The Savage, page 25
‘No.’ Her voice is so soft it freezes him. ‘We stay together. All of us. We all leave or none of us leave.’
Sofiya crosses her arms. ‘She’s right. We’re not scattering like damn prey.’
Rafa yanks her close, kisses the top of her head, and something inside me clenches. I’m ashamed to register it as envy. Another sin on top of the many I’ll need to pray for.
‘Okay,’ he says. ‘We’ll sort a safe house. And then we’re hunting this fucker.’
Cesare scrubs a hand over his jaw, exhaling hard. Then nods once. ‘Fine. Let’s get that done.’
Everyone turns to me. And I feel the question before anyone asks it.
Will you run?
Will you hide?
Are you with us or will you try to return to a convent?
The truth rises, fragile and clear, and I shake my head. ‘I’m staying with Renzo.’
Maddie’s eyes soften. Sofiya’s eyes narrow slightly with calculating approval. Rafa tilts his head as if reassessing the ground beneath us.
Cesare… studies me for a long beat. Then nods. ‘Bene.’
Renzo slides his arm around my waist, anchoring me. ‘While you sort out the safe house, I’m taking her to Monza tomorrow,’ he says, already glaring away any objections before anyone dares to raise it. ‘Security detail already prepping. Life doesn’t stop for a weasel with a death wish.’
Dante snorts. ‘Show-off.’
Renzo lifts his chin. ‘You saw the way she looked at my racing video. Only a damn fool doesn’t cash in those gold-sprinkled brownie points.’
Heat crawls up my neck. I swat his arm. ‘I’m standing right here, Renzo.’
He grins like a devil granted absolution.
Rafa’s phone buzzes. He steps aside, then returns two minutes later. ‘I’ve got something,’ he announces. ‘Safehouse in Ragusa. It’s fortified. Off grid. If we’re relocating, it’s our best option.’
Renzo nods. ‘After Monza, we head straight there.’
‘Good,’ Cesare says. ‘The sooner the better.’
Plans spiral out – security rotations, transport routes, weapons inventory.
Sofiya and Rafa slip towards the hallway. ‘We’re going to do some more recon, see why this fucker is jonesing for a fight,’ Sofiya says, eyes glinting dangerously.
Rafa kisses her again as they walk away. ‘Back soon. Or bloody. Either way, worth it.’
The room empties slowly, Maddie taking Nico upstairs, Dante grumbling about cleaning his gun before bed.
Eventually, it’s me and Renzo alone by the tall windows overlooking the sea.
He hooks a finger under my chin. Lifts my gaze to his. ‘You good now?’
‘Not really. But I will be.’
His voice drops. ‘Because you’re with me, sì? You know I’ll keep you safe?’ There’s expectation in there but also a hard probing.
I answer both with the simple truth. ‘Yes.’
His thumb brushes my lower lip, once and tender. ‘Good girl. Then let’s get some sleep, ragazza. Tomorrow…’ His smirk is wicked. ‘…I get to show you exactly why they call me a fucking legend behind a wheel.’
Morning light drenches the villa, brushing the walls in gold, stirring the salt-washed air, coaxing me awake before Renzo does.
Not that he doesn’t try.
A hand slides across my waist, warm, lazy, wickedly possessive.
‘Morning, angel.’
Heat blooms under my skin. It still startles me how easily he says it, how natural it sounds. How quickly I stopped flinching at it.
How quickly I stopped flinching at everything that once made me breathless with guilt.
A few days ago, the idea of lying naked in a man’s bed – this man’s bed – would’ve sent me into a spiral of prayers and shame.
Now…
Now there’s only a faint echo of that girl. The novice. The obedient one. The one who spent years lowering her gaze and quieting her own heart.
A nun in training, yes. But one who feels like she’s awakening from a coma.
I stretch under the sheets, still achy in places that makes Renzo smirk against my shoulder.
‘You’re thinking too loud,’ he murmurs.
‘Am I?’
‘Mmm.’ His nose nuzzles along my throat. ‘Thinking of running back to your convent?’
A soft laugh escapes me, surprising both of us. ‘No. I… I think I want to visit my sisters soon, in the States when this is over. I want to see Narciso. And Jacinta when she’s available.’
His hand pauses. ‘Where is that other Mancinelli?’ he asks carefully.
I frown, remembering Maddie looking pointedly at Sofiya when I asked about my other sister. And Sofiya staring blankly back. ‘Either they don’t know or… they’re not telling me. She’s doing something in South America somewhere.’ A short, soft ache blooms in my chest. ‘But I spoke to my mother yesterday.’
Well, it was more quiet sobbing on both sides than speaking, but it’s a start.
Renzo goes very still. ‘How’d that go?’
I swallow. ‘She cried a lot. She tried not to say much… but I could tell she was… hurt. That I didn’t remember her.’
His hold tightens and his eyes narrow. ‘Not your fault,’ he says, firm. ‘Not on you.’
‘I know.’ I pause. ‘But it felt like losing her twice.’
He pulls me gently onto his chest, large palm stroking the small of my back, slow and grounding. ‘You’ll get those memories back. The real ones. Not the ones they fed you.’
I want to believe him. I want to believe so many things now. A pulse of pain throbs behind my eyes and I rub my temple.
His brows knit instantly. ‘Headache?’
‘A little.’
His jaw flexes. ‘Do you want me to get Conti?’
‘No,’ I say quickly. ‘It’s just… everything. It’ll pass.’
He gives me a look. I give him one back, equally stubborn.
He sighs. ‘Angel, for one million euros, this man is yours until I say otherwise.’
I roll my eyes. ‘Renzo—’
He kisses my mouth to shut me up, smiling the whole time.
And God help me, I melt every time he does that.
‘Don’t roll your eyes at me,’ he murmurs. ‘I’ll put you on your knees so you can roll them while I fuck your throat.’
My cheeks heat violently and he laughs, low and wicked. Then smacks my backside lightly as he gets up. ‘Come on. Get dressed. We’re leaving for Monza in twenty minutes.’
My pulse stutters. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Fuck yes, I am,’ he says, tugging a shirt over his head. ‘You’ll get a front row view of how incredible I am.’
‘You mean your ego?’
‘And my car.’ His grin widens. ‘And you watching me handle both.’
I groan into my hands.
He cackles like the devil himself.
I hide my relief well when I see we’re not going alone.
The bodyguards we came here with, who I discover are all part of the Salvatore mafioso security, accompany us.
After hugs from my sisters and stern instructions not to fuck around too long from Cesare, we leave Ortigia in a small convoy of four SUVs, Renzo behind the wheel of ours.
We drive through rolling green hills, morning sunlight spilling across vineyards and olive groves, everything smelling of warm earth and distant sea. I crack my window, letting the wind tangle my hair.
Renzo watches me more than the road. ‘You good?’ he asks.
‘I think so.’
‘You look it.’
I feel it too. Maybe it’s hope. A hunger for life. Or curiosity and wonder at a world that’s no longer behind walls and vows. And fear, yes – but not enough to stop me.
My third ride in a helicopter isn’t as terrifying as the first, especially with most of it spent in Renzo’s lap, succumbing to his lazy kisses and heated glances.
We transfer to another set of SUVs, and as we turn down a narrow road lined with cypress trees, the sound hits me first.
Engines.
Growling, snarling, singing.
I inhale sharply as the gate to Furia Racing’s Italian HQ opens, and the sight steals my breath.
Sleek black-and-red trailers, bright sun flashing off polished metal. Mechanics in branded suits.
And engines roaring like caged dragons.
Renzo kills the engine of our SUV and I realise my entire body is tingling with anticipation. When I turn to him, his grey eyes are sparkling.
He might be a Salvatore capo down to his very bones, but here… this is where he comes alive.
‘Come on,’ he says, opening my door before I can. ‘Want to show you something.’
He leads me past the pit lane with his hand firm on my lower back, his stride confident and long. Mechanics greet him with nods, bows, a murmured capo or signor. They stare after him with a mixture of pride and awe.
He’s famous and respected here, and he knows it.
He’s leading the driver’s world championship and he’s at the top of his game.
It’s all very… intoxicating and my heart beats faster as Renzo pauses by a sleek, wicked, near-black F1 car with the team’s iconic green stripes.
His car.
‘Giada,’ he says softly, almost reverently as his fingers stroke the carbon-fibre chassis, ‘meet the only thing that rivals you for space in my head.’
I swallow, not sure whether to be jealous or to laugh as I watch him slowly circumvent the exquisite car. ‘You’re ridiculous.’
‘And you’re blushing.’ When he reaches me, he steps behind me, nudging me closer until I have to brace my hands over the cockpit headrest to keep my balance. Then his arms bracket me as he leans down, lips brushing my ear. ‘You like my car, baby?’
I do. God help me, I really do. I like everything about this man.
My head bobs as I swallow.
‘One day, very, very soon, I’m going to fuck you on it. Make you come all over it so I can smell you when I cross the finish line. And you’ll let me, won’t you?’
I’m about to nod again when a sudden stab of fear pricks my spine – sharp, cold, wrong.
I stiffen.
He feels it instantly. ‘What?’ he asks.
‘Nothing. I just—’ The pain behind my eyes flares again and I grip the side of the car for balance.
‘Giada.’ He turns me in his arms. ‘Breathe.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘You’re not. Fuck, we should’ve brought Conti.’
I pleaded for the doctor to be left behind. Renzo only relented so the man could be packed and transported to the safe house with the others.
Now, I see regret in his eyes. But his voice is gentle in a way that strips me bare when he tucks my hair behind my ear. ‘Tell me.’
I shake my head. ‘I’m not sure. Just a little sensory overload, I guess. Too fast. Too full.’
He cups my cheeks with both hands. ‘Angel, look at me.’
I do. His beautiful eyes pierce mine and everything else falls away.
‘You’re safe,’ he tells me quietly. ‘You hear me? With me, you’re safe. We go as fast or as slow as you want. No pressure. No matter what weasel is sniffing around or what memory claws at you.’
A tremor runs through me. ‘I know,’ I whisper.
He kisses me once then, sliding his tongue between my lips, uncaring of the personnel standing around. I’m shaky but weirdly settled when he rests his forehead on mine.
‘Good. Because I need you better so I can make that fucking fantasy come true.’
I laugh breathlessly. He smirks like he’s already imagining corrupting every part of me. ‘Renzo?’
‘Mmm?’
I reach behind me, rest my hands on the side pod of his car, then allow myself to caress it for a moment. I can practically feel the horsepower leap beneath my fingers. ‘I want to see you drive.’
He inhales sharply. ‘Say it again.’
I do.
And the look he gives me could melt steel.
19
RENZO
‘I will,’ I murmur, my mouth brushing her ear, ‘if you take off your panties and give them to me. Right now.’
Giada goes crimson so fast it’s almost audible – a blooming rush of colour that shoots straight to my cock.
Her head whips around. ‘Renzo—’
My single sharp whistle disperses the crew in seconds. I turn back to her, brow arched. ‘Quid pro quo, sweetheart. I promise you a ride. You trade me the scrap of silk hugging that sweet pussy. Fair trade.’
She swallows, trembling not with fear, but with the kind of anticipation that makes her thighs press together.
Then, slowly… slowly… she looks around again, and when she sees we’re alone, she reaches under her dress.
I watch every second of it, the parting of her knees, the soft bite of her lip, the way her breath stutters as she works the fabric down. Off one heeled foot, then the other.
Then she places the warm scrap of lace into my palm.
I lift it to my nose, inhale once, sharp and deep. Fucking heaven.
I slide them into my pocket like a weapon. ‘Good girl,’ I say, voice low enough to vibrate through her. ‘Now come watch me show off.’
We might bicker and we might butt heads like brothers do, but one thing I’ll always be eternally grateful to Cesare for is enabling this dream to come true.
The Furia racing track he had built in Monza is absolutely world class.
And today when the world sharpens and my engine screams and the air tastes like fuel and speed, I want to howl just for the sheer exhilaration of it.
My girl’s gaze is glued to me like a brand as I strap in, and something dark and triumphant wakes in my chest.
She wants to see me drive?
I’ll give her something she’ll feel between her legs for a week.
I take my time driving out of the garage to the replica start-finish straight.
A shrink would probably have a field day with me because I don’t feel even an iota of fear or anxiety getting behind the wheel for the first time after my crash.
Maybe something in me is broken. Or maybe this is just how racing drivers are built – wired to flirt with death until it stops feeling like a stranger.
Also… I’m a Salvatore. I’ve stared down men with knives, guns, vendettas older than I am. I’ve watched bodies hit marble floors and kept eating my dinner.
A track doesn’t scare me.
A track is honest.
So I pull up to the mark, watch the red lights flick one by one up to five.
My middle finger hovers over the throttle. And when the lights flash green, I launch.
The car surges forward, a beast unchained, and every corner, every apex, every controlled slide is me carving her name into asphalt. I take the replica Ascari like a dare, Parabolica like a winning bet, and when I shoot down the straight I swear I can feel her pulse from the pit wall.
Because she’s there.
Not a blur of colour or a VIP silhouette behind smoked glass, but Giada – standing at the chain fence, hair loose, hands curled tight as she laughs and cheers like she’s forgotten how to be careful. That smile hits harder than any podium roar ever has. Harder than the hundreds of thousands who scream my name when I win. Harder than the millions watching from sofas and bars and yachts around the world.
I’ve raced for trophies. For legacy. For blood.
But this – this audience of one – undoes me.
She’s missed so many races. Years of circuits and seasons she should have been at. And something in my chest aches with the vow that forms sharp and absolute: she won’t miss another one. Ever.
Sure, I’ll have to erase a few men from the earth to make that happen.
But isn’t that exactly what I was born for?
When I roll back in, helmet off, sweat still dripping down the back of my neck, she’s waiting. Eyes bright, breathless, and a little undone.
Just the way I fucking like her.
‘Enjoyed yourself?’ I ask, swiping a hand through my hair.
She nods, slow, dreamy, almost reverent. ‘You… you’re extraordinary.’
The pride hits hard. The hunger hits harder.
‘Come here,’ I say.
And the second she’s within reach, I pull her behind one of the trailers, into the quiet shadow where engines hum like a private soundtrack.
She plasters herself harder into my body and I snag her around the waist.
‘Hands on me,’ I order softly.
She does, palms flattening against my chest, sliding up my collarbone to curl at the back of my neck. Her dress brushes my thighs; her breath hits my jaw.
I press her back against the warm metal and lean in until her body melts into mine. ‘You’re trembling,’ I murmur.
‘You know why.’
I ghost my mouth over her throat, her shoulder, the place where her breath turns into a sound she tries to swallow.
‘Want to feel how much you undo me?’ I whisper.
Her fingers clutch my shirt. ‘Renzo—’
‘Tell me.’
‘I…’ Her voice breaks. ‘I need you.’
That does it.
My hand drops between her thighs, sliding under her dress – and she gasps, tries to bite it back, fails beautifully.
‘So wet for me,’ I breathe against her ear. ‘And all I did was drive.’
Her knees buckle. I catch her easily, grip unyielding.
‘Say it again.’
‘I need you,’ she whispers, trembling.
I cover her mouth with mine, slow at first, then deep, consuming, hungry enough to shake her entire body. Her hands fist in my shirt; mine slide along the inside of her thigh, teasing, learning, claiming.
I fuck her into her shaking, flushed mess, ruined in the best way.
When she comes hard and breaks apart in my arms with a soft, desperate cry muffled against my throat, I hold her through it, savouring every second.
Then I kiss her temple.
‘Good girl,’ I murmur. ‘Now let’s get you out of here before I fuck you again on the tarmac.’
