The savage, p.13
The Savage, page 13
‘So is surviving a crash that should have killed me.’ I lean closer, my voice a low growl. ‘I’ll make it simple, Dr Conti. Heaven or hell. Which one do you want to wake up in tomorrow?’
Greed laced with bone-deep fear wins faster than I thought it would. They always fold when they see the zeroes. He nods, voice hoarse. ‘I’ll prepare what’s needed.’
Good.
I push off the bed and test the weight of my injuries.
The arm cast and sling are lighter than my temper. My ribs are… middling but I’ve endured fractured ribs way more times than is decent so I’ll live. And every second I’m forced to remember that I was born to move fast, not hobble like a pensioner, I’ll endure the pain and humiliation, because without it, I wouldn’t have her back.
Giada – Benedetta, she insists – has spent the last day hovering between scolding and silence. I may have given myself away when I revealed my desperation mixed with anger to her after Dante’s visit but – I shrug philosophically – it’s better she knows what’s coming.
That whatever malleable feelings I have for her, it would always be overshadowed by her actions where the death of my mother is concerned. And when my family discover her existence, as they will sooner than I want, not even those traitorous feelings I can’t escape might save her.
The sight of her now, arms folded and eyes wary as she watches me prepare to leave, ignites something hot and electric in my chest.
‘You can’t possibly think this is safe,’ she says. ‘You’re still healing. You shouldn’t be leaving the hospital.’
‘Sweetheart,’ I rasp, ‘if I stayed in every room people told me to, I’d have died a decade ago.’
She glares at me, small and furious and so beautiful I want to pull her close and silence her with my mouth. Instead, I lift my chin towards Conti. ‘Tell her.’
The doctor clears his throat. ‘Sister Benedetta, the villa has a private medical crew on standby. Fully equipped. You’ll both be well cared for.’
‘A villa?’ she repeats, suspicion cutting through her voice like glass. ‘And… you still mean to keep me? I mean… kidnap me some more?’
I grin at her flustering. ‘I can try dressing it up or down for you but we both know neither of us will believe it, so yes to all your questions. But maybe it’ll help if you think of it as a retreat,’ I say, offering her a crooked smile. ‘Quiet, beautiful. Fewer locked doors and zero needles.’
She folds her hands in front of her chest, lips trembling between anger and prayer. ‘I see. And if I refuse?’
I shrug, all calm menace. ‘You won’t. But if you need to put on a show for His sake, then you can resist and I can carry you. Broken arm or not.’
Her lips purse. And that ends the conversation.
The transition is near-enough seamless.
The cavalcade of SUVs arrive and we exit through a private entrance, silent, efficient, uniforms crisp as new banknotes. My security men fall into step behind us, weapons hidden but visible enough to make a point.
The hum of quiet, unvarnished power quells her protests faster than my words ever could.
Her fear twists in my gut, makes me wish I could undo what she’s about to see next. But this isn’t a world where innocence is armour.
It’s a world where the ruthless and determined survive longest.
And I have both traits in spades.
The convoy moves through the Modena dawn like a funeral procession for someone still breathing. Two black SUVs in front, one ambulance and another trail the one I’m in.
Giada sits beside me, hands white-knuckled on her lap, lips moving silently through what I assume is another prayer.
She doesn’t know where we’re going. Not yet.
We reach the Convento di Sant’Isidoro before noon.
Or what’s left of it. The convent burned a little over a year ago, leaving only scorched walls and a skeletal bell tower. Someone rebuilt enough to keep out the weather, not the ghosts. The new cross above the gate gleams too brightly, like guilt polished into metal. It’s the kind of place that remembers screams in the mortar.
Giada gasps when she recognises it.
‘Why are we here?’
‘Closure,’ I say. ‘For you. Maybe for both of us.’
The Madre Superiora meets us at the entrance, her hands folded demurely.
One look at her and I know, her veil might fool saints, but underneath is a woman built from rot, favours, and someone else’s sins. I make a mental note to dig deeper. Something about her stinks of secrets. Of the very, very bad kind.
Her eyes dart past me to the men flanking the courtyard. My men, all dressed in black, all armed. The faint smile she wears dies as quickly as it appeared.
Giada gasps for the second time when she sees the woman who’s been as close to a surrogate mother as one can be in a convent. ‘Madre Superiora.’
The woman’s eyes barely glance over Giada before she dismisses her, riling me the fuck up. I bite my tongue against forcing her to look at my angel. Really look, accept how badly she’s fucked up.
‘Signore Salvatore,’ she greets cautiously, her voice steady. ‘I was told you wished to speak to me.’
She’s used to dealing with authority and at some point has come to believe she is one herself. But sadly for her she’s not used to dealing with Salvatore power. I take my time to pull my black gloves tighter over my hands, hiding the wince as it aggravates my healing skin.
‘Not wish,’ I correct softly. ‘Command.’
She opens her mouth, closes it again. Then steps aside in silent invitation.
Smart woman.
I take Giada’s elbow, slant her a sharp look when she attempts to step away.
Inside, the air smells of beeswax and incense. The Madonna looks down from her alcove, eyes carved in pity. I’ve stopped expecting divine intervention.
We stop in front of an office door and the next thing that hits me is how calm the Madre Superiora is.
I tilt my head. ‘Before we go any further, Madre… one question. Maybe three.’
She arches a brow, hands folded like she’s posing for a painting.
‘Why haven’t you asked about her?’ I murmur. ‘Since we arrived, you’ve shown no panic. No frantic questions. Not even a goddamn whisper of concern about your little novice. Your “daughter in faith”. A girl who was kidnapped from your care six days ago, dragged out into the night by armed men.’ I take a slow, lethal step closer. ‘Why is it you haven’t even called the police?’
Something flickers across her face, a stutter of emotions she tries to smother. Shock. Calculation. Irritation.
Then serenity snaps back into place like a mask.
Giada sways beside me, her breath catching. ‘Madre…?’ she whispers. A single, fragile tremble in that voice and my rage sharpens to a blade.
The old woman doesn’t even look at her. ‘Signore, the Church teaches trust in God’s will. I assumed she was… elsewhere, as the Lord intended. Besides, I did inform the correct authorities at the Vatican, who were always going to ensure her safe return.’
‘Bullshit.’
Giada gasps and her fingers twist the sleeve of her habit, seeking reassurance, seeking something.
I reach out to touch her shoulder, to ground her, and she flinches away.
From me.
To avoid disappointing this snake in a veil.
My jaw locks.
Fine.
Message fucking received.
I’ll burn every lie this nun ever told to ash before I let Giada worship a goddamn monster.
I open the office door myself and we step into a modest room that apparently escaped the carnage. There’s a gold crucifix on the wall and a ledger on the desk. I glance at the crucifix and smile faintly. ‘How much did he pay you, Madre?’
She blinks. ‘Mi scusi?’
‘For this woman,’ I say, my voice silk over stone. ‘The life of Giada Mancinelli. How much did it cost to erase her?’
A tremor runs through Giada. This time I take her hand and I tighten my hold, infuse warmth even as the Madre’s facade rallies to hold.
‘I have no idea what you mean, Signore. I don’t—’
I gesture, and one of my men cocks his gun. The metallic click fills the room.
The older nun flinches and her hands fly up in surrender. ‘Please – please, Signore. I didn’t ask questions. A man came, years ago. Said the girl had been through tragedy. That she needed peace. He gave a generous donation. It was enough to rebuild our west wing after the storm.’
‘With a little siphoned away in a Swiss bank account?’ I let the words drip with disdain. ‘How noble of you.’
‘So you lied to me? For years?’ Giada’s voice breaks on the question and while I would never hit or harm a woman, I come within an inch of making an exception, to teach this old hag the consequences of causing my woman pain.
Her eyes glisten but when she glances at Giada there’s a hard, definitely ungodly look of harsh reality in her eyes. ‘I am a servant of God, as you well know, child. But we needed the funds.’ She turns back to me. ‘The girl needed sanctuary. I thought, such good fortune at the opportune moment… it was His will—’
‘You thought wrong. And you did wrong. Tell me, when exactly were you hoping to retire to spend the ten million euros without detection? I thought this gig was for life?’
‘You did it for your own benefit?’ Giada demands, her voice stronger now. I glance down at her and see the ignition of fire from the girl I once knew. The one who would sneak away from her home to meet me, who would stand up to me with very little thought for her safety. That girl is buried underneath there and I’ll crack her open and watch her dance in the light if it’s the last thing I do.
Silence stretches. Only the tick of an old clock and the rustle of her rosary.
I turn to Giada. ‘Wait outside for me?’
‘Why?’
I stare in silence, watch her nostrils flare in delicate stubbornness.
Then, she exits.
Madre Superiora sits there in defiance. Until I take a step closer, then I watch her squirm. ‘You’re not telling me everything. Not nearly. Here’s your chance, old woman.’
Her multiple chins tilt with something close to distaste as she looks me over.
Interesting. Because that distaste? It feels very personal. If not to me, then most definitely to my name.
It’s going to be a pleasure to pick this woman apart, piece by fucking piece.
‘Not going to confess? Fine. You will tell me what stage Giada’s at in her noviciate. And spare me the holy theatre, just the truth.’
She hesitates, searching my face for something she’s not going to find.
‘She was to begin her final discernment period in two months,’ she says finally, ‘the stage where she would live outside the convent, testing her vow in the world. But… if you wish, we can bring it forward.’
Her tone is calculating now, eyes flicking towards my sling, my guards, the doctor hovering by the door. She’s weighing survival against salvation.
‘And what will that entail, exactly?’ I ask.
When she’s done reciting a tedious formality I pay very little attention to, I nod. ‘Great. Do it,’ I snap at the older woman.
A flicker of confusion crosses her face. ‘Immediately?’
‘No, the next winter solstice. Of course immediately!’
She produces a sleek top-of-the-range laptop, opens it and starts typing. Then stops. ‘I want… assurances.’
‘Of course you do.’
She glances towards the door. ‘You will leave the money in the account alone.’
There she is. Green. The colour of greed and money.
I have no doubt she has several more colours hidden beneath her wimple.
I brace my fists on her desk and lean forward, taking satisfaction when she leans back away from my acid fury. ‘Whether I do or not depends entirely on how quickly you type, Madre. You have three minutes.’
As her fingers fly, I stroll to the door and crack it open, watching Giada – Benedetta – outside, oblivious to the deal being struck over her future. My men gesture for her to come in as the Madre clears her throat.
‘It is done,’ she says.
Almost as if she can feel the force of my rabid stare, Giada’s head swings my way and she stalks determinedly back towards me.
The look on her face when she steps inside – shock, confusion, betrayal – cuts sharper than any bullet I’ve taken.
‘What’s going on? Madre?’ she whispers.
The nun offers a stiff, disingenuous smile. ‘My child, you are to begin your field period sooner than expected. God calls you to serve beyond these walls.’
Giada blinks, stunned. ‘What? No,’ she protests. ‘But I’m not ready—’
My voice feels like thunder when it leaves me. ‘You are. More than ready.’
She turns to me, eyes wide, glassy. ‘This isn’t how it’s supposed to happen. And it’s most definitely not up to you, the man who kidnapped me and is keeping me prisoner.’ She flicks a look at her superior, urging support that never comes.
For that alone, I will make this bitch suffer longer.
‘Maybe not,’ I say, stepping forward. ‘But life doesn’t wait for permission slips from heaven.’
When she shakes her head, I harden my gaze. ‘You wish to return to the convent, under her supervision, when she’s lied to you for years?’
She swallows. But I’m not done.
‘Think about it, angel. Do you think the people who handed you over to her haven’t been keeping tabs on you? That she won’t sell you out again the first chance she gets?’
Madre sucks in an affronted breath. ‘I will not—’
‘With respect to the sanctity of this place, shut the fuck up, Madre. And be glad I’m in a generous mood.’
I turn to Giada once more and she’s pale, her eyes swimming in hurt and building fury. She’s caught between the proverbial rock and a hard place. And fuck me, but I intended to capitalise on that until the world stops turning.
‘In another time and another place, I would give you a choice, angel. But not this time. Accept that.’
The Madre crosses herself, perhaps for courage.
Giada’s lips tremble. Beneath the confusion and fear, though, I see something else. Something raw. Something that belongs to me. Fury and indignation.
She doesn’t speak when I take her wrist. Her pulse beats against my fingers – fast, defiant, alive.
I turn to the Madre. ‘Thank you for your cooperation. Pray for your own soul. You’ll need it.’ Because I’m nowhere near done with you.
Then, to Giada, low enough for her ears only, ‘Let’s go, baby. The real world’s waiting.’
And without waiting for a blessing, I lead her out of the convent and into the sunlight, every step echoing like the start of a war.
Giada
The helicopter ride is smoother than the jarring military excursion the night of my kidnapping. And the drive that follows to Ortigia is an act of penance disguised as safety and privilege.
We travel in silence down the Sicilian coast, the late-afternoon sun bleeding gold over olive groves and sea cliffs.
Renzo’s convoy moves like a shadow army of sleek black SUVs slipping between trucks and tourists, always in formation, always menacing. Even the sirens on the road seem to quiet when we pass, as if recognising something they shouldn’t disturb.
I sit beside him, my hands clasped tight in my lap, the smell of salt and leather wrapping around me until I can hardly breathe. He hasn’t said a word since the convent.
But I feel him… the press of his watchful presence, the dark gravity of a man who’s never learned to share space quietly but is doing it now… for my sake?
I shake my head.
No, this… he’s ripped me from the only sanctuary – as false as that is turning out to be – for his own end game.
The farther we drive, the less I know who I am.
When we finally reach the bridge that connects Ortigia Island to the mainland, I press my palm to the window.
The water catches the sunlight like dappling pixies.
The city glows ahead with honey-stone walls, domes and arches, the promise of quiet luxury and whispered sins. It’s too beautiful. It feels like standing in the doorway of temptation itself.
The cars roll through narrow streets, the tyres crunching over cobblestones older than memory. I catch glimpses of the sea through archways, women gossiping on balconies, priests moving through the dusk. And our destination, when we stop before a pair of tall wrought-iron gates, I think must be a hotel.
It isn’t. It’s breathtaking.
‘This isn’t a simple villa, is it?’ I murmur.
‘No,’ he says, voice low, almost tender. ‘It’s better than a villa. It’s a fortress.’
The gates open into a courtyard glowing with lemon trees and pale marble. Lanterns swing from stone arches. A fountain murmurs softly in the centre, the sound half soothing, half secret.
‘Welcome home,’ he says, as if the words mean something.
They don’t. The only home I remember is made of ancient, silent walls and cold floors. And… I hate that it’s been tarnished by a woman I thought was my saviour.
‘Giada?’
I shake my head and I don’t step out right away.
The weight of everything, of the past I don’t know and the future I don’t understand, presses me to the seat.
But when he opens the door and holds out a hand, I take it. My fingers fit into his like they belong there, and that frightens me more than the guards or the guns or the Madre Superiora’s betrayal.
Inside, the palazzo feels like something between a cathedral and a palace, as if its owner changed its purpose from a monument to a higher being to himself midway, and yet managed to create a masterpiece.
Sumptuous living rooms, terraces and libraries go on for days.
Hallways flow and turn and fork in a dizzying sprawl that will take weeks to get used to. High ceilings painted with fading frescoes, velvet drapes that glow in the lamplight.
