The Savage, page 7
‘You’ll hurt yourself,’ she says, quiet, formal, as if we’re strangers in a church. Or the fucking opera. ‘Please lie back.’
I don’t. Lying back means more distance. ‘Say my name,’ I say.
She blinks. ‘I don’t know who you are so how can I know your name?’
I stare deep into green eyes that still… all these years later… mesmerise the fuck out of me. She’s claiming memory loss? Is that really what we’re doing right now?
‘You know it.’ I tip my head, bite back a hiss as my shoulder complains. ‘It’s somewhere in there.’
I drill my stare into her. Nothing.
‘Renzo,’ I rasp.
The name knocks at a locked door inside her and comes back empty. As a Mancinelli, granddaughter of my family’s worst enemy born into the mafioso famigghia, she was tutored in lying with a straight face even before she was out of diapers. Just as I was in extracting deep truths from common and hardened criminals.
My every instinct shrieks she’s not pretending.
‘Fine,’ I say. ‘We’ll start simpler.’ I gesture at her veil. ‘Take that fucking thing off.’
Her hand flies to the edge like I’ve asked her to strip and bare her pretty pussy to my eager gaze. ‘Absolutely not.’
‘I want to see your hair.’
‘No.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I belong to God,’ she says, and the certainty in it slices cleaner than a scalpel.
‘Nah, baby. You belonged to me first,’ I say, my certainty just as sharp. Because fuck yes, I will fight Him for this girl. All day every day until eternity. Wherever He’s hidden her for six damn years, it’s over.
I’m keeping Giada Mancinelli if I have to break into heaven itself to reclaim her.
Something flickers through her. A tremor. A memory with no picture attached. She crushes it with a breath. ‘You’re not well, Signore. Your mind is… confused.’
‘I’m not the one cosplaying a saint,’ I snap, as pain and exhaustion begin to sap the life out of me.
The doctor clears his throat, a desperate intervention more than a cough. ‘Signore, per favore, your heart. You need to remain—’
‘My heart’s fine,’ I snap. ‘It’s hers that worries me.’
She rises a fraction from the chair, the urge to flee flashing across her face before duty slams it down. ‘If you continue to distress yourself I will leave.’
‘No, you won’t. Because if I die, my blood with be entirely on those pretty little hands.’
The monitors shrills as if daring her to try. The doctor lifts both hands like he’s calming a brawl. ‘Please. Sister. Stay. Only a little longer, sì?’
Her gaze flicks to the door, to the empty corners where soldiers had been, to the doctor, to me. She sits again. Barely. The chair protests with a whisper.
‘What did the soldiers tell you after I passed out?’ I ask, voice lower now.
‘Only that there was a patient.’ Her throat tightens. ‘I assumed… I assumed prayers would help.’
‘Well, it did. In the past, church was my favourite place.’ I let my eyes drop to her mouth. Then lower, to the racing pulse pushing against her prim collar. My mouth waters with the need to taste her right there.
Fuck, I might just leave the habit on when I do.
But as I look at her, the hands clutching so tightly to the rosary, a different memory scythes through more pleasant ones. ‘Until it wasn’t.’
The colour that flared high on her cheekbones at my unvarnished stare recedes a little. ‘I’ll pray for you. And then I will leave and you will not stop me. I am not who you think.’
‘You’re exactly who I think,’ I say. ‘And I will stop you. With my teeth if I have to.’
The doctor shoots me a look that says please don’t bite the nun. I ignore him.
‘Let’s play things your way, Sister. Tell me what you remember of your farthest memory,’ I say to her.
That earns me a firm head shake. ‘No, Signore. My memories are private. I don’t know who you are or what rights you think you have to them, but I won’t be giving them to you.’
I make a show of settling back into the bed, even as every excruciatingly painful muscle screams in protest. ‘I guess we’re settling in for a long night then, huh, babe? I hope you don’t have any urgent patients waiting on you, Doctor?’
The doctor makes a face, either scandalised by the way I’m addressing Christ’s bride or because he has no chance of escape.
One minute passes. Three. Five.
Her lips purse and she shoots me an irritated glare before contrition arrives. ‘If you must know, I remember God,’ she says promptly, like a Sunday schoolchild with the right answer. ‘I remember the old convent in Northern Sicily.’
My breath stalls. Northern Sicily. Where my brother Rafa came within shockingly close call of locating her sixteen months ago. She was gone by the time he arrived, the old place burned to the ground. Another chess move by fucking Nightowl? ‘Go on.’
‘After that we relocated to Santa Maria delle Nevi. I continued my studies with the sisters. Work. Prayer. The life I chose.’
‘You remember something before that,’ I grit out. ‘You have to.’ It’s impossible that she lost all memory of her family. Her life in New York.
Me, for fuck’s sake!
Her lips part. Nothing comes out. Terror rolls under her skin.
‘I see shadows of faces, sometimes,’ she manages at last. ‘A woman who might be my mother. A church. Light… and…’ She stops and her eyes dart furtively before she’s shaking her head until the veil trembles. ‘It’s nothing. Fragments. In the grand scheme of my life’s purpose, they don’t matter.’
‘Of course they fucking matter,’ I rumble with deathly softness. ‘They’re a part of you.’
Her eyes flash. ‘I am Benedetta.’
‘And I’m the Pope,’ I say. ‘Benedetta, you don’t even like that name. It doesn’t fit your beautiful mouth.’
She flinches, as if I’ve reached inside and pressed bruises.
The door hisses and the younger doctor slides back in, keeping to the edge of the room like a man circling a sleeping wolf.
He holds up a small vial for the older one to see, eyebrows a question. The older doctor takes it, weighs it, looks at me.
‘Signore,’ he says carefully, ‘I must insist. It’s time for your medication. Your… trip last night took a heavy toll. We need to conduct extensive tests. Then you need rest. The agitation will… could cause a setback.’
I look from him to his hand. ‘Is that medication going to put me to sleep?’
He looks a little nervous. ‘Well, it contains a sedative that—’
‘Then, no.’
‘But… the tests—’
‘Later.’
He sets the vial down on the tray with a deliberate click, as if to remind me it exists. ‘Then at least allow me to examine your incision.’
‘Turn around,’ I tell her, not him.
She startles. ‘What?’
‘Turn around. I don’t want you to see me bleed. You’re squeamish around blood. I don’t think this so-called memory loss erases that too?’ I raise my brow.
And intimate knowledge? It does something to her.
I watch the war in her face as compassion tries to beat back her naked terror of realising I know her. Intimately. At last she sets her jaw, turns the chair so she’s facing the monitors instead of me. The older doctor steps close, hand hovering over the bandage, eyes flicking between line and wound.
‘You will need to lie back,’ he murmurs.
‘Do it fast,’ I say. ‘I’m not finished.’
His hands are competent, but the sting’s sharp and the heat of infection hums under the tape. I watch her shoulders tense, the rosary bite into her fingers. She’s listening to every hiss I can’t quite hide.
A long ten minutes later, when the doctor steps away, I say, ‘Turn back.’
She does and God help me, I feel as if I didn’t take a complete breath the whole time her eyes weren’t on me.
I shift my attention to the doctor. ‘Need a few answers. First of all, where the hell am I? The last thing I remember was being in a hospital bed that was not… this place.’
‘You don’t remember waking up last night, gathering the men and leaving here to…’ He pauses, glances at her before returning to me.
‘Of course I remember that. But I didn’t exactly stop for the guided tour, did I? So where the fuck am I and who brought me here?’
He adjusts his glasses, buying himself a second. ‘Istituto San Cristoforo, in Modena. You were transferred here after your accident in the United Kingdom.’
Giada’s breath catches as I frown. ‘How long ago?’
‘Three days,’ he says carefully. ‘You were placed in an induced coma to stabilise swelling in the brain and control the pain from multiple fractures in your ribs and arm. Until now, your vitals have been remarkably strong—’ He hesitates when I stare him down. ‘You’re very fortunate, Signor Salvatore.’
I grunt. ‘What did I break?’
‘Mostly soft-tissue injuries and burns from the crash. The most serious issues are the severe concussion and your left arm – a clean fracture. It will take six to eight weeks to heal properly.’ He clears his throat when I feel a growl building, adding quickly, ‘Given your robust physical conditioning and regenerative capacity, I expect a full recovery with good physiotherapy.’
I breathe once through my nose, letting that sink in. A fracture, not an ending. I can work with that. ‘Six weeks,’ I say, more to myself than him. ‘Then I’m back in the car.’
The doctor looks faintly appalled. ‘Racing, Signore? You risk compromising—’
‘Racing,’ I repeat. ‘Six weeks.’
His lips thin into a professional line.
Next to me, she’s still perched in that chair, wide-eyed.
The name Salvatore obviously means nothing to her, but the word ‘racing’ sparks looks of muted bewilderment; she looks at me like I’ve just claimed to fly too close to the sun and enjoyed it.
Her fingers tighten around her rosary again, knuckles pale against the dark beads. I can see the questions forming behind her eyes – the ones she’s too careful to ask.
‘Phone,’ I say to the doctor without looking at him. ‘Unlock yours.’
He blanches. ‘My phone? But—’
‘Now.’
He fumbles it out, unlocks with a thumb, holds it like a confession.
‘I’ve just memorised your number. Within the hour, I’ll have the whole hospital’s communications system under surveillance. You’re not going to call anyone about me,’ I tell him. ‘And you’re going to listen and carry out my instructions.’
He nods, because men who live in rooms like this learn quickly what keeps them alive.
‘You don’t tell anyone I’m awake,’ I continue, voice low enough to feel private and sharp enough to cut. ‘No one. Not your colleagues. Not my family. Not God.’
He swallows, then slides a look at Giada. ‘But your brothers have requested an update every six hours. They—’
‘—will be informed that I’m still in a coma. I’m stable and my condition hasn’t changed. And you will do whatever is necessary to keep them from visiting me.’ I let the smile show my teeth. ‘I need time. With her. Without interference.’
The younger doctor glances at the door again, calculating the distance to salvation. I save him the maths.
‘One hundred thousand dollars each, for both of you,’ I say, as if I’m suggesting an aperitivo. ‘One transfer, untraceable and yours by morning.’
They both stare with wide eyes.
‘Or,’ I add, letting the word fall like a blade, ‘a visit from my crew to your families. Which will it be?’
The monitors tick. Somewhere down the corridor, a trolley rattles past like distant thunder. The older doctor looks at her. At the nun in the chair and then at me, the sinner in the bed.
He nods first and the younger follows instantly.
‘Good,’ I say. ‘Now get out. And send up coffee.’
He gathers the younger one with a look and they vanish, the door whispering closed.
We’re alone.
Or close enough to it for this kind of sacrilege.
‘Let’s start again,’ I tell her, softer now. ‘What’s your name?’
Her chin rises, stubborn, furious, afraid. ‘Sister Benedetta.’
‘Fine,’ I say, tasting the lie like blood. ‘For tonight.’
I reach out – slow, gentle, inevitable – and touch the edge of her wimple again, a sinner fingering a relic.
‘Come closer, angel,’ I say.
6
RENZO
‘Come closer,’ I repeat softly when she ignores me.
Her breath catches sharply in the silence.
The doctor’s footsteps fade down the corridor, leaving only the sound of machines and her uneven breathing.
She doesn’t move at first. Then she rises from the chair in one stiff motion, palms flat against her skirts as though bracing for a blow.
‘This is wrong,’ she whispers.
‘What is, angel?’
Her breath feathers out a little quickly at the endearment. ‘Us. This.’
My eyes narrow and I feel the valve of fury wheeze a warning deep inside me. The renowned Salvatore temper is never far away from the surface.
It’s what’s gotten every one of Orazio’s progeny into trouble more than a few dozen times. But I do my best to throttle it now. ‘Says who?’
‘God.’
The word hangs between us like heavy incense, cloying and sanctimonious. I drag in a slow breath, fighting for patience I don’t own.
‘God,’ I echo, voice low. ‘He’s got a lot to answer for.’
Her mouth tightens, but she doesn’t step back. I can see the pulse at her throat beating fast, betraying her nerves. The habit makes her look untouchable, but that pulse tells another story.
It fascinates me beyond measure and I can’t fight the way my tongue tingles, eager to stroke it. Stroke other parts of her body.
Soon, I swear to the same God she’s hiding behind.
‘Who are you, really?’ she asks suddenly. ‘And why… why don’t you want your family to know you’re awake? If I had family…’ She pauses and a wave of sadness sweeps over her perfect features. ‘I would want them to know.’
The question lands with the soft sting of censure. She’s braver than she looks.
I study her for a moment, the way her hands twist around the beads of her rosary. I remember those hands differently… longer nails painted bright fuchsia, those delicate wrists wrapped in twin Cartier bangles – a gift from me for her eighteenth birthday.
Those same hands, warm and unafraid, tracing down my naked chest, then digging in as she rode my cock, her head thrown back as she screamed through one of a handful of breathtaking orgasms.
Now they tremble in prayer instead of pleasure.
‘Family,’ I say, half-smiling, only able to take my eyes off her fingers because I can look at her face. ‘They’re a blessing until they’re not. Mine… they have a way of turning miracles into weapons. They’ll find out I’m awake soon enough. But for now, I want a little peace.’
‘Peace?’ Her brows draw together. ‘You call this peace? Threatening your doctors and kidnapping people and barking orders?’
My lips twist at the quiet censure in her voice. ‘I didn’t kidnap people, ragazza. Just you. As for the rest, I call it necessary quiet.’
She hesitates, eyes narrowing as though she’s trying to see past the scar tissue and bruises. I let her look. Let her see what’s left.
‘What about you?’ I ask. ‘If you don’t remember who you are, why haven’t you wanted to know?’
‘I do want to know,’ she says quickly. ‘Every day. But the Madre Superiora told me to be patient – that God will reveal what He chooses when He’s ready.’
I don’t hold back my snort. ‘And you believed that bullshit?’
She frowns. Then attempts to look away. I like that she doesn’t succeed for more than a second before those eyes flick back to mine. ‘Of course. I… had to.’
I tilt my head, the faintest smile curling my mouth. ‘You don’t sound convinced.’
She exhales, a soft shiver of air. ‘Before the fire, she promised to show me my file. The records from when they found me. She said it contained my real name, my history. But then the fire came. She said it burned with everything else.’
‘Fucking convenient,’ I murmur.
Her eyes flick up. ‘You think she lied.’
‘I think having blind faith is the kinda bullshit cowards tell themselves so they don’t face up to the truth.’
Her mouth drops open and the tiniest wave of anger washes over her face. She wrestles it down quickly enough but I’m electrified with the need to poke her again. Just to see that spark. Set fire to whatever fortress her memories have retreated behind.
She shakes her head, more in desperation than denial. ‘No. She wouldn’t lie. She said I should see the fire as a cleansing.’
I laugh, rough and humourless. ‘And you bought that? Sounds like she’s protecting herself. Or at the very least, someone else.’
‘No,’ she repeats, stronger this time. ‘She… the sisters, they’ve shown me nothing but kindness. They’ve helped me overcome the gaps in my memory with prayer and hard work. I had nothing else to believe. They’ve given me a future.’
There’s a hollow ring to the confession that hits harder than I expect. Her fingers twitch on the rosary again, like she can pray herself back to safety.
‘You ever wonder,’ I say softly, ‘what would happen if you stopped waiting for God to give you permission to live?’
She meets my gaze, startled. ‘That’s blasphemy.’
‘No.’ I lean forward, ignoring the sharp pull in my arm and my back. ‘That’s truth.’
The machine at my bedside ticks once, loud in the hush. I can feel her thoughts spinning with fear, doubt and confusion. She opens her mouth, then closes it again, caught between faith and curiosity.
