The Rise of Saint

by J, Bella

  “I don’t understand why I need to wear a wedding dress.”

  Elena eased the zipper closed behind my back. “Photographs will be taken to release to the press once news breaks about your marriage.”

  My heart flipped inside my chest as I jerked around. “What?”

  Elena seemed surprised. “Once Marcello introduces his new wife as Milana Katarina Torres, there will be a media frenzy around you.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Because he’s like goddamn royalty around here.”

  “No.” Elena moved to stand in front of me. “Not because of who he is, but because of who you are. The Torres family are just as wealthy and powerful as the Russos, and everyone knew about the Torres baby girl who died at birth.” She placed a comforting hand on my shoulder. “To the public, it will be as if you have returned from the dead.”

  Elena’s words slammed into me like a wrecking ball, air rushing out of my lungs. Never did it cross my mind what the world would think, or how people would react when they found out who I was. Saint had told me that my family was one of Italy’s wealthiest, but it never occurred to me that my true identity would shake the lives of others.

  “Does my mother know I’m here? That I’m with Saint?” I kept my voice soft in fear it might crack if I tried to speak any louder.

  Elena shook her head. “No one knows. But soon everyone will.” She handed me a bouquet, and I stared at the soft pink flowers. “Peonies. Or as some call it, the rose without thorns.”

  “It’s beautiful.” I brought them up to my nose, inhaling the soft, floral scent. Tears started to burn, and my heart ached because of what was about to happen. Every girl dreamt about her wedding day—the dress, the flowers, the music. It was supposed to be the happiest day of their lives—except for me, it wasn’t.

  Elena stayed two feet behind me as I made my way to the deck. With every step I took I had to clench my jaw tighter, fight harder to keep the tears from falling. It was impossible to square my shoulders as the weight of what was about to happen crushed me little by little. The voices in my head screamed at me to run, but the sound of yacht engines and splashing water warned me that there was nowhere to run. There was no escape. Not for me.

  One step at a time, I could feel my life crack, splintering into pieces, and soon there would be nothing left of the person I once was.

  When we arrived on the deck, Saint and James were waiting for us on the open flydeck. I paused when Saint looked in my direction, my heart pounding like a jackhammer. I couldn’t get myself to move. The grave uncertainty of my fate was sinking in, and it threatened to pull me down with it. Pieces of me were breaking, and there was no hope of anyone picking it up and putting it back together. I’d be broken and scarred for the rest of my life—even after Saint would let me go. I felt in the pit of my stomach how I’d never be the same again. Nothing would.

  “Come,” Elena urged, placing a hand on my elbow. The closer I came to him, the brighter the moon shined over the open water in the distance, ripples shimmering under the breeze. The sky was clear, stars twinkling, little lights decorating the black night sky. It would have been the perfect romantic night if there weren’t so many cruel intentions infecting it with ugliness.

  Saint stood next to who I presumed to be the captain, wearing a black tuxedo, bowtie, and face shaved clean. From the outside, this would have seemed like a picture-perfect moment in time, the moment when a man welcomed his new bride to his side, staring at her with loving eyes and promises of a prosperous future. But it wasn’t that. It was everything but that.

  He held his hand out toward me, and I hesitated. For a second, I thought there might still be a way out of this, that this couldn’t be the only way. My only option. But then I heard his warning, the ultimatum. Wife, or whore?

  My decision?

  Wife.

  A tear slipped free as I reached out and placed a trembling hand in his. Surprisingly, his touch wasn’t cold, but rather warm. Welcoming. The heat from his palm spread up my arm, down my chest, and settled in my gut. But I didn’t trust it. I couldn’t.

  “You look beautiful, Mila.” His voice dipped low, a murmur of words that held no meaning. I would rather be called ugly by God than beautiful by the devil.

  I didn’t respond, and I refused to look him in the eye. I couldn’t, not with so many unshed tears on the verge of overflowing my defenses. With my hand in his, I stared out over the ocean wishing the current could carry me away from here. Help me escape. Take me to a place where this nightmare couldn’t reach me, couldn’t taint me.

  In the distance, I could hear a voice uttering words of promises and love, of man and wife together until death did they part. Until death we did part. It was words everyone had heard before. It was words known throughout the world. Words people read in fairy tales, heard in romantic movies, but never in nightmares. Ever.

  “I do.”

  I closed my eyes when I heard him say those words. It cut through my skin, the sharp blade of his voice tearing my soul to shreds, every little girl’s dream crushed within a single nightmare.

  “Do you, Milana Katerina Torres, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”

  My bottom lip trembled, my body numb and legs weak. Two words. All I had to do was say those two words, yet I couldn’t. It was stuck in my throat next to my dying heart clawing its way out.

  I reached up, the breeze blowing through my loose curls that hung down my shoulders. I wanted to touch my scar while tucking strands of hair behind my ear, but the bouquet was too heavy in my hand, Saint clutching the other.

  “Mila,” he snapped with a whisper. “Look at me.”

  I opened my eyes and looked straight into his. The moonlight teased the blue of his irises with swirls of silver, yet I saw nothing but pools of greed in its depths.

  “Say the words.” He squeezed my hand with the intention of hurting me, almost crushing my bones. “Say it.”

  Wife, or whore?

  Decide.

  Six months.

  Do it for her.

  The little red-haired girl.

  So many thoughts, so many voices, it was impossible to hear my own.

  I took a deep breath, inhaling the ocean’s salty scent—the fresh air doing nothing to calm my wildly beating heart or the fear that pulverized me from the inside.

  Saint tightened his fingers around my hand some more, urging me to say it. To speak the words that would bind me to him in a way only two lovers should be. Not us. Not like this. It was wrong, but it was a wrong I couldn’t run from.

  A single tear lapped down my cheek, spilling from my soul and onto the ground beneath my feet. The fiery pits of hell had been ignited in my gut, and my throat burned as the poisonous words lay on my tongue—a serpent ready to strike.

  I once again closed my eyes, unable to look at him as I handed my soul over to the devil. “I do.”

  “You may kiss the bride.”

  The dam broke, and my tears ran freely as I closed my eyes. Every corner of my insides ached as if my flesh had been torn from my bones.

  A gentle hand touched my cheek, wiping at the wet trace my sorrow left behind. My eyes remained closed. I was too much of a coward to open them, to look into the eyes of my tormentor.

  “Bellissimo segreto,” he whispered before touching his lips to mine. Instinct had me drop the bouquet so I could push against his chest, a meek attempt to stop what I thought would be a cruel kiss meant to dominate. To take. But instead, it was tender, soft, and unrushed. The way his mouth lingered on mine was like a man trying to subtly coax the lips of his lover to open for him. A silent plea for permission.

  Rejection turned into acceptance as my hands relaxed against the crisp fabric of his dress shirt, heat gradually thawing the ice in my veins. The cold fingers of fear that had held me prisoner tore from my bones one by one, a single moment at a
time.

  He inched closer, Italian leather shoes touching my ivory satin heels. Our bodies were so near each other, not even the subtle summer breeze could slip between us. A strong arm snaked around my waist and pulled me against him, a whimper rushing from my lips. It was a passionate act that robbed my lungs of air right before it tore my world from under me. Like a thief in the night, he stole my heart from my chest. A swindler who took what I wasn’t ready to give with a single kiss. A tender moment. A beautiful deed of sordid intentions.

  Our lips brushed, and our mouths melted together in a caress that was a mere whisper, yet powerful enough to let me lose my way, losing my sense of direction, no longer knowing whether I was moving or standing still. His kiss tore through the barrier of my lips, and with a single sweep of his tongue against mine, he tipped my world off its axis. A simple kiss and gravity was lost.

  He tasted of earth and water, fire and ice, salvation and destruction all together in a tender kiss that held me captive throughout a stolen moment in time. A moment where my hate for him was pushed back and made way for a flicker of desire—something that made no sense to me. But my inhibitions had been carried away by the breeze, and my walls came tumbling down, allowing me to not care about anything other than the feel of his lips against mine.

  He pulled away, but I kept my eyes closed while his kiss still lingered on my lips together with the bittersweet taste of how the devil stole my soul. My identity. My heart.

  18

  Saint

  Kissing Mila was nothing like I had expected.

  It was more. Much. More.

  Numerous women had stained my sheets, but I could count on one hand how many of them I kissed. People said sex was the most intimate act between man and woman. I disagreed. There was far more weight in a kiss than ramming your cock in some random pussy. And kissing Mila proved that somehow. Her sweet taste, soft lips, and velvet tongue stirred my insides to life. It swallowed the darkness, a sliver of light tearing through the veil of black. The way she surrendered her fight and gave in to the kiss made me wonder if she felt it too, or was I merely grabbing on to something that wasn’t there?

  It happened when she walked out on the deck, the breeze ruffling through the overlay of her dress, wild curls falling down her shoulders. It was a juncture in time when she became more than just a means to an end, more than a wife whose name I needed on a piece of paper. She wasn’t just the Torres girl anymore. She was mine.

  The entire time we stood there before the captain, all I thought about was the moment I’d be able to kiss her. I craved that moment. Longed for it. I wanted to know what she tasted like, how her lips would feel crushed against mine.

  I didn’t know what the fuck was happening, and not knowing meant I didn’t have control. Not having control wasn’t a luxury I could afford—especially now that I was so close to getting what I wanted. So close to tasting the vengeance I’d craved for so long. I couldn’t let a woman distract or pull me off course while on my way to the destination I had in sight.

  With a heavy reluctance, I tore my lips from hers, and the sweet whimper that slipped from her lips had me biting my tongue.

  Our gazes met, the moon casting a subtle shimmer across her cheeks. Pale pink lips begged for mine, and it took all my self-control to take a step back. I had to break the moment, sever the connection in order to evade my growing desire for this woman. If I let it continue, it would become a distraction that would cost me too much.

  I crouched and picked up her bouquet, handing it back to her. Our fingers brushed, and I swallowed as desire flared. “All the necessary documents have been prepared. Our signatures are all that’s needed.”

  She seemed surprised. “How did you—”

  “There is nothing in this world money can’t buy, Mila. Getting you a valid passport in your real name was hardly a complication.” I smirked. “Now, let’s go sign those documents.”

  Her lips parted, unshed tears still lingering in the corners of her eyes—a strong reminder that what I had made her do caused her pain. It was also a sign for me not to forget what this really was.

  A business transaction.

  A merger.

  An arranged marriage that, after almost a century, finally took place.

  I turned my back on her and grabbed a glass of champagne from a tray held by one of the crew. I had to walk away. I had to shake this motherfucking awful feeling that I had just done something that could never be undone. A carving in stone that neither money nor blood could erase.

  It was unlike me to fight the craving whenever I wanted something. There was nothing I couldn’t have, nothing I wouldn’t allow myself to indulge in. But there was a gnawing warning scratching at my bones that Mila was an indulgence I would drown in. Become addicted to after one taste.

  My feet stomped across the wooden deck, and I heard the click of heels behind me. The marriage documents had been placed on the white oak table in the dining area. The glass of champagne I had was already empty, and with a mere wave of a hand, I was given a new glass.

  Mila stood at the other end of the table, and I grabbed the pen, holding it out to her. “Your name is stated as Milana Katarina Torres on all the documents. Make sure to sign accordingly.” I slid a new ID card across the table. “Your Italian ID card. From here on out, you are Milana Katarina Russo, and no longer Mila Black. Understood?”

  She gave me a brief nod, an unacceptable response from a new wife.

  I slammed my fist on the table, and Mila yelped, shutting her eyes. “Understood?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Now, sign.”

  Wary eyes locked on mine, and I watched as she rounded the table to take her place at my side. Her bottom lip trembled, and her hand shook as she reached for the pen.

  Fear. Fear was good. As long as she had fear in her veins, she’d do what she was told.

  A gush of wind forced its way through the open space, and a lock of her wild curls brushed against the side of my neck. As if a touch from Aphrodite herself, desire rallied inside me, and I gripped the edge of the table until my knuckles turned white. My cock throbbed together with the swell of lust that burned my loins. I had to fight against the urge to tear that wedding dress off her body and make her spread her legs right here on the goddamn table, not caring who watched.

  The scratching sound of the fountain pen gliding over paper made me look down, Milana’s signature perfectly placed on the dotted line. The T of her surname was signed almost identical to her father’s, with an almost unnoticeable twirl at the end. A tear fell directly above it, and I continued to watch as the paper soaked up the wetness, as if her sorrow sealed the contract.

  Mila grabbed hold of the table, her legs unsteady. I reached for the pen she still clutched in her hand, and my palm brushed her skin. An electric current zapped from her hand to mine, and she looked up at me, her eyes wide with confusion. But I pretended as if nothing had happened, as if I felt nothing, and took the pen before signing my name—our marriage now legal and binding.

  I dropped the pen, grabbed my glass, and brushed past her in complete disregard. “Get some sleep. You have dark circles under your eyes. It’s unbecoming.”

  My words were meant to hurt, meant to scorn. She was nothing but a street rat with a mistaken identity and a million-dollar signature.

  “What happens now?”

  Her words stopped me in my tracks, and I pulled my lips in a straight line as annoyance burned my tongue. I turned and shot her a devilish smile. “Now we have our honeymoon.”

  The sudden ashen color on her cheeks brightened her full, pink lips. That perfect cupid’s bow enticed me from across the distance between us, and I was reminded what it felt like to feel them on mine.

  “Is this all not cruel enough that you feel the need to be a bastard and toy with me as well?” The hard edge in her voice was merely a mask to hide her fear. Her uncertainty. But nevertheless, I’d be a fool if I allowed her to speak to me that way.

 
With a few long strides, I closed the distance that kept us apart. A rush of adrenaline fueled my strength and burned my veins as I grabbed her arm and twisted it behind her back before I grabbed her neck and forced her down, bent over the fucking dining table.

  “What did I say about disrespecting me?” I pushed down hard, her lips puckered with her cheek against the white oak. She tried to speak, but I tightened my fingers around the back of her neck, her tears staining my priceless dining table. “And what did I say about your tears?” I bit my bottom lip, my cock throbbing with depravity, her body bent and held in place perfectly for me to take her right here, right now. There was no one around, no one who could stop me. And even if there were, she was my wife now. I owned her.

  “Please—”

  “Unless that please is followed by the words ‘fuck’ and ‘me,’ I suggest you keep your mouth shut.”

  She shut her eyes, more tears slipping down, and then I lost all control. I lost all sense of right and wrong, seeing only my will. My desire. My craving.

  I grabbed the paper and shoved it closer to her face. “Look. You see that?” She opened her eyes and whimpered. “That signature right there says you’re mine. I own you. That also means you are mine to take whenever the fuck I want.”

  My fingers tore at the overlay of her dress, frantic to expose the part of her I wanted to claim. There was nothing she could do but cry, giving me more tears that plunged me deeper into the darkness—a place where I didn’t give a fuck. That came with the Russo blood that ran through my veins, an entitlement to always take what you wanted without remorse, without regret.