Saint: A Dark Mafia Romance

by Aubrey Irons

  I spit at his shoes, screaming and flailing again. Marlow just laughs as he stands.

  “Sit tight, kid. I’ll be back for you.”

  The door slams shut behind him, and I scream.

  The room spins, and the emotions come roaring up inside, making me shake.

  And something snaps.

  I’m done rolling over. I’m done being frozen by indecision. And I am done pretending everything going wrong with my life is somehow outside my control.

  Here in this room, lying on the ground and tied to this half-broken chair, I realize I’m in control.

  I jerk my arms, feeling the cracked chair creak behind me. I strain harder, putting my everything into it and feeling my arm muscles burn. Rope cuts into my wrists, and I grit my teeth, pulling with every single thing I have when suddenly, the whole thing gives way.

  I gasp as my arms snap free, the back of the chair splintering apart. I claw at the now loose ropes, yanking them and the remains of the arms of the chair off of me as I scramble up from the floor. I’m panting, whirling as I look wildly around the room. I creep to the door, and slowly, I try the knob.

  You’ve gotta be kidding me.

  It opens a crack, and I glance out to see an empty hallway, with shadows moving and talking further down around a corner.

  Quickly, I step back inside and close it again, my eyes darting around the room again, looking for something.

  I need a plan, or a phone - neither of which I have. Or maybe I need a weapon, or some other way out of this place, or-

  My eyes drop to the desk Marlow was sitting on. Specifically, to the silver Zippo lighter sitting on the corner of it that he used to light his cigarette earlier.

  My mouth goes tight.

  The lighter is cool in my hand, heavier than I expected. It’s old, probably an antique by the look of the worn engravings down the side of it.

  Slowly I turn, and my eyes land on the huge stacks of newspaper lying against the rusted file cabinets on the far wall, Richard Nixon’s disgraced face scowling back at me.

  Keep lighting fires, princess.

  My face goes grim as I open up the Zippo and flick the flame on, watching it spark and engulf the wick.

  A grim smile spreads over my face.

  No more indecision.

  No more hiding from it all.

  No more pretending I’m helpless against what the world throws my way.

  Because this time, it’s time to fight back.

  It’s time to light some fucking fires.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Connor

  After the pain, after the throbbing in my head, and even after I try the door - twice, there’s just the regret.

  I blink, groaning in the semi-darkness of the room. I grit my teeth, my head swimming and pounding like a goddamn drum as I slam my palm against the door one final time.

  The shittiest part about all of this is that I walked right into this. The old me would have seen this coming a fucking mile away. But I was blinded, my senses dulled.

  By her.

  Of course by her.

  And damned if I wasn’t totally okay with that. Damned if I wouldn’t trade the “old me” again in a fucking second for the last week with her. A week of her knocking down the walls one by one - deconstructing the man I’ve been telling myself I am for years.

  And I walked right into this and let her down. And this I’m not sure I can fix at all.

  The room is some old storage room of some kind - stone walls, a crumbling beam and timber ceiling with rusty, dripping pipes running the length of it. Locked, solid wood door. No windows.

  Of course.

  I drop to the floor against the far wall, groaning as I hold my ribs.

  I was a fucking idiot for walking away from her at that beach house earlier. I was a complete fool for walking away from the one good thing to drop into my life in years, and now we’re both paying for it.

  I’ve spent years distancing myself from all of it - living alone up in my damn abandoned loft building like some sort of urban hermit. I’ve surrounded myself in coldness, and apathy, and control, and order, and anything even remotely resembling human feelings. I’ve taken it a step further, really, regarding those feelings as a weakness.

  Feelings like the ones that have come exploding out of the darkest corners I locked them in, ever since Sierra walked right up and kissed me.

  Except I don’t feel weak with her at all. In fact, I’ve never felt stronger. With her, I feel strong enough to be the man I want to be.

  Except that’s done with. Down here in this room, I know that. Down here in the musty, dusty, smoky-

  I suddenly frown, my senses perking up. My eyes narrow as I scan the roof, sniffing and thinking I must have hit my head harder than I thought. I mean shit, smelling burnt toast is a sign of an impending stroke or something.

  But then, there it is again.

  I sit up this time, inhaling deeply, and I suddenly cough.

  Okay, not having a stroke, and I am definitely smelling real smoke.

  Suddenly, I hear yelling outside in the hallway, and now I’m fucking alert. People are bellowing in Ukrainian, there’s a crash, more yelling, and slowly, I realize I can fucking see the smoke.

  I scramble up from the floor and back against the wall, swearing as the black and grey smoke starts to pour into the room from the cracks around the door. I reach up and shred one of the sleeves off my t-shirt, holding it to my face as I crouch low. My eyes scan the room as they start to water, my lungs start to burn. And I’m doubled over and coughing when I hear the door jangling.

  I tense, and as the knob starts to turn, I ready myself.

  Time to get the fuck out of here and find the girl I’ve been too much of an idiot to admit I’m completely falling in love with.

  The knob clicks. I cough, stumbling to one knee as the door flings open. Feet approach me, my jaw tightens, and as a hand lands on my shoulder, I snap.

  I’m up with a roar, lunging at the guy and slamming him backwards into the wall and-

  “Or you could stay here if you’re that opposed to leaving.”

  I blink, coughing through the heavy smoke.

  And then I grin.

  I’ve got Sierra pressed up against the wall, her eyes wild, her lips pulled into a grin.

  Soot all over her face.

  “Why do I get the feeling you had something to do with this?”

  Her eyes flash, that smile spreading over her soft lips.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I grin, raising a brow at her. She raises her hand, the silver Zippo lighter glinting in the dim light. I start to laugh, but there’s suddenly an exploding sound, and the hallway outside the door fucking erupts into flames as the ceiling gives way.

  Sierra shrieks, and I yank her behind me as fire and smoke come belching into the room, choking us and singeing the arms I throw up to block it.

  I push her back into the far corner, flames crackling and roaring as they engulf the doorway - the only fucking doorway, and I can feel her hands tight on my arm.

  Fuck, this ain’t good.

  “Connor.”

  I turn, my eyes meeting hers.

  “If we-”

  I stop her, my jaw clenching. “We’re not going to die here.”

  I say it tightly, my voice leaden as I feel the heat at my back.

  “Connor, I just-”

  “I am going to get us out of here,” I hiss, looking her dead in the eye, ignoring the sound of more of the hallway ceiling collapsing. “I just-”

  “I love you.”

  I freeze, my eyes locked on hers. And fucking all of it just goes away. The rest of it just disappears around me until it’s just me, her, those lips, and the words that just came out of them.

  “I just mean-” she stutters at my silence, her eyes dropping. “I mean if we don’t-” she shakes her head. “I need to tell you that, just in case-”

  “Hey, princess?
” I say quietly, reaching out and tilting her chin up.

  Our eyes lock.

  Time stops.

  “I love you too.”

  And then I just fucking kiss her.

  It’s the worst timing possible. We’re trapped in a fucking burning room in the basement of a building that’s crumbling around us, with the oxygen quickly turning to poison and flames licking our backs.

  But fuck if I don’t grab her, pull her against me, and kiss her with every. Fucking. Thing that I have. It’s sweet escape. It’s naked truth.

  It’s the wrecking ball that smashes through the last of the walls I’ve thrown up.

  And part of me knows I could die happy now. Part of me knows that with the one kiss, and the exchange of those words, I’ve suddenly done more living in the last forty seconds than I have in thirty years. And if now’s my time, I could go and be pretty okay with that.

  But then there’s the other part of me. There’s the part of me that knows going out now means this is the last kiss. It’s the part of me that realizes that this could be the end - the part of me that suddenly sees the unfairness and the cruelty of giving me this brief taste of what I didn’t even know I was looking for, only at the very end.

  And that pisses me off.

  That enrages me.

  Something snaps in me, and I suddenly kiss her as fiercely as I can. I kiss her until we can’t breathe before I pull back. I whirl, teeth bared as if ready to fucking fight this fire hand to hand - ready to charge head first into it and go down swinging. My eyes drag up at the raging fire, and suddenly, they land on the rusted metal pipes, drooping lazily from the ceiling above us.

  I freeze for one second, before it all snaps into place.

  I whirl, my eyes landing on the old metal desk chair tipped on its side in the corner. I lunge for it, yanking it up in my hands and raising it high.

  “Stand back, princess,” I growl, hefting the chair in my hands, and before she can say a word, I raise it high and bring it crashing into one of the pipes.

  The thing trembles, but it holds.

  I grit my teeth, feeling the smoke and the sweat pouring down my face as I raise the chair up again, bringing it crashing against the pipe a second time.

  Rust flakes sprinkle like dirty snow, the thing shudders again, but it still holds.

  This better fucking work.

  My eyes start to burn fiercer, my lungs are on fire, and I can hear her coughing uncontrollably behind me.

  I’ve got one more shot at this because we’re about to run out of time.

  One more shot.

  Just give me one more fucking shot.

  I grip the chair in my hand, raise it back, narrow my eyes at the pipe, and then I hit that motherfucker like it’s the devil himself.

  And the damn thing shatters.

  The water that comes gushing out is fucking hot, but it’ll do. I whirl and lunge for Sierra, who’s collapsing to her knees, coughing and gasping, and yank her up in my arms.

  “Hang on, sweetheart,” I growl into her ear, ducking us under the water, drenching us, and shaking it from my hair as I eye the doorway.

  “Connor,” she opens her eyes weakly, following my look and then turning back to me, fear in her eyes.

  “I don’t think-”

  “Do you trust me?”

  Her eyes hold mine.

  And she nods.

  I kiss her once more, tasting the goodness in her lips, the sweetness in her gasp, and swearing to whatever god is up there that if this is the last one, I’m going to come meet him swinging.

  The water drenches me, pouring over my face as I narrow my eyes at the belching flames of the doorway.

  “Deep breath, beautiful,” I whisper in her ear.

  And I run head first into the fire.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Sierra

  I’m aware of blazing heat - of smoke, and fire, and the shuddering, wrenching sound of the building shattering around us. I’m screaming, my fingers digging into him as we stumble through the flames, madly searching for the doorway.

  There’s a booming sound like a cannon going off, and Connor roars as exploding wood and fire slams into us from the side. A wall of flame erupts in front of us, and I scream again as he drops to one knee, his chest heaving.

  I slip out of his arms, my heart hammering a million miles a second, and one thought pulsing through my head.

  I will not die here.

  I will not die five seconds after everything in my life finally clicks.

  Five seconds after I tell the rough, broken, complicated man who stole me away five days ago that I love him.

  Screw how insane that sounds. Screw how incredibly fucked up that sounds even in my own head.

  Screw Stockholm syndrome.

  I’ve found the one thing and the one man that makes everything make sense, and I’ll be damned if I die here and now, like this.

  I throw my arms around his waist and yank him to his feet.

  “Let’s move it, Roarke.”

  He grits his teeth, suddenly throwing himself over me as another explosion rocks across us.

  “I’ve got you, princess,” he growls, hauling me up and barreling forward, limping.

  I slip my arm around his waist, shouldering some of his weight.

  “And I’ve got you, mister,” I hiss back fiercely.

  Heat explodes over my back, acrid smoke burns my lungs, tears stream down my face, and our legs carry us barreling forward, with no concept of which way is out in this fiery hell. There’s another shattering, crushing sound of the roof giving way, I’m screaming, Connor is yelling, his arms suddenly scooping me up as he starts to run…

  And then suddenly, we’re out of it.

  We go crashing through a doorway, or it might be a window or a hole in the wall, but suddenly, there’s air, and solid ground, and a lack of flames burning us.

  Connor takes us stumbling five more steps before he collapses, both of us tumbling to the ground. There are voices, and people running towards us, and I want to scream at how fucking unfair it is that we’ve made it out only to be snagged by the goddamn Ukrainians again, when suddenly a hand lands on my arm. A calm, rough and yet soothing voice speaks to me.

  In English, without a Balkan accent.

  “Easy, darlin’, easy. I’ve got you.”

  Hands pull me up, and a blanket is suddenly swirling around me. Water pours against my lips, and I choke, slurping at it and almost crying with the sweet joy of the cool liquid running over my lips.

  “You okay, hon?” a woman’s voice says, hands rubbing my arms. “Are you hurt anywhere?”

  I open my eyes, and I almost take a step back.

  She’s beautiful - glowing, fiery red hair and dark brown, calculating eyes. But it’s the man standing next to her that throws me for a momentary loop.

  He’s Connor, but not. Connor with a slightly younger face, a softer, more boyish smile, and crystal blue eyes, rather than dark brown. He’s certainly handsome, and he’s got that same fierce look that Connor does.

  I nod as he peers at me. “I’m okay,” I choke out.

  I glance urgently past them at Connor, currently being pulled to his feet by a second guy – blonde, built, with chiseled good looks.

  “Always gotta show off, huh?” The guy says with a grin as he hauls Connor up.

  Connor ignores him, his eyes roaming wildly until they lock onto me. And they never leave mine as he shoves all three of them out of the way, stumbles into me, and scoops me into his arms. His lips find mine and I swear I never want them to leave.

  And for one minute, the rest of it fades away. For a minute, with his lips on mine, his breath mingling with mine, and his strong arms holding me tight, I forget about the rest of it - the fire, the pain, the brush with death, or the strangers standing around us.

  The guy who gave me water and a blanket coughs. Connor ignores him, and goes right on kissing me, until I shyly pull away, my brows arching as I grin at him.
He grins back before he turns.

  “What.”

  The younger guy rolls his eyes at him.

  “So, you’re Sierra,” the red-haired woman says, eyes appraising me.

  I nod, feeling Connor’s arm go around me.

  The woman slowly grins.

  “Thanks for saving my idiot big brother here,” the guy next to her says with a smirk.

  Connor chuckles. “Sierra, my little brother Liam, and this is Aela.”

  That’s when I realize I’m talking to the head of the Boston Irish crime world, which isn’t exactly something you can say to yourself every day.

  “And this is Damian,” Connor nods at the good looking blonde guy behind them, who helped him to his feet.

  I smile. “Oh, the grocery guy!”

  Damian laughs, his bright blue eyes flickering as he pushes a hand through his hair. “Yeah, that’s me. Grocery guy.”

  “Oy! Check out who we found!”

  The fire’s still raging behind us as we turn to see four guys with guns hauling a choking, wheezing, sputtering figure towards us.

  Marlow.

  Marlow whose eyes go wide when they see me, and downright fearful when they spot Connor.

  The men march him over, and I can feel Connor tense next to me.

  “This fucking guy,” Liam hisses, drawing his gun.

  My eyes go wide before suddenly, Aela’s hand goes out and stays his.

  “Hang on.”

  Liam’s eyes blaze. “You know this piece of garbage deserves a bullet,” he growls through clenched teeth, eyeing his fiancée. “We should oblige him.”

  “No, we shouldn’t.”

  Connor’s voice cuts through like a knife.

  “Killing him is a temporary solution,” he says evenly. “Now leveraging him, though…”

  Aela smiles and nods. “I think the Feds might be willing to trade some favors to have him back in their hands.”

  “Fuck you, cunt. Fuck you and your fucking-”

  Every guy there is about to react, but Aela does first, whirling and swinging a solid looking fist right into Agent Marlow’s nose.