"No, Gemma," he runs a hand through his hair. "I'm taking my wife to the beach for the weekend. That's all."
"The beach?"
He growls in frustration. "Yes. You know, sand and fucking sun. The beach. Ever heard of it?"
My heart does something complicated. "What about Antonio? The operations? The?—"
"Handled." He's already pulling my overnight bag from the closet. "Come on. We're wasting daylight."
He throws the bag on the ground, smiling at me. It's not a happy one. It's predatory, one I've seen before. The space between my thighs lights up, and I remember how long it's been since he's been inside of me.
"Wear that red bikini in your closet. The pool is heated."
That's all he says before he storms out, and somehow, I don't feel much better.
The Marini beach house is in the Hamptons. Not the flashy part where hedge fund managers throw parties, but the quiet part, where old money hides.
It's a beautiful cottage with weathered shingles, white trim, surrounded by dunes and beach grass. The kind of place that looks like it's been here forever.
I love it.
It's simple and elegant. It reminds me of summer BBQs and children's laughter.
The sight of it causes a pang in my chest.
Saint parks and grabs our bags. He's been quiet since we left the city. We took a helicopter, which he flew, insanely enough, and I didn't feel comfortable talking to him when he's stuck in his head. This impromptu vacation has me on edge, and I'm doing my best not to show it. "I spent summers here as a kid," he tells me. "Before everything went to shit."
It's the most personal thing he's ever shared, and as much as I want to push, I don't. I let Saint come to me.
He opens the door, and I'm taken aback by the décor. It's simple. Elegant and classy but comfortable with worn overstuffed furniture and soft watercolors.
Large windows look out over an expansive yard that leads to the beach, and the kitchen is open-concept and full of fruits and vegetables.
This is a home. Not a fortress. A place for a family.
"It's beautiful here," I say, wistfully.
"My mother decorated it," Saint sets the bags down. "I don't come here often. It's not my scene, but I thought you might like it."
He's not wrong. This is the type of place I've always dreamed about having. Something simple and warm.
I walk to the windows. The ocean stretches endlessly, gray-blue under the November sky. I want to ask him more about his mother. He's never mentioned her. But I can't bring myself to ask. Instead, I go with the second worst question I can think of.
"Why did you bring me here?" I cross my arms over my chest; my thick sweater does little to warm me from the chill. "With everything happening, why now?"
He comes up to me. Not touching me but close enough that I can smell the mint of his toothpaste. "Because I wanted to. Because we needed to get away from everything." A pause. "Because I wanted you to myself for a few days."
My chest tightens. I hate that even when I'm angry with him, he knows how to play me. He knows that I want nothing more than to be wanted. "Saint?—"
"Come on." He grabs my hand. "Let's walk. The beach is empty this time of year."
Saint isn't wrong. The beach is empty. It's cold and windy, but Saint keeps his hand in mine as we walk along the water's edge, and something about his nearness makes me warm.
"Tell me something," I say. "Something real. Not about operations or territory or any of that. Something about you."
He's quiet for so long I think he won't answer. "I was twelve when I killed for the first time."
I stop walking, my mouth drying up immediately. I don't know what I expected him to tell me, but it wasn't that. "You killed someone at twelve?"
