Saint’s Pov

The city is a blur of glass and neon outside the tinted windows, but my focus isn’t on the streets. It’s on the storm building inside me. Nico crossed a line when he went near Maya. He knew exactly what he was doing. He wanted to rattle her, to plant seeds in her head that would grow into cracks I couldn’t control.

I should be furious at her for even entertaining him. I should be furious at myself for letting her out of my sight. But what claws at me more than anger is the image of her standing in front of him, unguarded, her green eyes locked on a man who would twist them into weapons if he could.

My jaw tightens as I glance at her now, sitting silently beside me in the car. She stares out the window, her reflection caught in the glass. Her hair catches the light in strands of chestnut brown, and there’s a shadow under her eyes, proof that she hasn’t been sleeping. I did that to her. My silence, my world, my war.

She doesn’t belong in any of this, but I can’t let her go. I’ve tried to picture it walking away, giving her back the life she had before. But then I remember her standing barefoot in her apartment, a towel slipping from her frame as flames consumed the bookstore below. I remember the way her hands pressed against my bleeding side, steady even though she was shaking.

No. She’s mine now. Whether she understands it or not.

The driver takes a sharp turn, and the car slows as we near the east side. This part of the city is different from the glittering towers of downtown. The streets are narrower, the lights dimmer, the air heavier with smoke and rust. It’s the kind of place that breathes secrets.

Lucio’s voice cuts through the silence. “He’s at the club. Private table, back corner.”

Of course. Nico has always liked to stage his provocations where there’s an audience, where whispers can carry faster than bullets.

The car stops in front of the unmarked building. On the outside, it looks like nothing, just another shadow wedged between warehouses. But inside, it’s all velvet curtains and polished marble, a playground for men with money to waste and power to prove.

I step out first, adjusting the cuffs of my shirt, sliding my watch back into place. Every movement is deliberate, calculated. Men like Nico feed on weakness, on hesitation. I don’t give them either.

Maya follows reluctantly, her footsteps light behind me. I can feel her resistance, the way her body stiffens as she takes in the glowing entrance. I don’t look back. If I do, I might waver. And wavering isn’t an option tonight.

Inside, the air is thick with cigar smoke and expensive perfume. Laughter and the clink of glasses float through the dim lighting, but it all dulls to background noise as my eyes find him.

Nico.

He sits at his table like a king on a throne, his dark hair slicked back, a glass of red wine in hand. He doesn’t rise when he sees me. He doesn’t need to. His smirk says everything. He expected me. He wanted me to come.

I cross the room slowly, each step measured, the floor vibrating faintly beneath the bass of the music. People glance our way, conversations dipping, but no one dares interrupt. The weight of tension spreads like smoke.

When I stop at Nico’s table, I don’t sit. I don’t drink. I don’t play his game.

“You think approaching her was wise?” I ask, my voice flat, controlled.

His smirk widens. He sets the glass down with a deliberate slowness, as if savoring the moment. “I was curious. You’ve been keeping her hidden. That’s unlike you, Saint. You don’t let anyone in. I wanted to see what makes her so different.”

I lean forward just enough to let my shadow fall over him. “Stay away from her.”

Nico tilts his head, eyes glinting with amusement. “And if I don’t?”

The question is bait, but I don’t flinch. I lower my voice so only he hears. “Then you’ll find out just how much of Venice I brought back with me.”

For a fraction of a second, his smirk falters. It’s quick, almost invisible, but I see it. Venice is a name that still tastes like blood, a wound neither of us healed from. He hides it quickly, leaning back in his chair, but I’ve already marked the crack.

Maya shifts behind me, her presence sharp at the edge of my awareness. I don’t need to look at her to know she’s watching every move, every word. I can feel her heartbeat in the air.

Nico lifts his glass again, taking a slow sip. “Always dramatic. But you forget, Saint. I know you. I know what keeps you awake at night. I know what you’ve lost.” His gaze flicks briefly toward Maya. “And I know what you can’t afford to lose now.”

The implication is a knife, and he twists it without remorse.

My fist tightens at my side. One move and I could end him. But that’s what he wants. Violence in public. Proof that Saint Lachlan is the monster people whisper about.

Instead, I straighten, my voice cutting through the low music. “Cross her path again, Nico, and you won’t have time to regret it.”

I turn on my heel, not giving him the satisfaction of a reaction. My men close ranks as I lead Maya out of the club, the air outside colder, sharper.

The car waits, and I slide in first. Maya follows, her silence deafening.

The drive back is heavy, thick with everything unspoken. She finally breaks it, her voice low but firm. “What happened in Venice?”

The question lands like a blow.

I look at her, really look at her. Her eyes burn with defiance, her hands clenched in her lap. She deserves the truth. She’s earned it a hundred times over. But if I give her Venice, I give her the worst of me. The blood. The betrayal. The part of me that doesn’t come back once it’s seen.

“One day,” I say quietly, and it feels like a confession more than a promise.

Her eyes don’t waver, but the silence that follows feels like distance. A distance I created.

I turn away, watching the city lights streak past the window. Nico wanted to remind me that love is a weakness. But what he doesn’t understand is that I’d burn the world before I let him touch her.

And if Venice taught me anything, it’s that I will.