Page 57 of Saint

Positioning myself across from him, I relaxed in the seat.

“You threatened Jorge,” he purged, not retiring his intense glare on the TV screen.

“You asking or telling me?”

Relaxing in my seat, I floated the question, censoring a smirk. Of course, I threatened Jorge, and I’d do it again in an instant. As my wife, Victoria was under my care and protection. Playing didn’t fall into any language of my vocabulary, especially when it came to her.

My father opened his mouth to speak only to be interrupted by the soft knocks on the opposing side of the door.

“Come in, Beautiful,” my father called out, already aware of the culprit intruding on our meeting.

My mother entered, bringing my promised biscuit and a glass of water. She sat the plate and glass in front of me before scurrying to my father’s side of the desk. The pair shared a few wet kisses, forcing my attention to turn toward my food.

The evidence of their inability to stray from one another was never lost on me. It was what I’d witnessed but never experienced… Until Victoria. My parents shared over thirty years of love for one another. To admit that such a sickness had come over me didn’t fit what I’d planned for it to be.

I hadn’t planned for any of it. Not the way I memorized Victoria’s cravings, or the way I knew when she was about to start her cycle, or the way I could anticipate when she was about to have a nervous breakdown. Not the way I knew what her every mewl, moan, purr, and whimper meant like a second language, the way I knew every curve, knick, and mark on her body as if I owned it, not the way I anticipated spending time out on the ocean with her, the way I relaxed in her scent of lavender and rose, or the way I anticipated getting home to her.

Nah. I didn’t prepare for any of that shit.

Once my mother left the room, and it was just my father and me, his attention focused in my direction. “I received a call from Jorge a few weeks ago,” he announced. “You threatened him.”

“And?” I asked, wiping crumbs from the sides of my lips.

“And explain yourself, Saint! What would embolden you to do such a thing?”

My father’s impenetrable patience wavered as he spoke. The change in his tone failed to affect me. Instead, I grabbed my glass and chugged the water. Once I’d had my fill, I shifted my attention to the television.

“Jorge must be your new distro. Does he know I killed his brother?”

“Saint, I would be inclined to think you foolish if I didn’t know the genius of a mind you possessed…”

Turning to my dad, I spoke slowly, “He had hitters on Victoria. I took care of one of them. I told him to handle the other one.”

My father grew silent, staring at the half-consumed cup of coffee. “Well, I’m glad you were able to clarify that so simply because he’s on his way as we speak. In fact, he should be here now.

“Is there a problem?” I asked despite not seeing one. If Jorge had an issue with me, he should have made that known on the phone. We could have handled it amongst ourselves.

“Jorge will discuss whatever concerns he has when he arrives. Let this be the last time you throw your weight – the Miller name – around to threaten someone I’m connected to.”

“Tsk.” Kissing my teeth, my attention returned to the television. The Paramour Dragons were up by ten. I tried to let the words roll off my back, but they refused to follow suit, lingering in my chest and racing up my throat.

“What about Victoria? What about your connection to her?”

“You mean your fake wife, Saint?” My father cut the television off and focused on me. “What about her? Tell me, how did you manage to pull off such a convincing display from her during the family dinner? Are you paying her, Saint?”

Shifting in my seat, I felt my toes submit to the nearly uncontrollable urge to curl. The way my father pegged me and Victoria’s agreement was far from uncomfortable. Still, I refused to admit that he was right.

“I have something special with her.”

“Mmh hmm. You fell in love,” my father mused, combing through his lengthy goatee.

“I wouldn’t call–”

My statement was interrupted by the knock and then entry of Jorge Reed. Behind him were two men I assumed to be muscle. The scruffy, lean man shrouded in a peppered beard was greeted by my father while I remained seated.

“Jorge!” My dad bellowed, rising and grasping Jorge’s hand with both of his. He shot me a look urging me to rise but was met with my refusal.

“Ángel,” Jorge nodded in my direction before taking the seat closest to the door.