Page 32 of My Fallen Saint

Chapter Twelve

Dead and gone.

The words hurt me more than they should, and I have to bite back the urge to beg for answers. To plead with him to tell me the story so that I can understand.

But I know that he won’t, and I’m not going to supplicate myself to this man.

Instead, I just shake my head. “To everyone else maybe, but Alex Leto isn’t dead to me. You want to play games, Devlin? Find somebody else. Because I’m really not in the mood.”

The words have been spilling out of me, and I have to draw a breath to keep going, but I can’t stop, not now. Not when all the pain and hurt and goddamn loss is spilling out of me.

“You can change your name, you can change your appearance. But that doesn’t mean shit. You are Alex Leto, and you fucked me over when you left, Alex. Hell, you broke me. Does that make you happy? Is that what you want to hear?”

I’m not sure, but I think the muscles in his face tighten.

“But guess what?” I continue. “I’m going to forgive you for all of that.” I lean back in my seat and cross my arms over my chest. “Because you’re going to give me so much in return. You’re going to give me answers. And I have a feeling that they’re going to add up to the story of a lifetime.”

He cocks his head, still infuriatingly calm. “Is that right?”

“I know about my Uncle Peter.”

He holds my gaze for a second longer than is comfortable. Then he looks away as he takes a sip of whiskey, his face as bland as a poker player’s. “I’ll bite. What is it you know?”

“That he wasn’t an innocent caught up in some drug dealer’s net. He was dealing himself. Tied in with The Wolf somehow. You’ve heard of him, right?”

There’s an ironic tone to his voice when he says, “I’m familiar with the name.”

“Who isn’t? And considering when you bailed, I think you were in bed with Uncle Peter.”

“No.”

That’s all he says. Just no. And it pisses me off even as I hope he’s telling the truth. Because while I think that maybe, maybe, I can cope with the idea of Peter being that kind of asshole, my entire view of my past will shift if Alex was dirty, too.

At the same time, I’m not going to let hope get in the way of common sense, and I barrel on, determined not to let him wiggle free. “You know something, though, don’t you? You know something about who killed my uncle.”

“There’s no story here, Ellie. If you want to talk about the profile on the foundation, we can. But this isn’t a story,” he continues. “It’s only you scrambling to manufacture answers.”

“Manufacture, no. Find, yes. You knew what was going on. You were involved. And that’s why you walked out on me.”

Now, he really does smile. “No. I walked out because I’m an asshole. Plain and simple.”

I scoff. “That’s what I’ve been saying for years. I’m starting to wonder if I should try a different song.” I lift my glass, remember it’s empty, then set it down again. “Like I said, at least you’re giving me a good story. The mystery behind Devlin Saint. How he used to be involved in the drug trade, fled, then reinvented himself. The beloved philanthropist, a drug dealer with possible links to The Wolf. It’ll fly off the newsstands. It’ll kill your reputation. And I’ll be right there, dancing happily on its grave.”

His eyes go completely cold.

“You can call me a lot of things, but do not ever say that I was aligned with that man.” His voice is sharp and deadly, and I sit completely still, as if even a word could wound me. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking you know me, Ellie. It’s been a decade. And I’ve already told you—I’m not that boy anymore.”

I swallow. I have definitely lost the upper hand, and I have to scramble to regain control. I stand up and take my glass back to the bar, just to give me time to regroup. “I came here to write a story, Devlin. And I plan to do my job.”

“A profile piece. With a focus on our work in Nevada.” He stands, too, then joins me by the array of decanters. The air between us buzzes, and I tense, hating the fact that I still react so viscerally to this man.

He takes my glass and remakes my drink, then returns it to me. I take it, and this time I’m careful not to let our fingers touch. “That’s a story that deserves telling,” he continues. “But don’t go chasing shadows. It’s a waste of your time.”

“I’m a reporter. It’s not.”

“Dammit, El.”

“Do not call me that,” I snap before I can help myself.