Sweetheart

The weight of the phone in Roman's hand seemed to grow heavier with each passing moment. He stared at the screen before dialing the number he already knew by heart. It rang a few times before Max picked up.

"Hello?"

"Hey Max, it's me."

"Rome?" The name came out in a rush, sounded more of a gasp. "Where are you? Are you okay?" Max's voice was borderline relief and confusion. "Your parents came to New York and filed a missing persons report months ago. We all thought you were dead!"

Roman winced. "I'm in Chicago," he tried keeping his tone as neutral as possible.

"Chicago?" Max's confusion quickly turned into fury. "What the hell are you doing there?"

"It's complicated. I can't really explain everything over the phone."

"You can't just drop the it's complicated line and expect me to just leave it there," Max snapped, his voice rising. "You just vanished, not a single word to anyone. Five months, Roman, and you have the audacity to say it's complicated?"

Before Roman could respond, a faint voice filtered through the background, a woman's voice, soft and affectionate. "Hurry up, babe, the next episode is starting."

Roman felt as if he'd been punched in the gut. A woman. Max had moved on. He could picture it now—Max and his new girlfriend curled up on a couch, living a life that didn't include him. His chest tightened. 

"Are you happy with her?" He was afraid of the answer.

There was a long pause on the other end of the line, however when Max spoke again, his tone was softer. "I am, Rome. I really am. She's everything I ever wanted."

Roman nodded to himself. He tried to swallow the lump growing in his throat which threatened to choke him alive and forced out the words that needed to be said. "That's good. I'm really happy for you."

Nothing about this situation was good. The truth was, it seemed like a tragic ending to a life that he once had but wasn't sure if he truly wanted back and yet he didn't want to lose that life either. There was nothing more to be said. The silence between them was heavy with all the things they weren't saying.

Max was first to break the silence. "Take care of yourself, Rome, and please for the love of God will you call your mother?"

"I will," he muttered, but Max had already hung up.

The screen dimmed to black. Roman scanned the room, searching for something to distract him from the pain in his chest though the finality of it was the closure he needed.

After taking in a deep breath, Roman tried steadying himself before climbing down the stairs. The apartment was too quiet, too calm—it was messing with his head. As he walked into the living room, his steps slowed, eyes drawn to a figure on the couch.

Saint was working on his laptop with no shirt in sight, it seemed he'd just changed his wound dressing. His attention focused on the screen. The brightness from the laptop highlighted the sharp angles of his jaw and the bandages that peeked from under his collarbone. With a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose, Saint looked... angelic, sort of.

Sensing Roman's presence, Saint didn't immediately look up. Instead, he took his time typing something before finally speaking. "How did it go?"

Roman shrugged. "Exactly how it was supposed to."

Saint closed the laptop and set it aside, leaning back slightly. The movement exposed more of his chest, the new bandages stark against his skin. "You should know that I'm grateful for what you did to me the other night," he stated. "You're free to go and live your life."

The offer was genuine, Roman could see that. Saint was giving him an out. But as those words hung in the air, Roman considered the offer. The reality was, there was nothing out there for him.

The life he had before all this was gone, and the world outside the Bertinelli protection was filled with uncertainties and dangers he wasn't sure he could face alone. Not to mention he still had hundreds of people like Cruz and Koslov still searching for him.

"I have nowhere else to go," he admitted. "What am I supposed to do out there?"

Saint's eyes softened for a brief moment before the mask of indifference slid back into place. "I don't know, return to the church? Continue being a priest."

"You know I can't do that," Roman shot back, his voice laced with frustration. "That life... it's a lie I can't keep living."

"There's nothing I can do for you."

Roman ran a hand through his hair, his mind racing for a solution. "I could work around at the estate, slowly pay you back the money I stole from the vault."

"And how long is it going to take for you to work for 50million euros?"

"For as long as it takes," Roman was adamant.

Saint waved him off like a bug. "Besides, you can't work for the famiglia. You don't have an ounce of Italian blood in you. There are rules to this life."

"I could still be useful to you."

Saint's gaze narrowed. "Useful how? You have no clue. It's not just about running collections and providing muscle. It's blood, betrayal, and death. You're not cut out for any of this."

"You don't know that."

"Oh, trust me, I do."

Roman took a step closer, his desperation growing. "I haven't finished your little side quest. You wanted me to keep an eye on Nico. I'm not yet done with that."

Saint's jaw clenched. He looked away for a moment, clearly torn. With a reluctant nod, he agreed. "Fine. But you keep your head down and don't get yourself killed."

You're not ready to let him go just yet, are you?

Roman felt a flicker of relief, but he didn't let it show. "I won't. I'll just be doing my job."

Saint stood up from the couch, his presence towering over him. "It's not just a job. It's dangerous, and I don't have time to babysit you."

"You won't have to, I can handle myself." Roman assured him, though he wasn't sure if he was trying to convince Saint or himself.

"And if you fail..."

Roman didn't need him to finish the sentence. "I won't fail."

He wasn't naïve, he knew that one mistake could mean his life. But in a strange way, the danger of it all grounded him, gave him something to focus on other than how his life had gone to hell.

At the corner of his eye, Roman watched as Saint walked to the door then paused and faced him. "By the way," he said smoothly. "I want you to fight me."

Surely he was hallucinating. "Is this a joke?"

Releasing the door handle, rather than opening it, Saint moved back towards Roman. He was now invading his space, standing just an inch or so away.

"Fight me."

Roman chuckled. "I'm not going to fight you. You're recovering, and I'd hate to break your face. It's rather pleasing to look at."

"You enjoy looking at my face?" Saint whispered, his lips ghosting ever so lightly over Roman's mouth.

Without thinking the priest's fingertips reached for Saint's biceps, barely touching the warm skin as his neck inched closer. Right now he wanted Saint's lips on his more than anything.

Saint however being an asshole pulled back with a satisfied grin on his lips. "I don't want you to hold back, because I won't."

"Saint—"

Sliding his hand up Roman's neck, he stopped right in the middle where he squeezed with enough force to make his breath catch in his throat. "Come on."

The apartment felt too small for both of them. "Saint..."

"I hope you know you're allowed to use words other than my name."

God, I hate this man.

"You want this?" Fed up with all the games Roman flipped Saint's hand off his neck and let out a low growl. "Fine."

He didn't give him much of a warning before swinging, aiming directly for Saint's jaw, but he must admit what happened next surprised him. Saint was quicker, way more alert than he'd anticipated. He caught Roman's fist mid-air, the impact sending shockwaves throughout his arm.

"Is that all you've got, sweetheart?"

Roman bared his teeth out at him.

Yes. Give me the animal in you.

"Are you going to just—"

Saint barely had time to finish his taunt as Roman caught him with a sharp jab to his ribs. Pain exploded through his whole side making him grit his teeth so hard he thought they'd crack. Roman wasn't holding back, this time landing a satisfying solid punch to his jaw.

No lie, the mob boss was a bit taken aback. He looked at Roman with wide green eyes before spitting blood on the wooden floor. Now it was on! Saint's hands squeezed into fists and fought back, hard.

The sound of fists slamming into flesh filled the room. Roman was a wildebeest and Saint found himself struggling to keep up thanks to his surgical wound. It was messy, brutal.

You might not ever catch him admitting it, but Saint liked this feral side he brought out of Roman.

With a quick, fluid motion, he swept Roman's legs out from under him. He hit the floor, his breath momentarily stolen by the shock of hitting the ground hard. In an instant, Saint was on top of him, straddling his hips and pinning him down with such uncharacteristic strength.

Roman gasped for breath, the fight draining out of him as he realized he was trapped. Saint's hands gripped his wrists, pressing them into the floor on either side of his head. Saint's gaze narrowed to slits. Each of his exhale a hot rush against Roman's face.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Roman's lips parted. He was painfully aware of the weight of Saint's body on top of him.

And then, he felt it—a traitorous stir in his groin, an unmistakable arousal that made his face heat up. He tried to shift away, but Saint's grip on him tightened, a smirk playing on his lips as he felt the hard evidence of Roman's desire.

"Well, well," Saint's voice sounded huskier than usual. "What do we have here?"

"What the hell was the point of all this?" Roman spat, trying to ignore the flush creeping up his neck.

"The point, Father, is that you just proved you can handle yourself if by any chance my brother decides kill you, at least I know you can fight back."

Roman scoffed as he tried to get up but Saint wouldn't let him.

Instead Saint leaned in closer, his breath brushing Roman's exposed neck and catching a whiff of sweat intricately mixed with his earthy scent—not quite like the earth just after it rained, but similar.

"You and I might have something in common after all. Looks like you also have a taste for rough."

It was true. Roman did enjoy a bit of rough play in bed. The fighting for dominance part with a lover always made the sex worthwhile in the end. 

He gritted his teeth and growled. "You have three seconds to get off me, Saint. One... Two... Thr..."

"Or what?"

"Or I'll make sure you end up tied up somewhere."

"Don't threaten me with a good time, Roman." Saint rasped.

A single fingertip traced down on the hard outline on Roman's pajama bottoms that left little to zero imagination, brushing past the wet spot that had formed there. He let out a whimper as Saint applied pressure.

How would it feel to have Saint's mouth around him, choking on his...

"Are you alright sweetheart?" Saint drawled. "You seem a bit distracted."

"I need you to get off, now."

"Wouldn't that be nice?"

Not helping.

"Saint... I meant..." he swallowed thick when Saint kissed the skin below the curve of his jaw then teased the earlobe with his tongue. "...get off..." he bit his bottom lip to stifle a whimper threatening to slip out. "...me."

Of course he already knew exactly what he meant to say. Saint was pushing him over the edge where he'd enjoy watching him tumbling down like a psycho he was.

"So tell me," Saint's lips dragged down from Roman's jaw down to his throat. He could hear the shallow rasp of Roman's breath, the beating of his pulse, feel the tautness of muscle beneath his fingertips. "Was it me being on top of you or the manhandling that got you this turned on?"

"And what makes you think it has anything to do with you?"

Dragging his eyes over Roman, Saint's lips stretched with a smug smile. "Oh trust me," so cocksure. "I know exactly what has to do with me. But by now you should know I'm a gentleman, I won't fuck you until you ask me to."

Roman felt like his entire body would incinerate down to ashes. He cast a fleeting glance where the fabric of Saint's sweatpants was visibly stretched.

Blessed be the gray sweatpants, nature's gift to show off a guy's goods.

"I ...won't," he choked on a moan as Saint pressed his hips just enough for Roman to feel the hard evidence of  his own needs.

Roman burned for him. For his touch. His lips. His di...

"You won't what, sweetheart?"

"I won't ever ask you to fuck me."

So stubborn.

A smile touched the corner of Saint's mouth. "Yes Roman," with a teasing graze of his teeth against the priest's skin, Saint's breath pulled a shudder out of him. "You will. I can see it all over you, you're begging for it even if your lips won't say it yet."

He pulled off without warning, leaving Roman laying there staring at the ceiling, his chest rising and falling as if he'd completed a marathon. He shut his eyes trying to calm his pulse, but all he could feel was the ache in his body, and the words Saint had left behind.

You will.

Now Roman didn't just want him. He craved him.