Page 138 of The Savage

‘Want to feel how much you undo me?’ I whisper.

Her fingers clutch my shirt. ‘Renzo⁠—’

‘Tell me.’

‘I…’ Her voice breaks. ‘I need you.’

That does it.

My hand drops between her thighs, sliding under her dress – and she gasps, tries to bite it back, fails beautifully.

‘So wet for me,’ I breathe against her ear. ‘And all I did was drive.’

Her knees buckle. I catch her easily, grip unyielding.

‘Say it again.’

‘I need you,’ she whispers, trembling.

I cover her mouth with mine, slow at first, then deep, consuming, hungry enough to shake her entire body. Her hands fist in my shirt; mine slide along the inside of her thigh, teasing, learning, claiming.

I fuck her into her shaking, flushed mess, ruined in the best way.

When she comes hard and breaks apart in my arms with a soft, desperate cry muffled against my throat, I hold her through it, savouring every second.

Then I kiss her temple.

‘Good girl,’ I murmur. ‘Now let’s get you out of here before I fuck you again on the tarmac.’

She blushes all the way back to the SUV.

* * *

The road narrows as Ragusa approaches, streetlights thinning and spacing out as the night presses closer around the car. We’re minutes from the safe house, close enough that my damn foot won’t stop bouncing in anticipation of being alone with my girl.

As days in the life of a mafiosi capo and racing driver goes, it’s been as close to fucking perfect as it can get. And the plans racing through my head of how to end a perfect day are so X-rated I’m surprised I can see straight enough to drive. Especially when Giada keeps glancing from beneath her lashes at me from the passenger seat, like she’s quietly taking inventory, committing me to memory while a probably tamer reel unspools in her head.

My arm throbs, not sharply any more, just enough to remind me it’s healing. I’m back in my body. Back in control. Alive.

‘Next weekend,’ I say, eyes flicking between the road and her smile, ‘I’ll take you to the next race. You’ll get to experience the whole wild ride properly. But no hugging chain link fences and sneaking around pit walls. Won’t be able to concentrate if you do.’

She laughs, tosses her hair, and the sound lands in my chest like a blessing. God help me, she looks breathtaking – soft dress, bare throat, eyes lit with something that isn’t fear for once. Five minutes from the Ragusa safe house. Five minutes from quiet. From walls and guns and order.

Should’ve fucking known that this would be the moment karma chooses to take a shit on my joy.

The first gunshot snaps the night in half. I’m already snatching at her nape, pushing her into the footwell.

‘STAY DOWN!’

Tyres scream as I wrench the wheel, shoving Giada down harder just as glass explodes inward. Bullets chew through metal. The car fishtails, slams hard into the kerb.

The door is open before we stop moving.

My eight capos spill out with machine precision. Luca, who’s been with me since my first F3 test, quiet as snowfall, deadlier. Enzo, a former Carabinieri. Marco, who lost two brothers to the Russians, never forgets a face.

Tito, Paolo, Sandro and Nico, who always travel closest to me as per Orazio’s orders. Then Bruno – old-school Sicilian muscle, scars like a map.

My trust in them is total but still I keep my head on a swivel as they fan out as one.