The Rise of Saint

by J, Bella

  Saint didn’t move, and I didn’t break eye contact. The atmosphere grew thick, palpable, the only sound that of the water cracking on the shower floor. The sponge left a rich foam across my stomach, a trail of bubbles slipping down my thigh. His gaze didn’t falter once, keeping it fixed on mine, as if he had no interest in my body, but rather the expression on my face—the look in my eyes. It made sense. If I broke, if I lost the fight, my eyes would be the first place he’d see it happen. Eyes were windows to the soul, a reflection of the peace or chaos on the inside. That was what he wanted to see. That was his entertainment, and not the simple fact that he was watching a naked woman shower.

  Slowly but with purpose, I slipped the sponge down until it reached between my legs, easing it in circles on the inside of my thighs. Not even then did he break eye contact, but I could see the color of his eyes turn a shade of gray as it darkened. I wiped some water from my face and down my hair. Warm steam enveloped me and spread throughout the bathroom, reaching as far as where Saint stood. He bit his bottom lip, his jaw ticking as it clenched, the tension in the room about to snap like a rubber band. I wasn’t sure how long I’d be able to hold his stare without looking away. It was too intense and unsettling how every second slipped into eternity, time no longer making sense.

  Finally, Saint glanced to the side and pulled a hand from his pants pocket, rubbing his chin. He scoffed, the tip of his tongue darting out to wet his parted lips. With a sideway glare in my direction, Saint’s expression showed no trace of being entertained. “Don’t get too comfortable. We’re not staying long.” His voice was low and loud enough to hear over the noise of the shower. And as I watched him walk out of the bathroom, I stilled, afraid to move. I wasn’t sure what this meant. Did I just win this round? Or did I just make things much worse for myself?

  12

  Saint

  I didn’t have time for this. I thought I did, thought I could play with her a little, have some fun while I put all the chess pieces in place, of which Mila was the queen. The one whose place was at my side. The one who could make all the moves, forcing the ones trying to corner me to change their strategy if they still planned on winning. Ultimately, Mila, along with a few other pawns, would have my enemies right where I wanted them—where I could strike and force them all into checkmate.

  Following her naked ass down the hall, seeing the way she struggled to stay in control of her emotions as she fought to stay strong against the humiliation, was enticing as fuck. I loved watching her squirm. It fucking thrilled me and made me think of all the things I could do to her—to my future wife.

  This wasn’t part of the plan, though, having fun with the Torres girl. But it was too tempting to pass up. Watching her shower, her naturally tanned skin shimmering and glistening with water and foam had my dick throbbing. Now that was definitely not part of the plan—the Torres girl giving me a motherfucking hard-on.

  Elena waited for me in my study when I walked in. “Aunt Elena.”

  “You told her?”

  “I did.”

  “Everything?” She sat down on the couch and placed her glass of red wine next to the deck of tarot cards.

  I frowned. “Are you serious with those?”

  “Of course, I am.” She picked them up. “Did you tell her everything, Marcello?”

  “I told her what she needed to know.” I poured myself a glass of bourbon before taking a seat across from her, and her disapproving glare settled on me.

  I sighed. “Stop worrying, Aunt Elena.”

  Her long blonde hair hung over her left shoulder. She wasn’t a natural blonde, the roots of her hair showing its true color. Chestnut, the same color hair my mother had. The resemblance between them was uncanny, and most days it was hard to look at Elena and not think of my mother.

  “I’ll always worry, Marcello. This plan is dangerous. If the wrong people discover we have a Torres girl before—”

  “They won’t,” I interrupted, mid-sentence.

  Elena crossed her legs, the hem of her red dress just above her knees. “What worries me is that we don’t know who sent the letter informing us of the Torres girl’s existence. Without knowing who it is, we can’t establish their motive for doing it.”

  “Maybe they didn’t have a motive other than doing us a favor.”

  Elena scoffed. “Come, now, Marcello. We both know you don’t believe that.”

  “Yeah.” I sighed. “I know.” Just like her, that anonymous letter was fucking with my head. With no return address or dated stamp, there was no way of figuring out who sent the letter that set this entire plan into motion. The security cameras showed a boy slipping the letter through the main gate. But after finding the boy, all he could tell us was that he got the letter from another boy with an instruction to deliver it here to us. He didn’t know the other boy, so there was no way of tracking it farther back.

  Elena picked up the tarot cards and started shuffling. “The girl is strong. She won’t be easily manipulated.”

  “She already agreed to go through with it.”

  Elena’s eyes widened in question.

  “I used the power of persuasion,” I replied with a sly grin.

  She slanted a brow. “You mean you threatened her?”

  “Same thing.”

  “No, it’s not, Marcello. I told you when this started that you can’t go down a dark path and expect the reward to be liberating.”

  “I know.” I rubbed my fingers across my chin. “I have it under control. Trust me.”

  Cherry red lips smoothed into a smile. “You know I only trust what the cards tell me.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You and those damn cards.”

  “Try as you may, you can’t deny that the cards have been very accurate lately. Need I remind you of the cards you pulled the day before the letter arrived?”

  I smiled. “Justice. And since then, things have pretty much fallen in my favor to get that justice.”

  Elena’s expression remained all shades of serious. “But you didn’t want me to reveal the other two cards, remember?”

  “Because I was happy with the first one.” I placed my glass on the side table. “Why ruin it?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “We didn’t complete the reading, Marcello. And it’s making me nervous.”

  I clasped my hands on my lap. “Did you not take a peek?”

  As if I insulted her, Elena glowered in my direction. “Those cards were a message for you, not me. I had no right to.”

  Elena and her cards never amused me. I refused to believe something as simple as images on a piece of cardboard could predict the path you were about to go on, and what you would encounter while on that road. We determined our own fates, our own paths—that was what I chose to believe. Elena knew how I felt about them, and I’d only humored her twice before with a reading. Once, the night my mother died. The tower was revealed as my present, and I could still remember Elena’s face when she saw it. Her eyes were haunted, cheeks a pale, sickening gray. It scared the bejesus out of me that night. I was only twelve years old, but I knew from the look on her face she expected something terrible to happen. Twenty-four hours later, I knew what that something terrible was. After that I refused to let her come near me with those cursed cards, preferring to deal with present and future curveballs as they were thrown my way. But my sneaky aunt managed to get me to play along for a second time the night before the anonymous letter arrived, informing me of Mila’s existence. I was pissed out of my boots that night after consuming a copious amount of alcohol. But once she revealed the card of justice, I refused to continue, not wanting anything else overshadowing the feeling of impending victory one stupid little card stirred within me.

  I shifted in my seat as I watched Elena shuffle the cards some more, the brushing sound of paper scratching against my last nerve. “I don’t want to do a reading right now, Elena.”

  “Marcello, please. We need to know so we can be prepared.”

  I scoffed, picked up my glas
s, and emptied it with one large gulp. “We are prepared. Why else do you think I have Mila locked in a motherfucking room?”

  Elena scooted up to the edge of her seat, her brown eyes pleading with worry. “Do not underestimate your father, Marcello. We both know what he is capable of.”

  “Then you do it. Read your own cards.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “This is your road we are both on. It has to be you.”

  I tapped a single finger on the wooden armrest of my seat, contemplating whether I’d humor her one last time by letting her do the only thing that seemed to ease her a little. After all, she had sacrificed a lot by supporting me in my vendetta—which in the end affected her as well.

  “Fine,” I conceded reluctantly. “But if I see that motherfucking tower, I am burning those cards.”

  Elena smiled, and I could already see her nerves settle a little. I, on the other hand, didn’t like this one bit. It was unsettling, the image of that damn tower hovering inside my head.

  After placing the deck of cards on the table, she slid it toward me with a crimson manicured nail. With a nod, she urged me to go ahead, but as I reached for the cards, she placed her hand on top of it. “Think about everything that is going on right now. Think about Mila, your father, you.”

  It wasn’t an instruction. It was a warning, her urging me to not take this lightly.

  Annoyed and not in the mood, I went for the cards when Elena stopped me again. “Close your eyes, Marcello. Focus. Let your energy guide you.”

  I pursed my lips and narrowed my eyes. As if convincing me to do this wasn’t enough, she had to push me just a little farther.

  “Fine. But this is the last time, Elena. I mean it.” I huffed and closed my eyes, taking a few seconds to clear my thoughts. My fingers touched the deck of cards, and while I tried to think of my father, my mother, my life, the only image that came through strongly was that of Mila’s face. Her lips, her green eyes. Her tears. I saw every contour of her face, long strands of curls touching her cheeks. But before I could banish her from my thoughts, I had already cut the deck in three parts.

  “Good.” Elena pulled the top card of each deck. “Past, present, future,” she murmured, her voice soft and calm.

  She remained still a second before turning the first card from the left. “Five of Cups,” she muttered, and I glanced down at the card depicting a man with a black coat.

  “What does it mean?”

  “Shush.”

  My glare cut to her, but she continued to ignore me, fully focused as she turned the second card.

  “King of Pentacles.”

  “King. I like the sound of that.”

  “Shush!”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  Elena reached for the final card, but this time she closed her eyes as she put it down next to the others, taking a breath.

  She looked at the card. “The World.”

  “What does all that mean?”

  Elena’s gaze found mine, and she pointed to the first card. “The Five of Cups. Your past is filled with grief. Sorrow. Pain.”

  I shifted. “Well, I don’t think that’s exactly a revelation, now, is it?”

  “It’s also what set you on the path you are on today.”

  “Again, Elena. Not a revelation.”

  She dragged her finger to the second card. “The King of Pentacles. You are about to achieve great success, get something you’ve wanted for a very long time.”

  “Now, that’s a revelation.” I grinned. “I like that card.”

  “It’s not just about worldly things or long-pursued vendettas.” Her eyes softened, and so did her voice. “It can also hold meaning in love. It is your present card, Marcello. It is most likely something you have already found, something you have right at this moment.” Her lips turned up. “Or perhaps someone to whom you will become a king and a lover.”

  I scowled at her. “I know what you’re insinuating, Aunt Elena. But I can assure you, that card does not symbolize anything other than my success of finally getting what I’d been working toward this whole time. Revenge.” I swallowed another mouthful of bourbon. “Love will never be in the cards for me.”

  “Never say never, Marcello.”

  “I say never.” I got up. “I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”

  “There is still one more card, Marcello.”

  “Don’t care. Make sure Mila gets something to eat.”

  “The World.” She raised her voice, and I stilled. “Your future card is The World.”

  Intrigued, I turned to face her. “And that means?”

  She tapped on the card with a single finger. “New beginnings.”

  “That sounds promising.” By now, I was no longer able to hide the sarcasm in my voice. My annoyance level had reached a point where it was probably slapped all over my face.

  Elena kept her finger on the card. “Marriage.”

  “What?”

  “Marriage is much like birth, one of the purest yet simplest forms of new beginnings.”

  I pulled a hand through my hair. “Again, not a shock since we both know marrying Mila is in my future. Now, I had enough of this bullshit. I’m going to bed.”

  “Your current journey will come to an end soon,” she called after me. “Everything will come full circle, and a new beginning isn’t just possible, it’s inevitable.”

  I held my arms up. “Sounds good to me.”

  “What did you think about, Marcello? When you cut the cards, whose face did you see?”

  I huffed and pressed my lips in a thin line. “My father,” I lied.

  Elena smiled as if she knew something I had yet to discover and picked up the three cards one by one. “You might be able to lie to others around you, Marcello. But you cannot lie to me.”

  “Good night, Elena.”

  “Remember, the five of cups might be your past, but that does not mean your grief won’t determine your future.”

  I stomped out the door and mumbled, “It already has.”

  13

  Mila

  I sat on the floor of the shower, water still cascading over me while I clutched my knees to my chest. There was no way of knowing how long it had been since Saint left, and the relief that flooded me when I watched him walk out was indescribable, so my body just surrendered to it, and I could no longer stand.

  Water ran down the drain, and I watched it swirl around me until it disappeared. If only I could go with it, become water and escape whatever reality this was. I couldn’t call it a nightmare. A nightmare was something you could wake up from. This wasn’t something I could wake up from—a place where horrible things happened, but you knew it would eventually come to an end.

  No.

  This was reality. My reality. A continuation of the story of my life. A day in the life of Mila the orphan. The life of a girl with no home who grew up to be a woman with no identity…until a saint came and took her. Only he was no fucking saint, but a beast who snatched her from the only world she’d ever known and forced her into his.

  I lifted my face to let the water rain down over me. Why would I care whether I was in his world or not? It wasn’t like I had a life back in New York, apart from living with a drug addict and working as a runner at two different restaurants, pulling sixteen hour shifts as often as I could.

  I had nothing. God, not even the surname I had belonged to me.

  Black. Mila Black.

  I never questioned it, wondered why they chose Black. But now that I knew my real name, Milana, it couldn’t have been a coincidence that I ended up with the name Mila. But other than that, I was no one. So, whether I was here with him or back in New York on my own, I’d still be lost. Still be living a life I didn’t want.

  How did the saying go? Make hay while the sun shines.

  I might as well pick myself up, dry my tears, and make lemonade with the fuck-ton of lemons life had thrown my way.

  The warm water had started to turn my skin a light red, and I dec
ided to get up so I could face whatever life had in store for me from here on out.

  There was nothing but skirts, and dresses, and coats in the closet. No pants. No jeans or t-shirts. Just one designer label after the other.

  A knock on the door made me jolt, and I grabbed the towel I had wrapped around me.

  Elena peeked inside, the warm smile on her face doing nothing to appease me. “I just wanted to see how you’re doing.”

  I tightened my grip on the towel. “I want to say I’m fine, but that would make it seem like I’m in denial, don’t you think?”

  She closed the door as she stepped in, long, shapely legs accentuated by the black stiletto heels she wore. This woman was sophistication and wealth personified. She all but oozed elegance as if it had been engraved into her since she was born.

  “I brought you something to eat.” She placed a silver dome on the wall cabinet and wiped her hands together as she glanced around the room. “Are you settled in?”

  “Is that a trick question?”

  Elena took a seat on the couch which stood by the closed window. “This is not all bad, Mila.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “You were barely scraping by back in New York, living in a crummy apartment—”

  “I’d rather live in a crummy apartment in New York than be kept prisoner on some luxury estate in fucking Italy.”

  “See this as an opportunity.” She crossed her legs and folded her hands on her lap. “Marcello is a very powerful man.”

  “So I’ve noticed.” I turned my back on her and pretended to search through the closet, but, in fact, I hardly noticed anything in the wardrobe.

  The click of her heels sounded, and she stepped in next to me, reaching into the closet. “Here.” She pulled out a beige slip dress, the soft silk shining like gold under the dim lights.

  I frowned. “I’m not wearing that.”

  “I’m afraid it’s either this or sleeping naked.”