Page 6 of Saint (The Divine Ruin #2)

Luca

I rise, muscles already tense with anticipation of the day ahead.

My penthouse sits in silence as I pull on compression shorts and a moisture-wicking shirt, lace up my custom-fitted running shoes.

The routine is mechanical, practiced, but today my movements feel charged with something new. Something dangerous.

The doorman nods as I exit the building. “Morning run, Mr. Ravello?”

"As always, Fred,” I reply, voice still rough with sleep.

The predawn air hits my lungs, sharp and clarifying. Central Park waits, a dark oasis in the midst of the concrete jungle. My feet find their rhythm against the path, the steady percussion of sole against pavement drowning out everything but my thoughts.

Lily Moore. Those plump lips parted when she laughed, revealing perfect teeth that had probably cost the governor a small fortune.

That silk dress clinging to curves still ripening, the swell of her breasts rising with each breath she took beside me.

Nineteen years old. Nineteen fucking years old, with skin like cream that would bruise so easily under my hands.

I increase my pace, my cock hardening despite the physical exertion.

The math burns in my brain: she’s half my age plus one.

Her father’s princess. The kind of forbidden fruit that, once tasted, would have men like the governor calling for my head on a spike, my empire dismantled brick by bloody brick, everything I’ve built reduced to ashes for daring to touch what wasn’t mine to take.

And yet.

The way her fingertips—delicate yet deliberate—traced figure eights and spiraling constellations on my palm under that starched white tablecloth, mere inches from her father’s watchful gaze.

The unmistakable invitation in her honeyed words, spoken with her lips brushing the rim of a glass.

Mystic Mocha. Two o’clock. Her scent still haunts me—Madagascar vanilla layered with jasmine and something uniquely her, something ripe and forbidden—lingering in my nostrils even as droplets of sweat begin to slide down my temples and into the hollows beneath my cheekbones.

I push harder, my Nikes pounding the gravel path, lungs scorching like I’ve inhaled fire as I round the glassy reservoir.

Dawn fractures the darkness, spilling over the ancient elm treetops, painting the sky in watercolor washes of salmon pink and molten gold.

New York awakens around me—steam rising from manholes, delivery trucks rumbling, early risers clutching paper coffee cups—the sprawling metropolis I’ve conquered both in the harsh light of legitimacy and the shadows of criminality.

By day, I’m Luca Ravello, philanthropist extraordinaire.

The papers love me—the middle-class boy from Brooklyn who clawed his way to Harvard, built an empire, and now gives generously to those still struggling in the neighborhoods I escaped.

Last month, I funded scholarships for fifty kids from my old block.

The month before, a new wing for the children’s hospital was built.

The ceremony had been gratifying—all those tearful parents thanking me, not knowing the same hands that cut the ribbon had, hours earlier, crushed a man’s windpipe for skimming profits from my operation in Queens.

This is the duality I’ve perfected. Saint and sinner. Savior and destroyer. The blood money I launder through legitimate businesses flows back into the community, a cycle of redemption that never quite washes me clean but keeps me functional. Balanced.

And now I’m contemplating throwing it all away for a pair of blue eyes and a silk dress.

I cut through Strawberry Fields, my breathing controlled despite the punishing pace.

The mosaic spelling IMAGINE stares up at me, and I almost laugh at the irony.

What would John Lennon say about the darkness that lives inside me?

About the way I justify the violence, the control, the power I wield in this city’s underbelly? Do I care?

I imagine Lily’s face when she discovers who I really am.

What I really am. Those blue eyes widen slightly, her pulse visibly quickens at the hollow of her throat, but no screaming, no desperate scramble for the door.

Instead, her pupils dilate, black eclipsing blue in slow-motion.

She doesn't run. That’s what terrifies me most.

I saw the hunger in her eyes last night—not just lust, but something deeper, something that made her gaze lock onto mine across crystal stemware and white linen.

She was a predator recognizing its own kind.

A recognition, perhaps, of the darkness we might share, coiled and patient beneath our carefully constructed veneers.

By the time I circle back toward Fifth Avenue, the sun has fully risen, bathing the city in golden light. Sweat drenches my shirt as I slow to a walk, my decision crystallizing with each step toward my building.

Two o’clock. Mystic Mocha.

I’ll be there.

Fred holds the door as I return, my body humming with endorphins and resolution. “Good run, sir?"

“Enlightening,” I answer, stepping into the elevator and pressing the button for the penthouse.

As the doors close, I catch my reflection in the polished metal.

My eyes—typically cold obsidian—now burn with a predatory gleam I haven’t felt since taking over the Gambino territory.

A slow smile creases my stubbled jaw. Governor Moore would put a bullet between my eyes himself if he glimpsed the images flashing through my mind: his angel-faced daughter splayed across my silk sheets, those innocent lips parted in ecstasy, her porcelain skin marked by my hands.

And he’d have every fucking right.

But since when has doing the right thing been my specialty?

I strip off my sweat-soaked clothes, dropping them in a damp heap on imported marble, and step into the shower.

Scalding water pounds against the coiled muscles of my shoulders, each tattooed scar a testament to battles won.

Steam billows through the glass enclosure, transforming it into a confessional booth where I map out my approach.

This isn’t just about conquest—it’s about calculating acceptable losses.

Lily Moore could be the chink in my armor, the pressure point enemies would exploit without mercy.

Or she could be something else entirely.

Something worth burning my empire to ash for.

As I dress in a casual button-down and designer jeans—nothing too obvious for a coffee shop—I make a call.

“I need everything you can find on Lily Moore,” I tell Vega, my most trusted information broker whose scarred hands have typed their way into every secured database on the Eastern Seaboard.

“Not the public profile—I want the details her father keeps buried. Friends, enemies, indiscretions, debts. Everything that makes her vulnerable.”

Knowledge is power, and I never enter a situation unarmed.

Hours later, as I slide into the back of my Bentley, the buttery leather seats cool against my palms, and I check my platinum Patek Philippe.

One-thirty. The manila file on Lily sits beside me, surprisingly thin—barely half an inch thick, its edges crisp and unmarked.

Either she’s as pristine as fresh snow, or her father’s influence has scrubbed her digital footprint cleaner than a surgeon’s hands.

“Mystic Mocha in SoHo,” I tell Dominic, my driver of fifteen years, whose loyalty I purchased with a brownstone for his mother in Queens. “And take the scenic route through the park. I need time.”

As we merge into the midday traffic, sunlight glinting off chrome and glass towers, I open the file with manicured fingers that have both signed million-dollar checks and ordered men’s deaths. By the time we arrive, I’ll know exactly what I’m walking into.

Or so I think.