You're not my type

Saint was definitely up to something, Roman could sense it. He was playing some sort of game, though its purpose remained a mystery to Roman.

He had no idea what to expect from Saint especially after the night of...

Hell, he didn't even know what to expect from himself. His half-cooked plan to act nonchalant and pretend as if he weren't affected by Saint's mind-games seemed laughable now. He didn't need to pretend. He now felt terribly hyperaware of the Cosa Nostra boss' presence. The guy was just everywhere. In the house, in the gym, in his dreams... It was daunting.

Roman was lazing around in his room—his fancy prison cell as he liked to call it—lost in thought when the door suddenly swung open without so much as a knock. The highlight of his mindfuck strode in, exuding his usual air of confidence.

"What if I was jerking off, asshole?" Roman remarked, glancing up from where he sat on the edge of the bed.

Saint was silent for a moment as if contemplating the idea.

"Well, were you?"

"What?" Roman stammered looking absolutely horrified. "No! But what if I was?"

A faint smile curved the corner of Saint's lips. "It's a shame you weren't. I enjoy watching." See? The psycho was up to something.

When Roman shot him a murderous glare, Saint's smile broadened with genuine amusement. For the first time, the smile reached his cold eyes that shimmered with flecks of gold and green, revealing a surprising appeal that unsettled Roman. He knew the man was attractive, he wasn't blind, but he never wanted to acknowledge it. The realization was highly unappreciated.

"I have a gala to attend tonight," Saint changed the subject. "It's important for appearances."

Roman's brows knitted together. "And what exactly does this gala have to do with me?"

"You're going to be my plus one for tonight."

"Why?" Roman said.

Why? Saint stiffened. All those pretty face Instagram influencers he liked parading around would've been more than willing to be on his arm for the night. So why him? "Because that's what people do, Roman," Saint's tone was unreasonably flat. "They bring dates to these sorts of things."

"And if I say no?"

The question seemed reasonable. But now that Saint was picturing Roman in a tux, he found himself wanting to see the sight he'd make all dressed up more than anything. Though, he had to admit, the tux would probably look even ten times better discarded on his bedroom floor.

"You know very well you can't say no." Saint looked at Roman again, grinning—daring him. 

"I don't know about you, but I prefer to keep my sex life private," Roman said as he calmly sliced a piece of pineapple with his knife and took a bite. He wondered why Saint even allowed him to have access to knives, given their situation. "I don't want people to get the wrong impression."

Saint snorted. "What impression? That you're gay?"

"No, obviously I'm gay." He tried not to look at the skin under Saint's halfway unbuttoned shirt. "Anyone who knows me would know you're not my type."

"Do you also kiss people who are not your type?" Saint had to laugh. He studied Roman through his steady gaze.

Oh. So we're finally talking about that?

"I wasn't going to let you kiss me that night, Saint." Roman said stiffly, looking at the half pineapple on his plate and fighting a rogue blush.

Liar.

Saint's assessing stare was starting to get on his nerves.

"What?" Roman said uncomfortably.

"I've arranged for you to be fitted for a tuxedo."

Roman blinked at the abrupt change of topic.

"We should probably get going," Saint motioned toward the door. "The man doesn't appreciate to be kept waiting."

As they made their way to Saint's personal tailor, Roman's mind began to race. If he played his cards right, tonight might be the perfect opportunity for him to escape. There had to be a way out. Some weak point, a door, an air vent or whatever space he could fit his body and slip out during the gala without anyone noticing him.

It was a brilliant idea now that he'd put his mind to it. This was going to be his only chance and he wasn't going to waste it. He was going to at least die trying.

Cruising through the city in Saint's sleek Brabus, Saint glanced over at Roman, his tone casual but with an edge of inquisition. "So, any updates on Nico that I need to know?"

Watching the cityscape pass by, Roman shook his head. "He's been consistent with his work. There was nothing that raised any suspicion to me so far."

A thoughtful silence settled between them before Roman broke it. "You know, your brother seems like he's going through it. I know very well it's not my business, but he looks like a man dealing with depression or something."

Saint's laughter came easily, a sound that seemed to fill the car. "Nico? Depression? The guy is made of steel. If he's going through something, it's news to me. Nothing gets under his skin."

Roman raised an eyebrow. "You really think he's that unbreakable."

For the briefest moment, the gold flecks within Saint's eyes seemed to harden. A flicker of unease flashed across his face then disappeared. "Nico's tough. If he's dealing with anything personal he'd tell me."

Roman shrugged. He didn't know Nico Bertinelli as much as Saint did anyway. "Maybe I'm reading too much into it."

Saint turned to look at him. "Don't worry about my brother. Focus on your task and let me handle the rest."

The car slowed, and Saint parked smoothly in front of the tailor's building. As they stepped out, Roman glanced back at Saint, sensing a tinge of his mood change. Saint did worry about Nico.

Inside the building, the tailor was way younger than what Roman had anticipated. Twenty at most. He greeted Saint with a respectful nod. "Mr. Bertinelli. Right this way, please."

Soon Roman was surrounded by fabric swatches and measuring tapes. As the tailor worked, Saint casually leaned against a wall, watching his prisoner with an incomprehensible expression.

Roman glanced over to him. "You know, it's a bit odd being fitted for a tuxedo when I'm not exactly thrilled about attending this gala."

That cued Saint's interest. "And why's that?"

"Rich people and cameras," he scoffed. "I'm sure this fancy party of yours won't be an exception."

One corner of Saint's mouth quirked at that. He also despised cameras but attending these fancy parties was a necessity for business. "You're more than capable of handling yourself."

Roman chuckled dryly. "It's not the handling that concerns me. It's the fact that this gala could turn into a circus," he frowned. "I have people looking for me and willing to do anything to get to me."

Saint's gaze grew serious. "That won't happen."

"You sound awfully confident."

"That's because I am."

As they left the tailor, Roman found himself walking alongside Saint the two of them a study in contrasts. Roman's uncertainty for tonight's outcome and Saint's unwavering confidence created a dynamic that was both magnetic and volatile. Roman couldn't help but feel a rush of anticipation as he thought about the night ahead.

What would it feel like to be out in the open again, even if just for a few hours? The allure of freedom was strong, but so was the awareness of Saint's vicious dogs littered throughout the city always ready to pounce.

Saint's phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen and frowned slightly before pocketing it. "It seems we're running on a tight schedule. Let's go get you ready."

Roman nodded, though his thoughts were elsewhere. One misstep could ruin everything, but if he managed to pull it off, he could finally slip away from the Bertinelli claws.

He had to try. For Max.