Page 150 of The Savage

As the room breaks, my brothers peel off. I hang back a second, jaw tight, fury coiled.

I should’ve ended the nun when I had the chance.

I won’t make that mistake twice.

* * *

Giada

The long table in the Fallbrook formal dining room is full.

I stop in the doorway without meaning to. My body does it before my mind catches up.

At the far end, my mother stands with her hands braced on the wood, as if the table itself is the only thing keeping her upright. Vittoria Mancinelli. Older. Thinner. Still unmistakably my mother. Her eyes find mine and fill instantly.

Six years collapse into a single breath.

We move at the same time.

Her arms close around me and I break, pressing my face into her shoulder, breathing her in like I might never get another chance.

‘My sweet child,’ she whispers, voice shaking. ‘Your sisters told me everything. I prayed for you. Every day.’

I nod, because if I speak, I’ll shatter.

She cups my face, searching it like she’s counting me, making sure I’m whole. ‘You’re here,’ she says. ‘You’re really here.’

‘I am,’ I manage.

Narciso steps in next. My brother and baby of the family. He’s taller than I remember and a little harder around the edges, but aren’t we all?

He doesn’t say much – and there’s a sense of tension between him and the twins – but his arms are strong and steady when he hugs me. He holds on a second longer than necessary, then pulls back, eyes too bright.

The only person missing is Jacinta.

‘She’s in South America,’ someone says. ‘No one’s heard from her in a few days.’

Across the table, I catch Sofiya and Rafa exchange a look. It passes. Whatever it is, it’s not for tonight.

We eat.

Plates are passed. Wine is poured. Conversation skirts the edges of danger without naming it. For the length of the meal, Fallbrook is just a house. Just family. Just breathing.

Later, engines warm. Bags are loaded. The Netherlands waits.

As we pull away, I glance at Renzo beside me and think of St Petersburg. Of a woman hiding behind God.

One way or another, we’re coming.

And this time, nothing will be left unfinished.

22

RENZO

The paddock smells like fuel, rubber, and money.

It always does, but today it’s sharper. Louder. Like the place knows we’re hyped up to the max. The Netherlands Grand Prix at Zandvoort is usually the one venue you can remain a little low key.