Like he expected this moment.
“Saint,” he says evenly.
His accent is faint but unmistakable.
“It’s good to finally meet you.”
My jaw tightens.
“We need to talk.”
I don’t give him time.
I cross the floor in three strides and grab him by the front of his jacket.
The stool crashes backward as I slam him into the wall.
Bottles rattle behind the bar.
“You sent killers into my house,” I growl.
My forearm presses hard into his chest.
He doesn’t swing.
Doesn’t shove back.
Doesn’t even tense.
He just looks at me.
Completely unshaken.
“No,” he says quietly.
“My mother did.”
The Mother
They failed.
Useless men.
She stands in the middle of her Manhattan penthouse, staring at her phone like it personally insulted her.
The city glows outside the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Traffic lights.
Headlights.
Millions of people living lives that mean nothing to her.
Two men dead.
And the girl still alive.
Unacceptable.
