Page 147 of The Savage

I press closer to the window before I can stop myself.

Fallbrook Estate stretches out in a way that feels unreal. It’s not ostentatious or flashy like the home I remember growing up in.

This is old and vast and claimed inch by inch by time and will. Rolling green broken by stone walls and long drives that disappear into trees. Lakes that catch the light. Buildings tucked into the land instead of imposed on it.

Renzo leans in beside me, one hand resting warm and steady at my lower back.

‘That’s the south pasture,’ he says. ‘Horses still run there. It’s one of my favourite places.’

I nod, trying to take it all in without drowning in it.

The chopper dips lower and a pristine white building comes into view.

‘There,’ he adds quietly, pointing, ‘is the family mausoleum.’

I follow his finger.

It sits on a rise, pale stone against dark trees. Modest for a family like this. Simple. Permanent. My chest tightens.

‘That’s where she is,’ Renzo says. Not accusing. Just factual. ‘Where we buried Mama.’

I swallow. ‘I’d like to lay flowers there. If that’s okay.’

He doesn’t hesitate. ‘We’ll go together.’

The chopper settles onto the pad. Wind whips my hair around my face. The doors open and the sights and sounds of Fallbrook rush in – dogs barking in the distance, boots moving, voices calling out confirmations. Security everywhere, but it doesn’t feel like a fortress. It feels like a heartbeat.

Two more helicopters come in to land – some weird directive about no more than two Salvatores travelling together at any one time.

And the man who gave that directive, Orazio Salvatore, the Don of the Salvatore mafia famigghia, waits at the edge of the pad.

He’s smaller than I imagined but unmistakably dangerous with eyes that miss nothing.

They flick from Renzo to me and back again.

‘This isn’t new,’ he says in a voice like old rusty knives. ‘Is it?’

Renzo doesn’t blink. ‘Older than time, Nonno.’

Orazio studies us a moment longer, then nods once, as if something has finally aligned. ‘Come,’ he says. Then, to me, ‘I’d like a word.’

Renzo stiffens beside me. I feel it instantly.

‘It’s okay,’ I tell him softly. ‘I can do this.’

Orazio leads me through the house via pristine marble-floored hallways into his study.

The man I remember as Giacomo Salvatore, Orazio’s son and the men’s father, is already there. So is Bibiana, Renzo’s sister.

Her eyes meet mine and hold. She doesn’t smile or cry. But there’s something raw behind her composure, like emotion tightly leashed.

Giacomo simply looks… haunted. Angry. Afraid. A man who has lived too long with a question rotting inside him.

I know why I’m in the room and I don’t hold back. I tell them everything, not softening or dramatising it.

When I finish, the room is quiet.

Bibi blinks rapidly. Her jaw tightens but her tears stay put.