Page 110 of The Savage

‘Who the hell is Vittore Mancinelli and why haven’t I been told about him?’ I interject.

My brother goes silent. Which can mean two things at once. One, they know the name now. And two, they’re already moving.

‘First of all, if you’d answered your fucking phone, you would know too. But more importantly, how the fuck do you know?’

I close my eyes a second. ‘Because he just sent men after us in Ortigia,’ I say quietly.

A pause so razor-thin it could cut. Then Cesare exhales like a man suppressing fire. ‘Us?’

‘Yes… us.’

He exhales. ‘You know we’re coming. So I suggest you stay where the hell you are. Don’t do anything stupid until we get there.’

I laugh once, humourless. ‘You mean beyond what I’ve already done?’

‘Renzo.’

‘Cesare.’ I lower my voice. ‘Bring Maddie. Bring Rafa. Bring Sofiya. Bring the fucking apocalypse if you want. But nobody touches her. Unless they go through me. Capisci.’

Another pause.

Then, colder, more final: ‘We’re already wheels up.’

The line goes dead.

I stare at the phone.

Then I tuck it away and start moving again, pulse spiking, because upstairs there’s a furious, frightened woman with a heart I don’t deserve and a memory that could start a war.

And I’m about to tell her – whether she wants it or not – that the storm has found us.

16

RENZO

I feel them before I hear them.

Heavy footsteps through the house. Purposeful. Controlled. The kind of walk only men raised in the shadow of a don ever master.

The kind of walk that rumbles: brace yourself.

We’re on the private terrace that surrounds the master bedroom overlooking the gardens. She allowed me to fuck the fury out of her all night long so we’re both in a slightly more improved mood this morning.

She stiffens where I placed her on my lap, because separate chairs was too much fucking distance. She refused my desire to feed her, which annoyed the hell out of me, but whatever. So the spoon is halfway to her mouth, ricotta trembling on the edge, when she hears too.

Her eyes widen, translucent green murk turning to glass, as the air shifts.

The temperature drops ten degrees.

Then… a knock.

It’s not frantic or polite. Just… inevitable. From men who know doors will be open to them by choice or by force. I know this because I’m one of those men.

I push back from the breakfast table. ‘Stay behind me.’

Before she can ask why, the door swings open.

And the room goes to hell.