The Savage, page 28
The old man has a tendency to drop odd-ball directives when you least expect it. Like the shit with travelling separately, for instance. The last thing I want is for him to put the kibosh on offing the diseased Madre. And as much as I took a vow never to harm a woman, she killed my mother, and she’s come after my girl, the reason for my fucking breathing, one time too many.
I have zero qualms sending her to meet her maker, the devil.
‘We pay Palinski a visit,’ I continue. ‘We remind him we spared his son and why. We ask why his nephew keeps stirring shit and who he’s doing it for. Then we see how squeamish he is about doing the right thing.’
‘And Vittore?’ Cesare asks.
‘We starve him,’ I say. ‘Intel first. Pressure second. After the Netherlands Grand Prix, if we have enough, we hit one of them with everything.’
Silence. Agreement.
Orazio taps the table with his cane. ‘Fallbrook is home base. No heroics. You want blood, earn it.’
I check my phone again. Still nothing.
I pocket it and feel the weight settle. Giada’s truth changes everything. It also paints a target so bright it burns.
‘We’ll need to go to St Petersburg,’ Dante says flatly. ‘Sooner or later.’
‘I know,’ I answer. ‘But not blind.’
Orazio rises. ‘Then it’s decided. You sleep under my roof. You plan. And you don’t bring war to my doorstep unless you intend to finish it.’
I nod. ‘Capisci.’
As the room breaks, my brothers peel off. I hang back a second, jaw tight, fury coiled.
I should’ve ended the nun when I had the chance.
I won’t make that mistake twice.
Giada
The long table in the Fallbrook formal dining room is full.
I stop in the doorway without meaning to. My body does it before my mind catches up.
At the far end, my mother stands with her hands braced on the wood, as if the table itself is the only thing keeping her upright. Vittoria Mancinelli. Older. Thinner. Still unmistakably my mother. Her eyes find mine and fill instantly.
Six years collapse into a single breath.
We move at the same time.
Her arms close around me and I break, pressing my face into her shoulder, breathing her in like I might never get another chance.
‘My sweet child,’ she whispers, voice shaking. ‘Your sisters told me everything. I prayed for you. Every day.’
I nod, because if I speak, I’ll shatter.
She cups my face, searching it like she’s counting me, making sure I’m whole. ‘You’re here,’ she says. ‘You’re really here.’
‘I am,’ I manage.
Narciso steps in next. My brother and baby of the family. He’s taller than I remember and a little harder around the edges, but aren’t we all?
He doesn’t say much – and there’s a sense of tension between him and the twins – but his arms are strong and steady when he hugs me. He holds on a second longer than necessary, then pulls back, eyes too bright.
The only person missing is Jacinta.
‘She’s in South America,’ someone says. ‘No one’s heard from her in a few days.’
Across the table, I catch Sofiya and Rafa exchange a look. It passes. Whatever it is, it’s not for tonight.
We eat.
Plates are passed. Wine is poured. Conversation skirts the edges of danger without naming it. For the length of the meal, Fallbrook is just a house. Just family. Just breathing.
Later, engines warm. Bags are loaded. The Netherlands waits.
As we pull away, I glance at Renzo beside me and think of St Petersburg. Of a woman hiding behind God.
One way or another, we’re coming.
And this time, nothing will be left unfinished.
22
RENZO
The paddock smells like fuel, rubber, and money.
It always does, but today it’s sharper. Louder. Like the place knows we’re hyped up to the max. The Netherlands Grand Prix at Zandvoort is usually the one venue you can remain a little low key.
Not this weekend.
The crowd scream every time my face – or Dante’s, because less than 0.1 per cent of them can tell us apart – appears on the camera. And those cameras? They’re everywhere. They’re especially rabid since my accident and my ‘miraculous’ recovery. Our schedules are public down to the minute.
And that’s the thing that makes me super fucking angsty. Anyone with half a brain and a grudge knows exactly where we are.
So we triple security.
Black jackets where team polos should be. Earpieces under hair. Eyes that never stop moving. Cesare runs the perimeter with the quiet fury of a man daring the world to try something. Rafa shadows Sofiya like he’s welded to her spine. Dante’s already strapped into the sister Furia car across the paddock, helmet on, visor down, ready to burn asphalt and whatever’s left of his patience.
I stand in my trailer and stare at the suit hanging on the hook.
Race mode should be automatic by now. Focus. Numbers. Lines. Grip.
Instead, my mind keeps drifting to Fallbrook. To walls thick enough to stop a missile. To dogs and men and cameras layered on cameras. To the idea that maybe I should have left Giada there.
The thought needles me.
She steps into the trailer like she belongs here, because she does now. My girl. My problem. My everything. She looks calm, which tells me she’s clocked my mood and decided not to poke it yet.
‘You’re thinking too loud,’ she says softly.
I don’t answer.
The door opens again and Narciso Mancinelli walks in like he owns the air.
‘I’m here to say hello to my sister,’ he says, eyes flicking to Giada before settling on me. ‘And to remind you that if anything happens to her—’
I move before I think.
Cesare’s hand comes up fast, blocking my chest. ‘Easy.’
Narciso smirks. ‘You think a helmet makes you untouchable, Salvatore? Take it off and let’s go.’
‘You think running your mouth makes you useful?’ I snap.
Giada steps between us without fear. That’s what kills me and makes me fucking love her more. ‘Narciso. Stop.’
He softens a fraction for her. Then his eyes cut to me again. ‘You’re fast,’ he says. ‘But speed doesn’t mean shit if you can’t protect what’s standing next to you.’
I point to the door. ‘Get the fuck out,’ I growl.
He does. Not before glaring at everyone, including Bibi, on the way out like he’s filing it away for later.
The door slams.
My pulse is too high. My hands shake with the need to hit something.
Giada closes the space between us and puts her palms flat on my chest. ‘Look at me.’
I don’t want to. I do anyway.
‘You’re not leaving me,’ she says. ‘And you’re not losing your head.’
‘I shouldn’t have brought you,’ I say. The truth tastes bitter. ‘Fallbrook is a fortress. You would’ve been safer there.’
She looks at the other people in the room. Cesare stares back, but after a minute he jerks his head and everyone vacates, leaving us alone. ‘This is your life,’ she says, and it really is as simple as that. ‘I won’t be locked away while you race into danger.’
I huff out a breath. ‘You shouldn’t have to be here.’
She smiles faintly. ‘I want to be. Where you are is exactly where I belong.’
She reaches up, fingers hooking into the collar of my race suit, and pulls me down just enough to kiss me. Slow. Grounding. Her mouth knows exactly how to steady me.
She kisses me again. Deeper this time. A reminder and a promise.
I rest my forehead against hers. ‘I need my head clear.’
‘You have it,’ she says. ‘Go win. Come back to me.’
I kiss her once more, hard enough to leave us both breathless.
Then I grab my helmet and step out. My face pops up on another screen and the crowd go mental. I ignore every single reporter trying to get my attention.
The engine noise swells outside. The world narrows.
I step out into it knowing one thing for sure.
I’m not running from this.
I’m driving straight through making Giada safe, mine in every way, even if I have to drive through hell and the devil himself to make it happen.
Giada
The noise of engines screaming hits first.
The crowd is a living thing, pulsing and hungry, and I blink at the reality of it, standing at the edge of the paddock with Sofiya, my hands clasped tight enough to hurt, eyes locked on the screens.
Renzo is calm in the car. I can see it even through the helmet, the way he always settles when it matters. Focused. Ruthless. Alive.
Lap after lap, the tension winds tighter.
Narciso pushes him hard, overtaking him twice. But Renzo doesn’t let that slide. He comes back hard, harder, and I watch with my heart in my throat as they go toe-to-toe into the corner at the ridiculously steep banking at Arie Luyendykbocht.
I recognise his style immediately – aggressive, unforgiving, like he’s trying to prove something to the world and himself. Dante isn’t far behind, clean and precise, a predator who doesn’t waste motion.
When the final lap starts, my heart is in my throat.
Renzo takes the corner like he owns it. And when the checkered flag drops, he wins by more than seven seconds.
A disgruntled Narciso crosses second with Dante third.
The sound that erupts is deafening. I don’t hear anything else until Renzo is out of the car, helmet off, sweat-damp hair, eyes already searching.
When he finds me waiting at the barrier, he doesn’t hesitate.
He crosses the space between us in long strides, ignores the cameras, the officials, the noise. He scoops me up in his arms and kisses me hard, unapologetic, claiming me in front of the world.
Gasps ripple. Phones fly up. Somewhere, hearts break.
I don’t care.
For one perfect second, it’s just us, then the officials pull him away for his post-race procedures.
Rafa’s hand lands lightly on my shoulder. ‘Eyes on you now,’ he mutters, adding as he walks away, ‘Careful, some of the fans can be fucking nuts.’
I barely have time to process it before someone brushes past me, close enough that I flinch. A hand presses something cold into my palm.
My jaw drops when I see what it is. A burner phone.
By the time I spin around, they’re gone. Melted into the crowd.
My stomach drops as I stare at the phone like it might explode. I jump when it buzzes. Chest thumping like a wild animal, I answer.
The line clicks, then an expelled breath. ‘Not going to greet me?’ my father says. Matteo Mancinelli’s voice is thinner than I remember. Meaner. ‘I guess you’ve made your choice. Just like your—’ He stops, then corrects himself with a sneer. ‘Just like them.’
My chest tightens. ‘Papa,’ I whisper. ‘Is that really what you’re going to say to me after six years?’
Silence. Then a scoff.
‘You stand there parading yourself with the Salvatores,’ he spits. ‘Smiling for cameras like you belong. Traditrice. You’ve always wanted their world.’
‘That’s not true,’ I say, too fast. ‘You know that’s not true.’
‘Do I?’ he snaps. ‘Because it looks like you’ve chosen your side. Just like your sisters.’
Something inside me hardens. I’m done begging.
‘Did you know?’ I ask quietly. ‘Did you know what Bonafacio was going to do to Isabella Salvatore?’
The silence this time is longer.
My heart pounds. ‘Papa,’ I push. ‘Did you approve it?’
A breath. Not denial.
Before he can answer, there’s a noise behind him a scuffle. ‘Giada, ascolta – listen to me.’ His voice is tight, rushed and panicked. ‘You need to do what Vittore wants.’
‘What?’ I breathe.
‘He’s in charge now,’ Matteo blurts. ‘Head of the family. He’s already decided. You need to obey him, figlia mia, or he’ll kill me. Capisci? He’ll kill me.’
Cold floods my veins. ‘Papa, what are you saying?’ I demand. ‘Papa—’
The line crackles.
‘Papa?’ I say louder. ‘Papa, are you there?’
Nothing.
‘Papa?’ My voice breaks. ‘Rispondi. Papa?’
The call drops.
The phone slips from my hand. I barely feel it hit the ground. My knees give out and I fold in on myself, breath tearing out of my chest in ugly, broken sobs. The world tilts. Noise rushes in and out like I’m underwater.
Strong arms catch me before I hit the ground.
Renzo.
He’s there like he always is. Solid. Furious. One look at my face and something dangerous lights behind his eyes.
‘What did he say to you?’ he demands.
I can’t speak. My mouth opens but nothing comes out. I just shake my head, tears blinding me.
He doesn’t push. He just holds me, one hand firm at my back, the other cradling my head, murmuring low, vicious Sicilian curses under his breath. Figlio di puttana. Bastardi.
Minutes pass. Maybe more. My breathing finally evens out enough for words to claw their way free.
‘He called me a traitor,’ I whisper.
Renzo goes completely still.
‘And?’ he prompts gently, deadly calm.
I swallow hard. ‘I asked him if he knew about Isabella. About Bonafacio. He didn’t say no.’
Renzo’s jaw locks.
‘He said Vittore’s in charge now. That I have to do what he wants or he’ll kill him.’
Renzo’s face freezes over. All warmth gone. All mercy burned out.
‘That’s it,’ he growls. ‘Enough.’
He pulls me into his chest, holding me so tight I can feel his heart slamming against my cheek.
‘We’re done waiting,’ he says into my hair. ‘We’re going to St Petersburg.’
I wipe my face with the heel of my hand. The tears stop as fast as they started. ‘Okay, but I’m coming too,’ I say.
He stiffens. ‘Giada—’
I shake my head, cutting him off before he can finish what I know he’s going to say. ‘This started with me,’ I say, steady now. ‘It ends with me.’
For a moment, he looks like he might argue. Then he nods. Once.
Rafa appears at our side, already moving. ‘Jet’s ready. Go do your podium shit then we head out.’
Cesare grins, feral. Dante cracks his neck as Sofiya slips her hand into Rafa’s.
One hour later, the six of us board the military jet that shouldn’t exist and somehow does.
Destination: St Petersburg.
I fasten my belt and stare straight ahead.
No more cat and mouse and traitor nuns hiding behind habits.
This ends now.
Renzo
St Petersburg
Palinski’s stronghold is less a dacha and more of a zamok – a fucking castle. Stone walls thick enough to laugh at artillery. Towers. Floodlights. Cameras nestled in the snow like mechanical vultures.
Unfortunately for me and my brothers – and the treasure of my heart I brought along when I should’ve put my damn foot down, left her safe and sound back—
No.
Fuck that.
The safest place for Giada is by my side. I grip the hand clasped in mine tighter, revel in the warm silk of her touch. ‘Repeat the instruction,’ I say.
She rolls her eyes, slow and deliberate, looking stunning as hell in the all-black bullet-proof gear her sister Sofiya conjured up from fuck knows where. ‘I stay at your side at all times unless you tell me otherwise.’
‘And?’
‘And if shit goes sideways, I don’t run or freeze. I stick with you, no matter what.’
I open my mouth, either to give her an atta girl or to tease her for being so comfortable swearing again.
She leans in and kisses me, quick and firm. A shut-up kiss. Effective.
Dante snorts behind us. ‘Jesus Christ. Get a room or get shot. I’m flexible.’
Rafa doesn’t look at us. His eyes are already on the gates. ‘Focus.’
We focus.
The iron gates grind open with a sound that sets my teeth on edge. Six armed men step out. Calm. Professional. Not local thugs. These are soldiers who expect violence and plan to survive it.
They watch us. We watch them.
One steps forward.
Tall and blond with a scar down one cheek and a misshapen ear that looks like someone started to hack it off then abandoned the task halfway through. His icy eyes scan us like laser beams before they lift upwards.
He knows about the illegal as fuck predator drone Rafa has hovering above our heads. I have no idea what my brother’s ultimate plan with the drone is but I guess we’ll find out if, as my beautiful love put it so eloquently, ‘shit goes sideways’.
Her hand trembles in mine now but she breathes calmly. In and out.
When the guard’s gaze descends, his expression doesn’t give away his feelings on the aerial threat one way or the other.
‘Mr Palinski is expecting you,’ he says in clean English with a thick Russian accent. ‘Come this way. Without your security men, please.’
Cesare smiles without humour. ‘That’s adorable.’
‘We will ensure your safety,’ the man replies.
‘Of course you will,’ Dante mutters. ‘That’s always how these stories start.’
We leave most of the muscle outside but we bring Cesare’s personal bodyguard, Umberto ‘Fist’ Laslo, one of Dante’s, and two of mine. Rafa put his foot down way back when Orazio offered a personal guard. To this day, I still don’t know why the old man backed down.
We move inside the compound with no visible weapons beyond what we’re always carrying.
Giada’s fingers stay locked in mine.
Inside, the castle smells like old stone and money. Heat hums through the floors. Men line the halls. Too many. This place has been a fortress for decades.
