Page 37 of The Savage

Her fingers tighten around her rosary again, knuckles pale against the dark beads. I can see the questions forming behind her eyes – the ones she’s too careful to ask.

‘Phone,’ I say to the doctor without looking at him. ‘Unlock yours.’

He blanches. ‘My phone? But⁠—’

‘Now.’

He fumbles it out, unlocks with a thumb, holds it like a confession.

‘I’ve just memorised your number. Within the hour, I’ll have the whole hospital’s communications system under surveillance. You’re not going to call anyone about me,’ I tell him. ‘And you’re going to listen and carry out my instructions.’

He nods, because men who live in rooms like this learn quickly what keeps them alive.

‘You don’t tell anyone I’m awake,’ I continue, voice low enough to feel private and sharp enough to cut. ‘No one. Not your colleagues. Not my family. Not God.’

He swallows, then slides a look at Giada. ‘But your brothers have requested an update every six hours. They⁠—’

‘—will be informed that I’m still in a coma. I’m stable and my condition hasn’t changed. And you will do whatever is necessary to keep them from visiting me.’ I let the smile show my teeth. ‘I need time. With her. Without interference.’

The younger doctor glances at the door again, calculating the distance to salvation. I save him the maths.

‘One hundred thousand dollars each, for both of you,’ I say, as if I’m suggesting an aperitivo. ‘One transfer, untraceable and yours by morning.’

They both stare with wide eyes.

‘Or,’ I add, letting the word fall like a blade, ‘a visit from my crew to your families. Which will it be?’

The monitors tick. Somewhere down the corridor, a trolley rattles past like distant thunder. The older doctor looks at her. At the nun in the chair and then at me, the sinner in the bed.

He nods first and the younger follows instantly.

‘Good,’ I say. ‘Now get out. And send up coffee.’

He gathers the younger one with a look and they vanish, the door whispering closed.

We’re alone.

Or close enough to it for this kind of sacrilege.

‘Let’s start again,’ I tell her, softer now. ‘What’s your name?’

Her chin rises, stubborn, furious, afraid. ‘Sister Benedetta.’

‘Fine,’ I say, tasting the lie like blood. ‘For tonight.’

I reach out – slow, gentle, inevitable – and touch the edge of her wimple again, a sinner fingering a relic.

‘Come closer, angel,’ I say.

6

RENZO

‘Come closer,’ I repeat softly when she ignores me.

Her breath catches sharply in the silence.

The doctor’s footsteps fade down the corridor, leaving only the sound of machines and her uneven breathing.