Page 79 of The Saint

An invisible vice clamped around my throat. I wanted to reach for it. To pry it away so I could breathe. But Mom held on so firmly to my hand, and it reminded me it was all in my head.

Sucking in a sharp breath, I gave Zio a nod. “That’s right.”

“I’d like to come, if that’s okay with you.” There was a smile on his lips, tentative yet hopeful. A man like Paulo D’Angelo didn’t wear that look well. “I’d like to support my favorite new artist. Perhaps buy a painting or two.”

Buy a painting?

My eyes widened, and my heart thumped in my chest.

I’d gifted the painting above the fireplace to him. Having my cousin home again, seeing how happy that made Zio, had inspired me to paint them on the canvas. I’d been too pleased with it to keep it locked up where no one would ever see it. On a whim, I’d invited my mother over to bring it to him.

But I’d never expected payment.

The show, having my art on display, was both terrifying and gratifying. The thought that I’d make money off it had barely crossed my mind.

I managed to nod again. Cleared my throat enough to say, “That’d be amazing, Zio.”

Mom squeezed my hand; Dad rubbed my back again. I felt a mixture of emotions I wasn’t sure how to handle. My family knew about me and Jael. They approved of us being together. They knew about my art show and were supporting me. I wasn’t sure if I was dreaming, if I could believe this was all happening instead of it just being some far away fantasy.

Then I saw the look on Zio’s face change, and I could feel the executioner’s blade against my throat.

“There is one more thing I wanted to talk to you about.”

Beside me, my father stiffened and sat taller in his seat.

“Yes, sir?” I asked, feeling like I did the day Zio’d caught me and Jael in his office coat closet. We’d been making out, hiding in this off-limits room, and I thought for sure there’d be hell to pay.

That day, he’d let us off easy. I had a feeling I wouldn’t be so lucky this time.

“Zeno has kept me informed about your recovery.” I swallowed hard, and Mom loosened her grip on my hand. “He says you’ve been on a mandatory break from work.”

“Yes, sir.” It took everything in my power not to cower before my uncle. To keep my head up and take whatever punishment he deemed necessary.

“You helped Jael bring on Alvarez, correct?” I nodded. “She’s done a fantastic job. I met him out in the yard when he arrived.”

Zio shifted in his seat and I braced for whatever came next. He rose from his chair, moving to the sidebar where he kept his hard liquor. After lifting a crystal decanter of what I’d learned was his favorite scotch, he poured some into four tumblers, picked them up and turned our way.

“It’s my understanding that you’ve stopped going with Jael to Alvarez’s garage?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What have you been doing with your free time?” He handed two glasses to my father, then one to my mother before taking a sip of his own. I took a glass from my father but couldn’t raise it to my lips due to the tremble that shook my hand. Zio asked, “Since you’ve been unable to work, unable to play ball, and Jael has been busy, what have you been doing?”

My gaze dropped to the floor, and I forced them back up to his face. “I’ve been painting, sir. Drawing some. Spending time with a few friends.”

He nodded before glancing at the painting on the wall. “I suspected as much.” He returned to his seat, sitting back and crossing one leg over the other. He sipped at his drink, attention focused on me. “Were you productive?”

My brow furrowed and I set my glass down on the table in front of me. “I… Yes, I was. I’ve had one project I’ve been working on for a couple months. I’m close to finishing it, I think. And I started two others.”

A smile tilted his lips, but I didn’t understand what for. “Do you enjoy your job at the docks, Rolly?”

“Yes, sir,” came out automatically. Without thought. Without feeling. It was the affirmative response I’d always given when asked if I liked my job.

And I did, in a way. I enjoyed working. Moving my body. Helping my family and doing something that felt like it was worth something. Painting and drawing were my passions, but even when working on a canvas or sketching on my pad, I had to move about, taking breaks regularly to keep my creativity flowing.

“But it’s not what you want to do.” There was no question in his words, and I struggled to find a response. Luckily, he didn’t seem to need one. “You’d rather be painting. Or drawing. Doing the things that have always meant so much to you.”

It was the truth, but how could I tell him that? I’d started working at the docks for him. To help him and my father and this syndicate. I’d worked my way up to a supervisor position, which led to more access, more information that I could pass on. At the time, I’d wanted nothing more than to make him happy. And though I didn’t want to work there any longer, pleasing my uncle was still a concern.