Page 127 of The Savage

The message attached is simple.

Nightowl

Lapdogs Prancing. ETA… Imminent. Hope your dick is worth dying for.

I grit my teeth. ‘Motherfucker.’

Giada is in the kitchen with Maddie and Sofiya, making coffee and smiling like she hasn’t a clue a wolf is prowling towards us with murder in his heart.

Another ping.

A new message.

Not from Nightowl.

From an unknown number. But I don’t need to know the number to understand the words. Because at least this particular asshole doesn’t know the art of being cryptic.

Return the girl or bury what remains. VM.

Vittore Mancinelli.

I type back.

Renzo

VM. Short for Vafanculo Motherfucker?

VM

At least my madre is still alive, racer boy.

I chuckle with zero humour as Sicilian rage, pure and clean, slides down my spine.

I hit CALL.

He answers on the third ring, laughing softly, like he’s already picturing Giada in a body bag.

‘Renzo Salvatore,’ Vittore purrs. ‘Tell me, how does it feel knowing you stole something that never belonged to you?’

My jaw tics. ‘You want to threaten me? Fine. But if you ever refer to my mother again or dare to speak Giada’s name, I swear I’ll⁠—’

‘You’ll what?’ he interrupts. ‘Fight a war? Against the remnants of her own blood? Against the man who kept her safe when your family left her to die?’

I grip the edge of the table so hard the wood creaks. ‘You and I both know you’re lying. Giada was taken because El Topo ordered her erased. While you hid in the ground like some damn weasel. And now you’ve – what? Picked up the family hobby? You think you’re ready for the big leagues, little man?’

Vittore goes silent for several beats, seething, then he clicks his tongue. ‘Return her. Or I return what’s left of you to your brothers in a box.’

The call cuts and the world narrows.

I take three breaths, then walk out onto the terrace where my brothers are already waiting – because of course they sensed something was off.

Rafa stares at me with that wolfish glint. ‘What the fuck was that? You look like you’re chewing iron filings.’

‘Vittore,’ I say.

Cesare straightens, cigar freezing mid-air. ‘He contacted you directly?’

‘Yeah.’ I toss the phone onto the table. ‘He wants Giada returned. Or he escalates.’