Page 141 of The Savage

My boots crunch glass as I drop in front of Giada when she folds.

She doesn’t fall so much as collapse inward. Her knees slam into the asphalt. Her hands claw at her head. The sound she makes doesn’t belong to this moment or this place.

‘Madre Superiora.’

The word tears through the silence left behind by gunfire.

Every Salvatore snaps inward, weapons rising in savage reflex to a possible new enemy.

Hell… no, not a new enemy.

A very old one, lying like a fucking viper in the grass, ready to sink its venom into the Salvatores.

Bodies shift as first my family, then the lieutenants and the capos form a hard perimeter without being told, backs out, eyes sweeping, muzzles steady.

Cesare barks orders low and fast. Dante’s already on comms. Rafa takes one step forward, then stops like it costs him blood to do it.

Sofiya is there too. Of course she is. She never stays where she’s put. She drops beside Giada without hesitation, one hand firm on her shoulder, grounding, protective. ‘It’s okay, sis. You’re okay.’

Giada is shaking with full-body tremors, sobs ripping out of her like something’s being torn loose. Her hair’s come free, sticking to her face, to her wet cheeks. Her fingers are white-knuckled in gravel.

I crouch in front of her, heart punching my ribs hard enough to hurt. My hands hover, useless, afraid to touch her wrong, afraid she’ll break if I do.

‘Giada,’ I say. My voice sounds wrecked even to me. ‘Tesoro. Look at me.’

She doesn’t. She rocks, breath dragging in broken pulls, whispering prayers. Names. Fragments.

I swallow and open my mouth again, panic threading through me sharp and mean.

Then she looks up.

Not at Sofiya. Not at the guns or the men or the bodies cooling behind us.

She looks straight at me.

Relief hits her face first as her eyes flood with fresh, clean tears. The kind that come with truth instead of terror. She reaches out, shaky fingers pressing against my mouth, stopping me cold. ‘I didn’t do it,’ she says.

Her hand is warm and steady and I swallow as she repeats it. ‘I didn’t kill your mother.’

The road goes dead silent. Not a breath or a scrape of a boot. Even the insects shut the fuck up.

She pushes herself straighter on her knees. Sofiya’s hand stays on her shoulder, anchoring her as she turns her gaze outward. She looks at my men now. At the faces carved by grief, loyalty, and years of violence done for blood and family.

She meets Rafa’s eyes. He’s gone still in a way I know too well. Like a man holding himself back from ripping the world open with his bare hands.

‘On my life,’ Giada says, voice rough but holding. ‘And on my honour. I did not kill Isabella Salvatore.’

Her breath catches and then her face changes.

Confusion cracks into disbelief. Disbelief hardens into rage.

‘It was—’ She stops. Swallows hard. Her voice shakes. ‘It was Madre Superiora.’

A low murmur ripples through the circle. Dangerous.

‘She fired the shot,’ Giada says, anger rising now, pushing the fear back. ‘She used me. They all did. They were behind it from the start. The Russians. Nonno. Her.’ Her hands curl into fists. ‘She shot your mother. And then she put the gun in my hands. Told me that if I told anyone… that she and El… Nonno.’ Her voice breaks wide open. ‘Oh God. She said they would kill me too.’

Sofiya tightens her grip. Leans closer. ‘You’re safe,’ she murmurs. ‘You’re free of it now. I promise.’