Cornetto

A satisfied smile danced on Saint's lips as he stretched an arm toward the other side of the bed only to graze on cold empty sheets.

His brows instantly pulled together. "Where is he?"

Then, he heard the front door clicking shut, followed by a soft thud of sneakers pounding on cobblestone. Right. He remembered Roman had mentioned going for a jog. Saint let his head fall back against the pillow yet again, exhaling.

His body still singed with remnants of last night. It was a pleasant ache deep inside his muscles—a reminder of every kiss, every dragged out breath, every time Roman had whispered his name against his shivering skin as he came for him.

It hadn't been just sex.

Saint had been with men who let him take full control in bed, bending to his will because of who he was. His wealth, his power, his influence. He knew the difference. Knew what it felt like when someone bent for him out of fear or admiration rather than want.

But Roman had met him at every turn. Pushed back, pulled him in. He took Saint apart leaving every cell in his body completely undone. Touched him in places no one dared to reach like he knew him. Owned him.

The sheets still smelled like him. Saint closed his eyes for a second, replaying the way Roman selflessly gave pleasure...

Saint was certain the man had taken a huge fragment of his soul and he wasn't sure he was ever going to get it back.

And that was a dangerous game.

Then his phone rang.

He groaned, already knowing nothing good ever came from early morning calls as he blindly reached for it on the nightstand.

"Guess what?" his cousin chirped.

Saint sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "It's too early for guessing games, Giulia."

"Oh shut up, you're gonna want to hear this." She couldn't hide the excitement crackling in her voice even if she tried to. "I finally got the missing timestamps from your apartment."

That immediately got his attention. Saint sat up, sheets pooling at his waist. "And?"

She took a dramatic pause just to piss him off, before saying, "Looks like whoever tampered with the footage didn't just erase time. They moved the cameras to create perfect blind spots. It was subtle, but when I compared the old angles to the new ones, I caught it."

Saint's fingers curled around the sheets. "You're saying someone adjusted them?"

"Exactly. And tell you what? I caught a glimpse of them."

His heart thumped once, hard. "Who?"

Dio please don't let it be Nico.

"I only managed to get a side profile, but maybe you'll recognize them. One thing's for sure, it was a woman."

Saint's eyes narrowed as he processed the news. "A woman?" That didn't make sense. The only woman with access to his place was...

His stomach turned. "Giulia," he said, voice low. "Send me a picture."

"Already did."

His phone buzzed. Saint opened the image, and his chest constricted.

Bertha?

The woman who had cared for him since he was in diapers. Who had made him soup when he was sick, scolded him like a mother would and stayed loyal to the family for decades.

"Cazzo."

"I know," Giulia muttered. "It doesn't make sense, right?"

"No. It doesn't." Bertha wasn't the mole. She couldn't be.

Saint pinched the bridge of his nose. "Thanks, Giuls."

"Allora... what are you going to do?"

Saint's mind was already working, piecing together the next steps. He needed to be smart about this.

"I'll handle it," he stated, then hung up.

Without missing a beat, he dialed Niccolo who picked up on the second ring.

"You're up early, fratello," Niccolo drawled, amusement in his voice.

"I need you to pay Bertha a visit on my behalf," Saint said. "I'd prefer if you go to her place right now only if you're not too busy at the club."

"Is there a valid reason for this visit?" Nico asked. "It's the middle of the night."

"I need you to ask her if she remembers moving the cameras Sandro set in my apartment."

There was a pause. "Merda." Another silent beat. "You think she flipped?"

"No," Saint said firmly. "But someone must have made her move them to make their work far much easier."

Niccolo let out a slow breath. "Alright. I'm on it."

"Don't go il pazzo on her," implored Saint. "Be gentle."

"Right."

The line went dead.

Saint dropped his phone onto the bed, rubbing a hand over his jaw. He had trusted Bertha his whole life. And now, she was possibly involved in some shady business.

The question was who the hell was pulling the strings?

***

Hours later, the front door swung open, followed by the sound of rustling paper bags. Saint was still in bed, phone long forgotten in his lap. It was obvious something was bothering him from the thick creases etching his brow.

Saint merely glanced up as Roman stepped into the bedroom breathing a little heavy from his run with small paper bags dangling from his fingers. Roman crossed the room and set the bags on a nightstand before leaning down to press a small kiss on Saint's forehead.

"Morning," he murmured, his lips brushing against Saint's warm skin.

"Bon jornu," Saint replied, letting his eyes flutter shut as he allowed Roman to trail soft kisses down his temple, then along his jaw, before he reached his neck.

A low, lazy hum left Saint's throat. "You're sweaty."

Roman smirked. "And you like it. Otherwise, you wouldn't be nuzzling me like a cat in heat."

Saint wasn't going to give Roman the satisfaction. But truth be told, the scent of him—salt, skin and something deeply and unmistakably Roman—didn't bother him in the slightest. In fact, he was getting slightly turned on just by inhaling his scent.

Roman brushed his nose against Saint's pulse point, his voice a husky whisper. "You sore?"

"A little," Saint admitted cracking an eye open. "But I'm not complaining."

Chuckling, Roman pulled back as he peeled off his damp shirt before tossing it in a laundry hamper. "Good." he said, reaching for the waistband of his shorts. "So why the long face?"

"Giulia called," Saint breathed out loudly as he ran a hand through his dark hair.

Arching a brow, Saint grabbed a towel from the dresser. "And?"

"She got the missing timestamps from my apartment in Chicago. It seems someone moved the cameras to create blind spots."

"And who was it?"

Saint's throat felt tight. "Bertha."

Roman's brows hiked up. "Damn. The housekeeper?"

"The woman who raised me," Saint corrected.

Roman studied him for a long moment. "Looks like your intuition is already telling you she had nothing to do with it."

"I know she's not the mole." Saint stated firmly. "Bertha's been in my life since I was a kid. She's not that kind of person. Someone must have manipulated her."

Roman didn't want to push further. This was something Saint had to figure out on his own. "You want to join me for a shower? Take your mind off things for a bit?"

Saint shook his head, "No, you go ahead."

Roman nodded before disappearing behind the bathroom door and fifteen minutes later, he emerged steam curling from behind him. A towel hung low on his hips as he ran another over his hair.

He caught Saint's eye and gestured to the bags he had placed on the nightstand earlier. "Got you breakfast."

"You sure you don't mean dessert?" Saint's gaze mischievously raked over Roman's body covered only in a towel romancing with gravity.

Huffing out a laugh, Roman grabbed a steaming cappuccino and passed it to Saint who murmured a soft thanks. "How about I put some real food inside you first?"

"Is that right?"

"Mmm." Roman settled on the bed beside Saint, unwrapping a pastry. He held it between them scrutinizing it like he wasn't entirely sure he hadn't just been scammed. "Hope you like whatever this is. The lady at the bakery said it's a favorite among Italians and I figured she'd know better than me."

From the outside, it looked like a squat, dry croissant, the day-old sort you might get in a gas station, but sprinkled with lashings of icing sugar.

"Cornetto di crema?" Saint knew better though. He leaned in, taking a bite directly from Roman's hand. He chewed thoughtfully while enjoying the yolky soft custard, sweet without being cloying. Then, he glanced at Roman. "Where'd you get the money to buy all this good stuff?"

Roman's fingers clamped around the pastry a little too hard. He didn't look at Saint right away. He tore a piece of cornetto and popped it into his mouth, chewing slower than necessary.

When he finally spoke, "I have two thousand euros in my offshore account."

Saint didn't say anything and the quiet between them stretched into an uncomfortable silence.

Roman swallowed. "I know I owe you a shit ton of money," his voice was quiet. "And I'll pay you back even if it takes my whole life." He sighed. "I just wanted to do something nice for you."

The expression on Saint's face didn't change. He wasn't concerned about the money. That wasn't the point.

"Forget about the money you owe the famiglia," Saint finally said. "Joel gave me fifty percent shares of his logistics company in Panama and it's now worth more than a hundred million euros. I took it as an investment."

Roman's brows scrunched together. "Joel?"

Saint gave him a puzzled look. "Your heist partner."

A flicker of confusion, then realization. Roman's lips parted slightly, but no words came out.

Big Lou. He never knew the guy's real name.

The man he'd planned the job with. The same man who had walked away with half of the fifty million euros now had a successful business to his name. Managed to secure a future for his offsprings.

And what had Roman done with his half? Pissed it all away in a local casino until there was nothing but a regretful two thousand euro.

His stomach painfully clenched.

Saint noticed the way Roman's shoulders sagged. The look of regret, shame, maybe both crossed his features before he forced a weak smile.

"Oh." The word felt like gravel in Roman's throat. He let out a dry laugh. "Well. Guess I was the idiot in that partnership."

Saint didn't try to soften the truth. He just gave him a long look, then finally broke the tension by pulling another pastry from the bag and placing it in front of Roman.

"Eat."

"You're not gonna give me a lecture?"

Saint took a slow sip of his cappuccino, completely unfazed, as if they weren't in the middle of a heavy conversation. Finally, he set the cup down on the night stand and said, "If you want to recover from your addiction that has to be your decision."

The lighting in the apartment made Saint's eyes appear mostly light brown with flecks of yellow dusted around the irises. The pair met Roman's blue and brown one. "As your boyfriend, all I can do is support you. But at the end of the day, the work has to come from you."

Roman had been bracing for judgment, for Saint to pick him apart like everyone else had before. But instead, he got that.

"Boyfriend, huh?"

"Out of everything I just said, that's what you focus on?"

Grinning, Roman leaned back against the headboard. He felt his chest ease a little. "I suppose it's nice to hear you say it."

Saint picked up a sugar packet and flicked it at Roman's forehead. "Eat your damn food."

Roman caught it before it hit him, laughing as he tossed it aside. "Okay, boyfriend."

He didn't deserve Saint. Not even a little bit but fuck if he wasn't grateful for him.

***

It was close to midnight in Chicago and Bertha's home smelled of freshly kneaded bread and roasted espresso beans, the place exuded a kind of warmth that reminded Niccolo of a time when things were much more simpler.

But he wasn't here for the nostalgia.

Bertha looked surprised when she opened the door to find Nico standing out there in the dark.

"Niccolo, caro." her lips curved into a gentle smile, already stepping aside to let him in. "Come on in, sit. I'll make you some caffè."

He followed her inside, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, watching as she moved to a small kitchenette where she poured dark liquid into delicate porcelain cups. Niccolo didn't touch his when she slid it in front of him.

"Is everything alright?" Bertha asked, genuine concern laced in her tone.

Leaning against the kitchen island, Nico casually said, "Did you by any chance move Saint's security cameras?"

The teaspoon in her hand fell against the saucer clinking loudly inside the small space.

Her brow furrowed slightly. "Yes, I did."

No hesitation.

Nico studied her. "Why?"

She sighed, wiping her hands on her night gown. "Signore Federico asked me to. He said the dust behind them was bothering Saint's hay fever."

Nico froze. "Saint doesn't have hay fever."

Bertha's expression softened. "I know." She gave a small shrug. "I thought it was odd, but I didn't mind cleaning them."

She was telling the truth. Nico could see it in her eyes.

"Did Federico say anything else?"

"No. Just to be thorough and not to try and twist the cameras back in position because I could risk breaking them." The lines in her eyes crinkled with worry. "Did I do something wrong, Niccolo? I knew I should've asked Saint first."

Nico shook his head, offering her a small, reassuring smile. "No, Bertha. You were just doing what you thought was right."

But inside, his mind was already racing.

Federico.

Quel figlio di puttana. He should have killed him that day.