Page 52 of The Savage

‘You were born in New York City.’

Her gaze flicks to me. ‘America?’

I nod once. ‘Manhattan. Haven’t you wondered why you have an American accent?’

She frowns. ‘I also speak Italian so I assumed maybe I grew up there?’

‘You’re Sicilian.’

Her eyes widen. Then she takes a deep breath. ‘Do I… have family?’ she asks hesitantly.

The doctor glances at me before answering. ‘Yes. A large one. Three sisters, you’re the fourth. One younger brother.’

Her eyes widen. ‘Four siblings?’ she whispers in awe.

And dammit, at every point since she appeared like an angel at my side, I’ve yearned for all of this bullshit to be an elaborate ruse. But watching her reaction to the information she should’ve had years ago so she could remember, I know she’s not faking it. She’s truly lost all memory of her childhood.

‘Alive and well,’ I say quietly. ‘Two of your sisters – Maddelena and Sofiya – are married to my brothers.’

Her lips part in shock. ‘Really?’

‘Yeah. Hell of a thing that came with literal fireworks, believe me.’ I let the corner of my mouth curl. ‘So it looks like you and I…’ I shrug, deliberately lazy. ‘…we were meant to be.’

Her jaw tightens. ‘I don’t think so.’

I sigh, then nod towards the doctor before she can tell me once again that she belongs to the Man Upstairs. I’m fast losing patience with that bullshit too. ‘Keep going.’

He clears his throat, pretending not to notice the storm brewing between us. ‘Your parents are alive,’ he says, reading from the chart. ‘We’re still confirming current residence.’

I smile to myself and let that slide.

As a Salvatore, destined it seems with the task of keeping the Mancinellis in line, I know where both her snivelling excuse for a father and her so-docile-she-might-as-well-be-comatose mother is too. And they’re coming nowhere near her in the foreseeable future. If ever.

But she doesn’t need to know that. Yet.

Her gaze returns to me, then the doctor. ‘And what do they do?’

My expression hardens. ‘You don’t need that answer yet.’

She leans forward slightly. ‘You know, don’t you? You know everything.’

‘Not everything,’ I say. ‘But enough to know they’ve got blood on their hands.’

Her jaw drops. ‘What? What does that mean?’

I curse under my breath. ‘Nothing you need to be concerned about.’

‘Then why did you say that? Are you implying they’re some sort of crimin⁠—’

‘Perhaps we move to something else?’ the doctor interjects, looking uneasy.

Her gaze probes mine harder, but not finding what she wants, she purses plump lips I want to bite and lick more than I want my own breath. ‘Fine.’ She exhales sharply. ‘How did we meet?’

I look at her for a long time, letting the silence drag until she fidgets. ‘In church,’ I say finally. ‘But not in the way you think.’

Her eyes flicker – confusion, curiosity, a flick of fear. ‘Church?’ she echoes.

‘Yeah.’ I lean back, watching her reaction like a scientist studying combustion. ‘Let’s just say it wasn’t the kind of prayer that saves souls.’