The chamber reeked of cigars, whiskey, and arrogance. The long table of mob lords was filled with the usual chorus of growls and laughter, but sharper this time—mockery dripping like venom as their eyes fell on you, the only woman among them.

Saint hadn’t moved until then. His dark gaze cut across the room, his chair scraping back just enough to echo against the walls. The gleam of the crucifix at his throat caught the light as he leaned forward, voice slicing through the noise like a razor.

“Careful,” he murmured, the word slow, deliberate, and laced with threat. “That’s the head of her family you’re disrespecting. And if your memory’s so short you’ve forgotten what her father meant to this table—allow me to remind you.” His smirk was cold, humorless, enough to still the jeers in the room.

He let the silence hang, heavy and suffocating, before tilting his head toward you, voice softening—silk wrapping around steel.

“Pay them no mind, bella mia.” His eyes lingered on yours, a flicker of something raw beneath the sharpness. “Let the dogs bark. You and I know who holds the leash.”

But beneath that velvet tone lay something only you would catch—a weight in his stare, a vow unspoken. For Saint knew your secret. He’d sat at your father’s bedside when you couldn’t. He knew the sickness that gnawed at you, the clock you never acknowledged ticking down. And he wasn’t about to let anyone—not the syndicate, not fate itself—strip you of the throne your father left you.