Page 1 of Saint (The Divine Ruin #2)

Luca

The Seventy-Second Floor Club exists in whispers, not Google Maps.

I sit alone in its dark-paneled sanctuary where even the air feels expensive, watching my whiskey glass sweat against polished mahogany.

Manhattan’s skyline glitters beyond floor-to-ceiling windows—a kingdom of light and shadow where I’ve carved my place among both worlds.

When Dante Serpico enters, the room shrinks.

He moves with the calculated grace of a man who’s never needed to rush for anything or anyone.

He carries himself with the assured confidence of someone who’s seen men rise and fall at his word.

His black and silver hair is immaculate, his tailored Brioni suit hanging perfectly from his frame.

A politician’s smile masks a predator’s eyes.

“Luca,” he greets me, his voice warm gravel. “It’s been too long.”

I stand to embrace him, feeling the slight tremble in his handshake that power conceals. The head of the Five Families doesn’t meet just anyone at midnight.

“I appreciate you making time,” I tell him as we settle into leather chairs that probably cost more than most people’s cars.

His bodyguards position themselves discreetly by the door, then seem to disappear despite their size. Dante waves away formalities like smoke.

“For Ravello? Always.” His smile deepens the lines around his eyes. “Your father would be proud of what you’ve built. Harvard education, legitimate business empire, and...” he gestures vaguely, “other successful ventures.”

I don’t waste time circling what I came for. “I need a favor.”

Dante’s eyebrows lift slightly as he pours himself two fingers of the thirty-year Macallan between us.

“You’ve earned the right to ask. The Chinatown situation last year.

..” He doesn’t finish, doesn’t need to. We both remember the bodies, the cleanup, how I kept his name pristine while mine absorbed the whispers.

“It’s about Nico and Caterina.”

His eyes sharpen. “Ah. The newlyweds.”

“The Romanos and Benettis are making noise. They believe Caterina betrayed them by marrying outside the families. Especially to an ex-priest. The public believes they perished in the fire at St. Francis’s, but they suspect it’s a cover.”

Dante swirls his whiskey, ice clinking against crystal. “A priest falling for a mafia princess? God must be laughing.”

I smirk, maintaining my composure despite the seriousness. “Laughing or not, I won’t let them touch Nico. He’s family to me.”

“More than family,” Dante observes. “The brother you chose rather than inherited.”

I lean forward. “I want your word they’ll be completely protected.”

Dante studies me for a long moment, the city lights playing across his face. “Consider it done. No one touches them without answering to all Five Families.” He sets down his glass with finality. “But that’s not all we need to discuss tonight, is it?”

I raise an eyebrow, though I know exactly where this is heading.

“Your mayoral campaign.” Dante’s smile turns wolfish. “The families are unanimously supportive. Every one of them.”

“I’m touched by their civic engagement.”

Dante laughs, a sound like expensive leather creaking.

“We’re invested in New York’s future, Luca.

And a man like you in Gracie Mansion means our interests extend further than they ever have.

” He leans forward, dropping his voice. “Imagine what we could accomplish with one of our own signing the contracts, appointing the commissioners, directing the police.”

I meet his gaze steadily. “I plan to be mayor for all New Yorkers.”

“Of course you do,” Dante replies, amusement dancing in his eyes. “And we’ll help you become exactly that. The families will provide whatever you need—funding, media support, votes in the right districts.”

The offer hangs between us, heavy with unspoken implications. I take a slow sip of whiskey, feeling its burn match the ambition that’s driven me since Brooklyn.

“I appreciate the support,” I say carefully. “But I set my own agenda.”

Dante’s smile doesn’t waver, merely deepens into the practiced curve that’s closed a thousand deadly deals.

His manicured fingers tap once against the crystal tumbler.

“We wouldn’t want it any other way. A puppet mayor would be useless to us.

We need Luca Ravello—the man who plays both sides so masterfully that Wall Street and the waterfront shake the same hand without ever realizing they’re touching the same blood. ”

His words settle into the space between us like smoke, carrying both promise and threat. I’ve spent years building my reputation precisely because men like Dante respect strength over submission.

The moment I become another family puppet with their hands up my back is the moment I lose everything I’ve worked for—the gleaming tower with my name emblazoned in gold, the respect in my mother’s eyes, the future where I make the rules instead of just enforcing them.

“There’s one more thing,” I say, shifting the conversation back to my terms. I run my thumb along the cut-crystal rim of my glass, feeling each precise edge. “I need assurance about the Torrino situation.”

Dante’s expression hardens almost imperceptibly—just a microscopic tightening at the corners of his mouth, a flash of winter in those coal-dark eyes.

“Vincent Torrino is a problem that solves itself eventually.” His silver signet ring catches the amber light as he dismisses the man with a flick of his wrist.

“Not eventually. Now.” I lean back against buttery leather, letting my Brooklyn edge creep into my voice, the carefully cultivated Harvard consonants giving way to something sharper, something that remembers concrete playgrounds and bloody knuckles.

“He’s been moving product through my legitimate shipping routes without permission.

Three containers last month alone. That kind of heat draws federal attention I don’t need during a campaign—the kind that comes with wiretaps and surveillance vans parked outside my headquarters. ”

“Vincent is old school. He doesn’t understand the delicate balance you’ve created.” Dante drums his fingers against the armrest. “What do you propose?”

“A conversation.” I trace the rim of my whiskey glass with one finger, watching the light catch in the amber liquid. “One that makes it clear my shipping containers, my docks, my manifests—all of it—are off-limits to his product.”

“And if Vincent doesn’t listen to reason?” Dante’s eyes narrow, the wrinkles at their corners deepening like fault lines in weathered stone.

I meet his gaze without flinching, my reflection in his pupils showing nothing but cold certainty. “Then we’ll speak in a language he understands better. The kind written in red and read at funerals.”

Dante chuckles, raising his glass in a mock toast. “There’s the Ravello I remember.

Your father had the same steel beneath the silk.

” He takes a sip, then sets the glass down with deliberate care.

“Consider Torrino handled. But Luca...” His voice drops to barely above a whisper.

“When you’re sitting in City Hall, remember who helped put you there. ”

“I remember everything, Dante. Every favor, every debt, every handshake.” I stand, straightening my cufflinks. “That’s what makes me valuable to you.”

He rises as well, extending his hand. “To Mayor Ravello.”

I shake it, feeling the weight of decades of power in his grip. “To New York.”

As I walk toward the elevator, I catch my reflection in the dark windows—a man balanced on the razor’s edge between two worlds, about to leap into a third. The city spreads below me like a chessboard, and I’ve just made my opening move.