under my skin.

The moment I smashed his head into the black keyboard on his desk, breaking his nose and the letter ‘h’ in the process, I knew something was off. Normally, I like to hear the screams of those who wronged me. I like to draw out the punishment, inflict some pain, but this time, there was an urgency in me I hadn’t felt in a long time. I needed him to be dealt with quickly and quietly. And as I watched the life seep out of his eyes, with my zip tie around his throat, I had a feeling of foreboding. Like something bad was about to happen, like I was missing something right in front of me.

And bad things don’t happen to me; I see and know everything.

I’mthe bad thing that happens to others. I’m the boogeyman that everyone is afraid of. Everyone except Alessandra “Jones” it seems.

When I saw her sitting on the small chair, in what I could only describe as a sad excuse for a reception area, I knew. I justknewshit was about to go terribly wrong. Something in my gut was telling me I should just get rid of her then and there, pull out my gun and stop the voice inside my head. Put my worries to rest.

But as I stood, watching her bite her red stained lip, her sad eyes unfocused as she stared at a framed picture of the ocean hanging on the wall, I found myself curious about her. And as a deep sigh left her plump lips, instead of shooting her, or retracing my steps and leaving through the back door, I stayed, wanting to see who she was and what she was doing there.

The minute I saw her name, everything clicked into place, and I knew I made a grave mistake not killing her on sight. I should have spotted it straight away. No wonder she looked so familiar, a carbon copy of her late mother. Thewoman in front of me had the power to ruin everything I worked so hard to build and there was little I could do about it, except get her to leave and go back to wherever she came from.

Unbeknownst to her, Alessandra Carusso came back to the one place she should have avoided. Because as soon as anyone recognises her, she’ll have a price on her head. And with a face like hers, it’s only a matter of time before others will figure it out.

I knew the decision to save the small girl I found in the antique wardrobe all those years ago would one day come back to haunt me. But I had a code, even back then, when I was trying to impress everyone around me.

Never hurt the innocent.

Handing her over to the Nicolosi family was not an option. So, after stuffing a few of Alessa’s things in a bag, I drove her to a place his reach didn’t extend to. Somewhere no one would think twice about an Italian girl. Somewhere no one would suspect she might have a connection to the mafia. There was only one person I knew of with no ties to Blackwood or the Family. I hoped to god that the kind woman I met at Mom’s funeral the year before, who claimed to be her friend from college, was still at the address she gave me in case I ever needed anything. Because the time had come. I neededsomething. I needed her to take care of a little girl whose father's foolish actions had put her life in danger. I left her sleeping on a porch swing, covered in the jacket I was wearing. A note I scribbled giving her a fake name and explaining she has no family left and needs to be looked after, peeking out of a side pocket. That day, I gave Alessandra Carusso a new life. Life as Alessandra Jones, someone who did not have a past. Only the future.

I was stumped as to why the fuck she would want tocome to Blackwood, looking for a job as a receptionist, of all the professions, and threatening my empire. There’s nothing here for her except pain and death. My only option is to make sure she leaves, going back to her mafia-free picture perfect life before Nicolosi discovers that there is a little long legged Carusso princess running around. If anyone finds out she’s alive and that I am the one who helped her survive his wrath all those years ago, we could have a war on our hands.

Unfortunately, Carussos always had one thing in common. They couldn’t take a fucking hint to save their lives.

Each time I saw her, my anger grew. Not only because, somehow, she knew exactly how to push my buttons, but also because her stupidity was endangering her life. And since I had already saved her from death once, I felt a responsibility to keep her alive, no matter how annoying and bratty she was and no matter how much it irked me.

So when I had to leave town for a few days, I was pleasantly surprised she was nowhere to be found upon my return.

With Alessa gone, I could finally go about my business without the constant rage clouding my judgment. I was in such a good mood I didn’t even torture a guy we found card counting in one of my casinos. I let my men take care of him instead.

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