The Savage, page 29
Palinski waits in a high-ceilinged room with windows cut narrow into the walls. White hair slicked back. Skin pale and thin. Eyes light enough to look colourless. Vicious doesn’t begin to cover it. This is a man who has outlived enemies by watching them die.
He studies us without rising. ‘Salvatore,’ he says. ‘You travel loudly.’
‘We like to be heard,’ Cesare replies.
Palinski’s gaze drifts to Giada. Lingers a beat too long.
I shift half a step, blocking her without breaking stride.
Palinski smiles faintly. ‘Ah. The girl.’
Rafa doesn’t bother with pleasantries. ‘Your nephew has been making a nuisance of himself in Italy.’
He remains silent for a full minute, clearly not being a man who likes to rush into speech. ‘Liv,’ Palinski says. ‘He is young. What you call a… hothead.’
‘He is sloppy,’ Cesare counters. ‘And a pussy, if you pardon my French. He’s hiding in the shadows while stirring shit with Vittore Mancinelli.’
Palinski lifts one shoulder, even as his gaze slides once more to Giada. I promise myself, one more look and I’ll pluck at least one eye out.
‘Italy is far from here,’ he eventually says.
‘So is Vegas,’ Dante says. ‘Didn’t stop your son from trying to kill Cesare with a racing car. While he was high on coke. Remember that?’
A flicker. Just a flicker.
Palinski’s eyes return to Cesare. ‘True. My son lives because you allowed it.’
‘Correct,’ Cesare says. ‘And now you get to decide if that courtesy and mercy goes both ways. Because both of your nephew’s funded attacks were within two miles of my son.’
Rafa steps forward. ‘Not to mention Ivanov orchestrated the hit that killed our mother. Carried out by a woman we believe is now in this city. Possibly within these walls.’
Palinski’s face doesn’t change as he switches his gaze from Cesare to Rafa. ‘And?’ he asks.
Rafa’s jaw tightens. I feel the room lean towards violence.
Cesare shrugs, cool as shit. ‘It’s up to you. You can decide to make her disappear in a very Russian way. Ice suit in the Baltic. Bullet with no name.’
Palinski’s lips thin.
‘Or,’ Cesare continues, ‘you withdraw your hospitality and we walk out of here. And next time we might not come through your front door. We might just drop in through your roof. Or your tunnels. Or your grandchildren’s schools.’
Silence stretches.
Palinski exhales slowly. ‘You make very serious threats.’
‘We make promises,’ Dante says.
Palinski studies us again. Calculates. He’s deciding how expensive this is going to be.
‘What do you want?’ he asks finally.
‘Your nephew on a very short leash,’ Rafa says. ‘Your borders closed to Vittore. And the woman.’
Palinski eases back in his chair. After another minute, he taps two fingers on the arm of his chair. Once. Twice. Then he nods.
He lifts his hand. A subtle gesture.
The doors at the far end of the room open almost immediately. Two men drag someone forward across the vast hall.
Twenty feet away she stumbles and the soldiers harshly right her. But it’s not until she’s another ten feet away that I recognise her.
She’s not wearing her habit. Her hair hangs loose and filthy. One eye is swollen shut. Blood is crusted at her mouth and her wrists are bound.
Madre Superiora.
The room detonates.
I don’t move, but everything inside me does. Heat. Rage. Memory. My mother’s face flashes behind my eyes. The way her grave looked so fucking cold for the warm mother who loved us all.
Cesare swears softly as Dante goes still. Dangerously still.
Rafa’s breath leaves him in a rough pull. Sofiya moves a half inch closer, infusing him with love and support in her own unique way.
Giada stiffens beside me, her fingers tightening until it hurts. When I glance at her I see a sheen of tears. Tears of rage and regret and recrimination for the woman who played a pivotal role in this cycle of carnage we all got dragged into.
Palinski watches us closely. ‘She arrived three days ago,’ he says. ‘Asking for sanctuary. Offering information.’
‘And you beat it out of her,’ Cesare notes.
‘She was uncooperative,’ Palinski replies. ‘Now she is not.’
The nun lifts her head. Her remaining eye finds me. Recognition sparks.
Fear follows.
The castle feels very small.
And this is where we stop.
23
RENZO
‘Before we go any further and people get… dead,’ I say, voice flat, ‘I need to understand a few things. Who is this woman to you? And why did she run here to St Petersburg?’
Palinski doesn’t look at me right away. He watches her instead. Calculates. Measures the room.
‘She is family,’ he says finally. ‘Distant. Very.’
‘That doesn’t answer the second question,’ I reply.
Palinski sighs like I’ve asked him to explain gravity to a child. ‘She is mostly Russian. Some Italian blood. Her parents lived in Italy for a time. She was… difficult.’
The woman lifts her chin. Even with her face ruined, tied up and body shaking, she’s defiant.
‘As a teenager,’ Palinski continues, ‘she caused problems. Stole. Lied. Ran with boys who had knives in their pockets. Her parents panicked. They believed discipline would cure her.’
‘So they locked her in a convent,’ Dante says.
‘Not exactly,’ Palinski replies. ‘An institution attached to one. Sancta Croce della Penitenza. A corrective house that specialises in short, sharp shocks. The kind delivered to wayward girls.’
My jaw tightens. ‘And?’ I prompt.
‘And she met someone.’
His eyes flick – just for a second – towards Giada.
I move before I think. One step but it’s enough. Palinski’s gaze slides back to me, acknowledging the boundary without comment.
‘Your grandfather,’ he says calmly.
Cesare lets out a harsh laugh. ‘Fucking El Topo. We should change his name from The Toad to The Mould. He’s everywhere and you can’t kill him fast enough.’
He jerks his chin at the woman. ‘And what the hell is her name? Because I’m not calling the woman who killed my mother Madre fucking Superiora.’
She glares at him with her one good eye. Lips pressed tight. A soldier steps in and slams the butt of his rifle into her thigh. She screams and folds, barely staying upright.
‘Say it,’ the soldier snarls.
‘Yelena,’ she spits through pain. ‘Yelena Morozzi.’
Russian cadence. Italian ending.
‘So you met The Toad,’ I say coldly. ‘Then what?’
Palinski folds his hands. ‘She romanticised him. Power. Fear. Money. Men who moved the world with a phone call.’
Yelena shakes her head violently. ‘That is not—’
Palinski doesn’t look at her. ‘He was married. He had no intention of leaving his wife. He visited when convenient. Promised things he never intended to give.’
Her eye burns with rage now. Hurt. Something feral.
‘He used you,’ I say.
She snarls, lunges against her restraints but the guards hold.
‘But she proved useful,’ Palinski continues. ‘Very useful.’
My stomach tightens.
‘He convinced her she was better off staying where she was, collecting information. Blackmail. Confessions. Financial sins. Sexual ones. Priests talk more than politicians when they think God is listening.’
Sofiya’s face doesn’t change. Her eyes sharpen.
‘She extorted them,’ Palinski says. ‘On El Topo’s behalf. Sometimes for my people. Sometimes for Ivanov.’
Ivanov.
Rafa’s presence shifts beside me. Dangerous. Coiled.
‘She grew close to Ivanov,’ Palinski goes on. ‘Learned to do his work in Italy. Quiet work.’
‘Spying,’ I say.
Palinski’s eyes gleam for a heartbeat. ‘Tell me you would not do the same.’
‘Oh, we would,’ Cesare says easily. ‘Difference is we take the vow never to harm women or children deadly seriously.’
Rafa steps forward. His voice is so soft it raises the hair on my arms. ‘And you,’ he says, eyes locked on Yelena, ‘took a vow of piety. Then you shot my mother in the chest.’
The colour drains from her face until she looks carved from wax. Her eye flies to Palinski, panic tearing through the fury. ‘Pyotr,’ she gasps. ‘Proshu. Pozhaluysta.’
She babbles then, rapid Russian, voice cracking, begging.
Sofiya translates without hesitation. ‘She says she was ordered. That refusing wasn’t an option. That she was promised protection.’
Rafa doesn’t look at Sofiya. His eyes never leave Yelena. ‘Protection,’ he repeats. ‘I’m sorry to say, nothing is going to protect you now.’
Palinski watches us all like this is a chessboard and he’s already moved the pieces.
Silence presses in and we all accept that this is where it stops being history.
And starts being payment.
Giada
I don’t realise I’m stepping forward until I’m already there.
Renzo stiffens beside me, a low warning in his chest, but I keep going. I need to hear it. I need to know what they meant to do with me.
I stop a few feet from her. ‘Tell me,’ I say.
Yelena lifts her head. One eye swollen shut. The other sharp with spite.
‘What was intended for me?’
She laughs. It’s ugly. Wet. Broken.
‘You weren’t meant to crack like an egg,’ she spits. ‘That was… inconvenient.’
My stomach twists, but I don’t look away.
‘I wasn’t meant to babysit my lover’s child for six years,’ she continues. ‘That was never the plan.’
Renzo growls under his breath. I feel it in my bones.
‘After the Salvatores wiped out Ivanov’s crew,’ Yelena goes on, voice bitter, ‘El Topo got nervous. He realised Ivanov would not forgive a woman or a child being killed. He has his little rules.’
Her mouth curls. ‘So suddenly, you were valuable. Dangerous. A problem that had to be contained.’ She leans forward as much as the restraints allow. ‘We had no choice but to keep you guarded. Watched. Silent.’
‘You isolated me,’ I say. ‘You erased me.’
She shrugs. ‘You should thank me. Losing your memory was the best outcome for you. Or you would be dead.’
My breath catches as something in Renzo snaps.
‘You must really want to die,’ he snarls. Before he can move, one of Palinski’s soldiers steps in and strikes Yelena again. Hard. Efficient.
I flinch despite myself as pain flashes across her face and blood spills from her mouth. And still, I feel nothing like satisfaction.
I look at her. Really look.
‘You taught me forgiveness,’ I say quietly. ‘Under your so-called care. Even though your heart was never pure.’
Her eye flickers with confusion, then fury.
‘Maybe one day I’ll forgive you,’ I continue. My voice shakes, but I don’t stop. ‘But God help me, that day is not today.’
A sob catches in my throat despite my best efforts.
Renzo’s arm wraps around me instantly. He pulls me into his chest, solid and unyielding. He kisses my temple, grounding me, steadying my breath.
Then he lifts his head and looks at Palinski.
‘How do we make it worth your while to hand her over?’ he asks.
Renzo
Palinski doesn’t even pretend.
‘You do not. I will keep her,’ he says calmly. ‘Until I extract everything she knows.’
Cesare’s eyes narrow. ‘Then what?’
Palinski shrugs. Casual. Dismissive. ‘Then I decide what I share. And what I keep for myself.’
My temper snaps. ‘This sure as fuck doesn’t work for us,’ I snarl. ‘We didn’t come here just to admire your marble and gold-leaf ego and walk out empty-handed.’
Palinski leans back in his chair. His gaze cuts across every one of us, slow and deliberate. ‘And what of your vow?’ he asks. ‘Your no-harming-women burden?’
The room tightens.
I feel Giada’s hand tremble in mine. She’s anguished but also resolved and she squeezes my fingers like she’s bracing me. Forgiving me in advance for whatever choice I make.
I open my mouth but Palinski beats me to it.
‘We make a deal,’ he says. ‘I give you half of what I extract. Enough to hurt your enemies. I keep her. Could be one month. Could be three days. I will tell you when I am finished.’
He glances at Yelena. Cold. Final. ‘Or,’ he continues, ‘I take care of everything now. Cleanly. And you owe me.’
Silence crashes down.
I don’t look at Giada. I can’t. If I do, I’ll burn the place down.
Dante’s jaw flexes. Cesare stares at the floor like he’s counting ghosts. The guards don’t move, but their fingers tighten on triggers.
Sofiya steps closer to Rafa and murmurs, barely audible, ‘Whatever you decide, I’m with you, baby.’
Rafa’s teeth grind, then he moves.
The soldiers react instantly, guns rising. ‘Nyet,’ Palinski snaps, lifting a hand.
The weapons lower.
Rafa walks straight up to Palinski, bends at the waist, and whispers something into his ear.
I don’t hear the words. Time stretches. Palinski’s expression doesn’t change at first. But then… his eyes flick once. Sharp. Measuring.
After a long moment, he nods. Once.
Rafa straightens and turns back to us. ‘It is done,’ he says quietly. ‘Sì?’
I look into my brother’s eyes and I see rage, control. Sacrifice. The line we didn’t cross and the blood that will still be paid.
‘It is done,’ I say.
Rafa repeats it to Dante.
Dante nods.
Then to Cesare.
Cesare swallows hard. His throat works. He stares at Rafa for a long, heavy second. Then they clasp hands.
It’s not celebration and it’s a far cry from relief.
But it’s closure.
We leave St Petersburg knowing our mother’s killer will not live to see many more sunrises.
And we didn’t break our vow.
The jet lifts into the night like nothing happened when everything did.
The silence thick and contemplative.
Giada leans into me. Exhausted. Brave but unbroken.
We did not pull the trigger but justice is still coming.
And when it does, it will not miss.
The call to Orazio happens over the Atlantic on an encrypted line.
Cesare delivers it with no theatrics. Just the bare facts.
Palinski’s terms are simple because men like him prefer clean lines. He keeps Yelena until he’s stripped her of everything she knows. Names. Routes. Money trails. Church officials. Politicians. Any Russian or Italian operator she ever touched on his behalf or Ivanov’s.
In return, we get half of it. Verified and actionable. Delivered in stages, not all at once. Enough to dismantle networks without tipping everyone off at the same time.
Palinski keeps his nephew Liv Ivanovski on a short leash. No more freelancing in Italy or, more importantly, dipping his toes in the States. No more whispering poison into Vittore’s ear. If Ivanov breaks ranks again, Palinski handles it personally or we do.
The guns come next.
New supply lines routed through intermediaries that don’t touch Sicily directly. Clean paperwork, American ports and better margins.
Somehow, we manage to knuckle down a multi-billion-dollar five-year projection that makes Dante whistle under his breath and Cesare grunt approval.
Last condition.
Stan ‘Paul’ Palinski stays in the States. Palinski wants us to keep an eye on his son. Straighten him out. Make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid enough to embarrass the family again.
Orazio listens without interrupting. When I finish, there’s a pause. Then a low sound of approval.
‘Bene,’ he says. ‘This is acceptable.’ I’m not surprised that there’s no praise. Or sentiment. But I know that’ll come later. Mama’s birthday, the day we hold a special memorial for her every year, is next month.
That’s when we’ll truly draw a line under this.
The call ends.
The jet hums steady beneath us. Giada sleeps against my shoulder, and I don’t wake her until New York comes up beneath us in grey and gold. Familiar skyline. Home territory. Control restored, at least for now.
When we land, the tension doesn’t snap. It loosens. Enough to breathe.
Cesare stands at the base of the steps, coat already on, phone in hand. He looks at me, then at Dante, then at Giada as she comes fully awake beside me.
‘You coming back to Fallbrook?’ he asks.
I look down at her. She meets my eyes without hesitation.
I shake my head and take her hand. ‘Nah,’ I say. ‘Something important to do first.’
Cesare studies us for a second longer, then nods once.
‘Take your time,’ he says.
I nod. And this time, I believe we might actually have some.
24
GIADA
‘Where are you taking me?’ I ask.
Renzo glances at me, one corner of his mouth lifting. The grin is familiar, teasing – but there’s something ruthlessly serious beneath it now. Purpose. Finality. The look he wears when he’s already decided something and the world can either catch up or get out of the way.
‘You’ll see,’ he says.
The city slides past the windows, New York moving around us like nothing happened. Like we didn’t just stand in a frozen castle halfway across the world and face the woman who shattered everything. Like we didn’t leave her behind knowing she wouldn’t see another season, another sunrise that mattered.
