The Savage, page 30
I think about St Petersburg.
About Renzo standing perfectly still while fury burned through him, choosing restraint when violence would have been easier. About how he never once treated me like something fragile to be locked away, even when fear gnawed at him. About the vow he carries inside him – not just about women and children, but about control. About choosing who he is, every single day.
I want to be worthy of that. I want to stand beside him while the weight eases. While the cracks begin to close.
He’s my everything.
I don’t say it yet. The words feel too important to rush. Instead, I place my hand on his thigh. Solid. Warm. Real. A quiet promise.
His hand covers mine immediately. He squeezes once, steady and grounding, like he understands exactly what I’m offering without needing it spoken.
We turn down a narrow street. Then another. The car slows.
Recognition blooms in my chest, soft and sudden. ‘Oh,’ I breathe.
The church rises ahead of us, stone worn smooth by time and prayer. It’s ordinary. Modest. Almost forgettable. The last place either of our families would ever think to look.
That’s why we stole away and came here before, as teenagers. Then as something more.
It was invisible. Safe. Ours.
Renzo cuts the engine and steps out, rounding the car to open my door like he always does. It’s such a small thing, but it still makes my heart stutter. He takes my hand and leads me inside.
The air is cool and still. Candle wax. Old wood. Dust and devotion. The hush of something sacred holding its breath.
He walks me down the aisle slowly.
My chest tightens. I can’t help imagining it differently – white dress instead of dark clothes, sunlight instead of shadows, his eyes on me like this but with no secrecy left in them. Promise instead of hiding, not that we need to hide any more.
We stop beneath the altar and Renzo tilts his head back, looking up at the cross. ‘Well,’ he says lightly, ‘I figure we’re even now.’
I gasp despite myself. ‘Renzo Salvatore, that is sacrilegious.’
He smirks. ‘Nah. Me and the Man Upstairs? We’ve got an understanding.’
He tugs gently at my hand, but I don’t move.
I look up at the carved figure above us. The suffering. The sacrifice. The forgiveness offered freely, even when it wasn’t deserved.
I close my eyes.
Thank you, I think. For sparing us. For guiding us back to each other. For love that survived what should have destroyed it.
Renzo waits. He always does. He never rushes me when it matters.
When I open my eyes, he’s watching me with something close to awe. Like he’s seeing me clearly for the first time.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a key.
I blink. ‘You just… have that?’
‘Always did.’
Of course he did.
The special room waits behind an unassuming door. Same narrow cot. Same small window. Same hush that once held our secrets and our fear and our want.
He closes the door behind us.
This time, there’s no urgency. No fear of footsteps outside and no countdown ticking in our heads.
He reaches for me slowly, deliberately, as if the moment deserves patience. I help him undress, my fingers relearning him like it’s a vow written in touch. He does the same for me, reverent, unhurried, as though my body is something precious he never intends to take for granted again.
‘Giada,’ he says quietly, forehead resting against mine. ‘I almost lost you.’
‘You didn’t,’ I whisper.
‘I will never let that happen again.’
I cup his face, feeling the stubble under my palms, the strength beneath the restraint. ‘I know.’
We come together gently, deeply, reclaiming each other with no rush. Just a breathtaking closeness and heat. The steady truth of us settling into place.
After, we lie tangled together, his arm around me and my head on his chest. His heartbeat is slow and strong beneath my ear, proof that we’re here. That we survived.
‘I love you,’ he says, voice rough and certain. ‘I’ve loved you longer than I had the right to.’
Tears gather before I can stop them. I lift my head to look at him properly.
‘I love you too,’ I say. ‘I think I always have.’
We don’t need witnesses. We don’t need vows spoken aloud.
We’ve already given each other everything.
And nothing is waiting in the shadows to tear it away.
EPILOGUE
GIADA
Brazil – Two Months Later
The heat is different here. Heavy and alive.
It wraps around us like the city is breathing. Or maybe it’s just the man.
My man.
Renzo’s mouth is on mine, slow and sure, his hand warm at my waist, his thumb brushing the edge of the ring that’s taken up permanent residence on my finger. The diamond is obscene. Unapologetic. Impossible to miss.
He kisses me like he means it. Like there’s nowhere else he needs to be.
‘I love you,’ he murmurs against my lips.
‘I love you,’ I answer back, just as softly, just as certain.
I straighten his collar, smooth my palms down his chest, committing the moment to memory. This is our ritual now. My good-luck kiss. His steadying one.
Narciso walks past us and snorts. ‘Jesus,’ he mutters. ‘Get a room.’
Renzo doesn’t even look away from me. ‘Why do you keep hanging around if you hate it so much?’
Ciso doesn’t answer. His glare shifts instead – to Bibiana across the paddock. Something dark and complicated flickers there.
Then, abruptly, he turns back to me. ‘Any word from Jacinta?’
My chest tightens but I think about the reunion anyway.
About how Jacinta looked when she stepped through the café doors in Midtown, eyes filling before she even reached me.
We clung to each other, uncaring who saw, both of us crying too hard to speak at first. She laughed through tears, touching my face like she needed to convince herself I was real. She said she’d missed me every day. I believed her. I still do.
But there was something else there too. A tension she couldn’t quite hide. Jacinta looked healthy, vibrant even, but her smiles came a beat too late. Her answers about her work were vague.
‘A bit of consulting. Advising. Things that matter,’ she’d said, then changed the subject.
When I pressed, she kissed my cheek and told me not to worry. That she was safe. That she had things under control. We parted with promises to call, to visit, to never let the distance grow again.
Then the silence came back.
Abrupt and total.
I shake my head. ‘We saw her last month. Then nothing.’
The silence gnaws at all of us. I asked Renzo to reach out to Nightowl last week. He did. The reply came in the middle of the night.
Four words. No context. No explanation.
Nightowl
The bird flies backward.
I don’t know what it means. Neither does Renzo. That somehow makes it worse. Renzo presses a kiss to my temple. ‘We’ll find her.’
I nod. I believe him. I believe in him.
He rests his forehead against mine for a beat longer, then steps back, eyes dark, full of promises.
‘Wait for me,’ he says.
Always.
I watch him walk away towards the car, towards the noise and danger and speed, my hand drifting unconsciously to the ring.
This is my life now. I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.
And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
Renzo
The podium is loud. Bright. Familiar.
I’ve already clinched the championship. Everything from here on out is extra. Victory laps. Noise. Money.
Vittore’s gone quiet. Ivanov too. Palinski kept his word. The Salvatores are thriving.
It feels like the calm before a storm, sure – but I’m not stupid enough to turn down peace when it shows up dressed like this.
I scan the paddock and find her instantly.
Giada.
Sunlit and steady and so fucking breathtaking. Wearing my ring like it’s part of her ensemble now.
The next thing on my list isn’t another trophy.
It’s a baby.
Then a wedding she doesn’t see coming until it’s already happening.
I saw her face when Sofiya announced she was pregnant two weeks ago. Shock. Joy. Longing she tried to hide.
Rafa’s gone feral since and it’s not metaphorically. The man radiates violence and devotion in equal measure.
I get it.
The thought alone makes my grip tighten on the champagne bottle I just signed for a fan.
Giada catches me watching her. Really watching.
‘That look again,’ she calls out, amused.
I don’t bother lowering my voice. ‘You better be wet by the time I cross the finish line, ragazza. I’m not going easy on you.’
She blushes. Glorious and furious. ‘Do you ever?’ she fires back.
I grin. No shame. No mercy.
The anthem end and the noise swells as I grab my helmet. But my focus never leaves her as I walk backwards towards my race car, catching the kisses she blows me.
My heart swells big as a fucking blimp.
Because I know this isn’t the end.
This is just the part where everything finally belongs to us.
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ALSO BY ZARA COX
The Indigo Lounge Series
Mile High Addiction
Sky High Obsession
Seven Night Stopover
Million Dollar High
High Sea Seduction
Mafia Rivals Series
The Mastermind
The Enforcer
The Savage
First published in Great Britain in 2026 by Boldwood Books Ltd.
Copyright © Zara Cox, 2026
Cover Design by JD Smith Design Ltd
Cover Images: Ren Saliba Photographer and Shutterstock
The moral right of Zara Cox to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Every effort has been made to obtain the necessary permissions with reference to copyright material, both illustrative and quoted. We apologise for any omissions in this respect and will be pleased to make the appropriate acknowledgements in any future edition.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Paperback ISBN 978-1-83678-967-3
Large Print ISBN 978-1-83678-966-6
Hardback ISBN 978-1-83678-965-9
Trade Paperback ISBN 978-1-80656-278-7
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Zara Cox, The Savage
