Page 115 of The Savage

‘Rafa,’ she hisses. ‘I love you, but if you touch a hair on my sister’s head, I’ll finish what I started the night we met and put a bullet in your skull for real this time.’

Rafa freezes.

And then – the crazy bastard smiles.

Softly. Weirdly. Like the unhinged version of a man proposing marriage in a bloodstained tux.

‘I’ll die happy,’ he murmurs, ‘if you promise to wear the same catsuit, bella tigre.’

Dante barks out a shocked laugh.

Sofiya rolls her eyes so hard she nearly tips over. And Cesare pinches the bridge of his nose.

The temperature in the room drops just enough to breathe again.

Giada peeks over my shoulder, trembling, voice barely a whisper: ‘If I thought a crowbar would work… I would probably let you,’ she says to Rafa.

He lets out a dark, humourless huff as Cesare snorts and Dante whistles.

I touch her cheek, dragging her attention back to me.

‘For the last fucking time,’ I announce, loud enough to carry across continents, ‘nobody is touching my woman.’

Silence drops like a velvet guillotine.

Maddie inhales sharply and Rafa stiffens. Cesare’s eyebrow twitches, with approval or warning, I can’t tell.

But Sofiya nods once, very small, very sure.

Rafa frowns at her. ‘You knew about this?’ he rasps.

Sofiya stares at him and something passes between them I don’t even want to know. My brother may be unhinged but I’ll admit – under copious amounts of torture – that Sofiya Mancinelli freaks me the fuck out. Of the two, she’s the more deadly.

‘Rooms,’ Dante mutters finally. ‘Let’s all take a beat or six before someone pulls a weapon.’

Cesare nods. ‘Dinner at eight. Everyone will keep their distance until then.’

Rafa grumbles. Sofiya elbows him. Maddie looks like she’s barely breathing. But they all start filtering out, giving us space.

Giving us a small mercy.

I take Giada’s hand. It’s clammy, ice-cold and as fragile as a prayer whispered into the wind.

I clutch it tighter and stare at my family. ‘And I’m assuming you’ve all invited yourselves under my roof?’

The response is a smattering of snorts and chuckles.

‘Come,’ I murmur, guiding her towards the door. Breakfast is fucking ruined, but I can still hold her in my arms.

Her steps falter. Her gaze flickers back to the cluster of Salvatores like she’s afraid they’ll vanish – or devour her whole.

‘I don’t belong with them,’ she whispers.

‘You will. Give it time. But what’s more important is that you belong with me,’ I counter.

And I mean it with every bloodstained inch of my soul.

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