The Savage, page 27
Faces harden. This part they know. Or think they do.
‘But it wasn’t fatal. She was still moving. Talking. She would’ve survived if…’ Chilled horror dredges through me as the scene plays out in macabre 3D. ‘When Madre Superiora appeared, I thought she was there to help us. But instead, she had a gun. She fired the fatal shot,’ I continue. ‘Without a word or explanation. She just… fired.’
A sound rips out of someone. I don’t look to see who.
‘She turned the gun on me. Asked if I wanted to die. Of course I didn’t want to die. When I said no, when I begged for my life, she put the gun in my hands. Told me if I told anyone about it I would be next. That it would be my word against hers.’
My chest tightens. I breathe through it. ‘Then I noticed Isabella was still alive. I kneeled next to her, trying to stop the bleeding while still holding the gun because I was terrified of what the Madre would do if I…’ I say. ‘I was holding Isabella when she died. Then I think I… got a little hysterical. After that I don’t remember anything… until I woke up in the convent, here in Italy.’
Renzo’s hand curls into a fist at his side. But he doesn’t interrupt or look away. Nobody does.
‘You know the rest of the story. All I can hazard is that after Maddie found me with the gun and told me to run, I must have run straight to the Madre again.’
I lift my chin, meet Rafa’s eyes. Then Cesare’s. Then Dante’s.
‘Whatever her part in the events of that day, my memory returning is the last thing Madre Superiora and whoever she was working for wants,’ I finish.
Silence crashes down.
Rafa breaks it.
‘That’s not all. Maddie says she saw you whispering to my… to Mama,’ he rasps, his brown eyes, so like those of the older woman who I know saved my life that day, burning with sorrow and rage. ‘What did she say?’
The question guts me.
Tears rise fast. I don’t wipe them away. I won’t cheapen this by hiding from the pain. Besides, these tears… they deserve to fall for a great woman.
‘She said she was sorry she couldn’t stick around,’ I say. ‘She said to tell you how she longed to see your fat grandbabies, teach her granddaughters how to make cannellonis.’
A sound leaves Rafa that hurts to hear. He laughs once, broken, then presses his fingers hard into his eyes.
‘She said it over and over,’ I whisper. ‘Tell my babies I’m sorry. Tell them I love them. Tell them I’m sorry.’
Sofiya moves, wraps herself around Rafa, holding him steady. Cesare pulls Maddie into his chest, murmuring something low I can’t hear.
Renzo steps into me and I let myself fall against him. He holds me like I might disappear if he loosens his grip.
Dante clears a throat thick with emotion, but when he speaks his voice is desert dry. ‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Can someone tell me one thing?’
We all turn.
‘What the fuck is Madre Superiora’s beef in this,’ he says flatly, ‘and how are we going to make the bitch pay?’ He pauses. ‘And while we’re at it,’ he adds, ‘what does this pazzo Vittore want?’
Rafa answers after a stone-in-millpond silence. ‘The freshest intel I have on Vittore is that he’s desperate to get into bed with the Russians. Especially one Liv Ivanovski,’ he says.
Dante curses under his breath as Renzo frowns. ‘That motherfucker. Again?’
‘Who… who is he?’ I ask.
‘An old dog who’s desperate to learn new tricks that will definitely get him wiped off the face of the earth once and for all is who he is,’ Renzo snarls, wrapping his arms tighter around me.
‘As for the Madre, she’s very effective at hiding, but get this – someone fitting her description was last seen at a very curious location.’
‘Where?’ Renzo barks.
‘Northern Estonia, very close to the Russian border.’
Impossible as it seemed a minute ago, a deeper chill invades the room. Cesare’s face turns to stone and he exhales once. ‘Northern Estonia? That’s a hop, skip, and St Petersburg’s dick out ready for a blowjob.’
One of the capos snort-laughs. Rafa glares at him and the man audibly swallows.
‘So either the Naughty Madre has Russian connections we don’t know about or this fucking thing never truly went away? Ivanovski, and possibly his uncle Sergei Palinski are back in play?’ Cesare says what everyone’s thinking. The same Russians who have been a pain in our asses for years. When no one answers, he sighs. ‘Have we heard from Nightowl?’
Rafa shakes his head, his already savage face twisting into a macabre mask of fury and resolution. ‘Fucker’s gone dark. But I have other resources. We’ll have more intel before morning,’ he says with deathly certainty.
Cesare looks down at Maddie, and a silent conversation passes between them. ‘Bene. We’re not staying in this goddamn place, waiting for the weasel to take another pissant pop at us. We’re going home to Fallbrook, come up with a plan to wipe these fuckers off the face of the earth.’ At Maddie’s wince, he exhales harshly, then presses a kiss to her temple. ‘Sorry, bedda. But I won’t pussyfoot around anyone who harms my family, even if their blood runs through your veins.’
She pats his chest but doesn’t say anything.
He looks around the room, authority brimming from his grey eyes. ‘Wheels up in an hour. With every one of you on board. Capisci?’
21
GIADA
The bathroom is still fogged from the heat when Renzo locks the door behind us.
For the first time since the world exploded in bullets and slashing knives in Ragusa, it’s just us.
Not that I’ve forgotten all the pain and anguish and fury from the street or downstairs, but at least no eyes are watching to see if I’ll break again.
The shower turns on with a hiss, steam rising fast, but Renzo doesn’t rush me.
He reaches for me slowly, fingers brushing my wrist, my elbow, my shoulder, like he’s checking that I’m real and unhurt.
I am.
‘You okay?’ he rasps.
I nod. ‘I think so.’
That earns me a small, crooked smile. The one he used to give me when he was pretending not to worry.
He helps me out of my clothes with a gentleness that almost hurts. When I’m bare, I feel a flicker of shyness I didn’t expect. My body remembers him before my mind did. Now it’s the other way around.
Renzo steps under the spray and holds out his hand. ‘Come here.’
He leans his forehead to mine as we stand under the spray, letting the water wash away the grime of violence. I’m a little sad that it’s also washing away the heady delights of the perfect day that came before it.
The hot water beats against my back, my shoulders. He reaches for the soap and works it into his hands, then smooths it over my arms, my neck, my hair. His touch is reverent and possessive. Familiar in a way that makes my throat tighten.
He starts quietly. ‘Remember when I kissed you the first time?’
I laugh softly. ‘You mean when you stole it.’
His mouth curves. ‘You leaned in.’
‘I was angry,’ I say.
‘You always are.’
He rinses the soap from my shoulders, thumbs brushing the line of my collarbone. ‘You tasted like wine and bad decisions.’
‘I bit you because you frightened me, grabbing me outside the bakery.’ I don’t need to tell him I frequented that bakery in the Lower East Side because I knew it was the Salvatore family favourite. I confessed this a very long time ago.
‘You drew blood.’
I smile at the memory. It blooms warm in my chest, solid and bright.
He moves lower, washing my back, my waist, his hands sure, unhurried. The water runs between us, carrying everything else away.
‘Remember when you tried to sneak out of the hotel room I booked for our second time?’ he asks.
‘I made it to the door.’
‘You forgot your shoes.’
‘I wasn’t thinking clearly.’
‘That was obvious.’
His voice is low now. Heat hums between us as he presses a kiss to my shoulder, then my neck. I close my eyes.
‘Remember when you told me you didn’t belong to anyone?’ he murmurs.
‘I was lying.’
‘I knew.’
His hands slide to my hips and he turns me gently so I’m facing him, his body close, solid. His gaze is dark, intent, full of things he hasn’t said yet. ‘Remember when you let me touch you like this?’ he asks.
I nod, breath shallow.
‘And like this.’
His mouth brushes mine. Not a kiss yet. A promise.
Then he stills.
His forehead rests against mine. His voice roughens. ‘Remember when I took your virginity,’ he says, ‘in the secret room in the church?’
The question lands heavy and sacred all at once.
I open my eyes. ‘I remember everything,’ I say.
He searches my face like he’s afraid of the answer.
‘It was the best night of my life,’ I tell him.
Something breaks open in his expression. Relief. Want. Obsession, bare and unguarded.
He kisses me then.
It’s slow. Deep. No urgency, just need. His hands hold me like he’s afraid I’ll be taken from him again. The water drums against us, steam curling around our bodies, hiding us from the world.
We come together under the spray, foreheads touching, breaths tangled. There’s no rush, no performance. Just skin and memory and the certainty that we found each other again.
When it’s over and he’s come so deep inside me I know I’ll always carry a part of him with me, we stand there a moment longer, wrapped around each other, letting the water cool.
Renzo presses a kiss to my temple. ‘We need to get dressed.’
I nod, even though I don’t want to.
‘I don’t want to leave you,’ he says quietly.
‘You won’t,’ I reply. ‘I’m right here.’
He exhales, steadying himself, then reaches for the towels.
Outside this room, the hammer is already lifting. But for now, we have this.
And it’s enough.
The chopper banks left and the world opens beneath us.
I press closer to the window before I can stop myself.
Fallbrook Estate stretches out in a way that feels unreal. It’s not ostentatious or flashy like the home I remember growing up in.
This is old and vast and claimed inch by inch by time and will. Rolling green broken by stone walls and long drives that disappear into trees. Lakes that catch the light. Buildings tucked into the land instead of imposed on it.
Renzo leans in beside me, one hand resting warm and steady at my lower back.
‘That’s the south pasture,’ he says. ‘Horses still run there. It’s one of my favourite places.’
I nod, trying to take it all in without drowning in it.
The chopper dips lower and a pristine white building comes into view.
‘There,’ he adds quietly, pointing, ‘is the family mausoleum.’
I follow his finger.
It sits on a rise, pale stone against dark trees. Modest for a family like this. Simple. Permanent. My chest tightens.
‘That’s where she is,’ Renzo says. Not accusing. Just factual. ‘Where we buried Mama.’
I swallow. ‘I’d like to lay flowers there. If that’s okay.’
He doesn’t hesitate. ‘We’ll go together.’
The chopper settles onto the pad. Wind whips my hair around my face. The doors open and the sights and sounds of Fallbrook rush in – dogs barking in the distance, boots moving, voices calling out confirmations. Security everywhere, but it doesn’t feel like a fortress. It feels like a heartbeat.
Two more helicopters come in to land – some weird directive about no more than two Salvatores travelling together at any one time.
And the man who gave that directive, Orazio Salvatore, the Don of the Salvatore mafia famigghia, waits at the edge of the pad.
He’s smaller than I imagined but unmistakably dangerous with eyes that miss nothing.
They flick from Renzo to me and back again.
‘This isn’t new,’ he says in a voice like old rusty knives. ‘Is it?’
Renzo doesn’t blink. ‘Older than time, Nonno.’
Orazio studies us a moment longer, then nods once, as if something has finally aligned. ‘Come,’ he says. Then, to me, ‘I’d like a word.’
Renzo stiffens beside me. I feel it instantly.
‘It’s okay,’ I tell him softly. ‘I can do this.’
Orazio leads me through the house via pristine marble-floored hallways into his study.
The man I remember as Giacomo Salvatore, Orazio’s son and the men’s father, is already there. So is Bibiana, Renzo’s sister.
Her eyes meet mine and hold. She doesn’t smile or cry. But there’s something raw behind her composure, like emotion tightly leashed.
Giacomo simply looks… haunted. Angry. Afraid. A man who has lived too long with a question rotting inside him.
I know why I’m in the room and I don’t hold back. I tell them everything, not softening or dramatising it.
When I finish, the room is quiet.
Bibi blinks rapidly. Her jaw tightens but her tears stay put.
Giacomo doesn’t bother trying. One slips free. Then another. Dispersed a minute later by a pristine white hanky.
Orazio nods slowly. ‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘For telling us. And for what you did.’
I turn to leave.
‘Giada.’ Giacomo’s voice stops me.
His mouth works, then his throat bobs before the question finally emerges. ‘Did she suffer?’
The question hits like a blade.
‘No,’ I say. Then I hesitate. I see his pain. His need. ‘She was sad to be leaving,’ I add gently. ‘But she’d accepted it.’
His eyes close.
When I step back into the hall, Renzo is there instantly. But Orazio’s voice snaps behind him. ‘Let her go spend time with her sisters.’
Renzo hesitates.
‘You,’ Orazio adds, pointing, ‘come in with your brothers. We have plans to make.’
The old general is back.
I kiss Renzo quickly. He presses his forehead to mine for a heartbeat longer than necessary. ‘I’ll find you,’ he says.
‘I know.’ He always does.
Then I turn down the corridor towards the women who share my blood.
And for the first time since everything shattered, I don’t feel alone.
Renzo
Orazio doesn’t wait for the door to close.
‘You want to tell me why you thought disappearing from a hospital like a two-bit ghost was a good idea?’ he snaps, cane planted, eyes sharp as glass.
I don’t flinch. I don’t apologise.
‘I did what I had to do,’ I say. ‘She needed to be removed from that place and I wasn’t waiting around to ask permission.’
The room tightens. Just outside the door, my brothers shift. Dante exhales through his teeth.
Orazio’s eyes narrow. For a beat, I think he’s going to unload. Then something else settles there. Respect, mean and earned.
‘You’ve always been like your nonna, may she rest in peace,’ he says. ‘Stubborn. Right. Expensive. Fucking pain in my culo.’
I almost smile.
He turns and barks, ‘You. You. And you. In here. Now. I have a great-grandson I need to cuddle.’
My brothers file in, Cesare looking far too smug. But one by one, they refocus, grim, keyed up and ready. While Nonno fires questions at everyone who so much as looks at him, I pull my phone from my pocket and check it again.
Nothing.
Nightowl’s still dark.
My every message for the last three days straight has been ignored.
Anger hums under my skin. Hotter now that I’ve heard Giada say it out loud. Now that I know I stood in that burnt-out convent with the woman who killed my mother and didn’t end her.
Orazio takes his chair at the head of the table. Old dog. Old king. Still running the room.
‘We lay low,’ he says. ‘We listen, rely on new and old networks. We don’t bleed on my floors unless it’s necessary.’
‘I say fuck laying low. We know who’s in St Petersburg, and we know that’s most likely where the Madre is headed. Palinski is the way in,’ I say. ‘We should storm his goddamn dacha or whatever the hell they call their shitty houses.’
Orazio glances at me, then at Cesare, who nods.
‘Yeah, he means the father,’ Cesare says slowly. ‘Not Stan Paul, the idiot son who thinks changing his name grants him anonymity.’
‘Yeah, definitely not him,’ I muse. ‘The fucker who tried to kill you in Vegas and we let him breathe. Big mistake.’
Cesare’s mouth twists. ‘Yeah. I chose mercy. Look how that turned out.’
‘Maybe not entirely mercy,’ I muse. ‘It was leverage.’
‘And now?’ Dante asks.
‘Now we use it,’ Rafa slides in.
I pace once. Stop. Keep my voice even.
‘Liv Ivanovski is still making noises, especially in Italy. He’s looking to finger Sicily, and that’s what got Vittore all het up like a nerdy virgin on prom night with his dick in one hand and a hotel key in the other.’
‘But without a girl,’ Dante finishes dryly.
Orazio cracks the hint of a chuckle, then grows serious. ‘How are they doing all this and we don’t know about it?’
I sense – and, I suspect, so do my brothers – that’s where the Madre comes in, but they don’t volunteer the information to our grandfather and neither do I.
