Page 55 of The Savage

Privately. A small word, but it throws doors open in my mind that I hadn’t noticed until now. Choice. Agency. Words that weren’t in the Madre Superiora’s vocabulary unless they were followed by a lecture on obedience.

I nod, almost imperceptibly. ‘Thank you.’

Renzo sees it. He doesn’t like it. He leans back as if to put distance between himself and his own temper. ‘You’re not cutting into her head.’

‘No one suggested—’ the doctor begins, flustered.

‘I’ll choose who does what to me and when, thank you, Signore,’ I say, harsher than intended.

The room goes still. And yes, it’s borderline ridiculous to say this to the man who had me kidnapped and is keeping me prisoner here.

So I’m stunned when something passes across Renzo’s face.

Surprise first, then something that looks a good deal like pride. He tips his head, conceding the point with a little flick of a smile.

‘Good girl,’ he says. ‘I prefer you with teeth.’

I flush. ‘I’m not your pet.’

‘Unfortunately,’ he murmurs, almost too low to hear. ‘But we’ll get there.’

I push to my feet, needing air even where there isn’t any. The habit whispers, betraying my agitation and aggravation. ‘What do you want from me?’

‘Everything,’ he says without shame. Then, softer, ‘But I’ll start with your time.’

‘That’s not yours to ask for, not when you’ve taken me against my will.’

‘Then whose?’ he asks, clearly intending to ignore the kidnapping part of my accusation.

‘God’s,’ I say, because it’s the only answer I know how to give that doesn’t slice me apart.

‘Then tell Him to invoice me.’ His mouth crooks. The arrogance should repel me. It doesn’t. It terrifies me because it doesn’t.

I turn away before he can see the wobble in my mouth. The stainless-steel crucifix on the wall catches the light and throws it back at me. For a wild second I want to tear it down and ask aloud why I was saved whatever atrocity befell me only to be thrown to this.

‘Anger is not a sin,’ Sister Teresa once told me, when I confessed to resenting the way the wind crept under the shutters and made my bones ache. ‘It’s the direction you point it that matters.’

Where do I point this? At God? At this man? At the nuns who gave me a name I’ve been choking on ever since I found out it doesn’t truly belong to me?

‘Sit,’ Renzo says, gentler now. ‘Please.’

The word knocks something loose – the ‘please’, not the ‘sit’. I return to the chair. He doesn’t gloat and I’m thankful for that.

‘What’s the most important question on your mind right this second?’ he asks.

I don’t even need to think hard. And it’s not the looming ‘what happened to me?’ I’m nowhere near ready to face that.

I feel my fragile mind might break if Renzo decides to give me a taste.

‘Tell me more about my sisters. My brother.’

‘Your sisters,’ he says after a moment, and his voice has changed again – lower, cautious, as if the topic has weight even for him. ‘Maddelena married Cesare. Sofiya married Rafa, who I know for sure is an undiagnosed psychopath. They’re good men, for unhinged bastards. They love hard. Sometimes wrong. But they won’t let harm come to their wives. Or to you, once we… get to the bottom of a few things. Once they know the full picture.’

Once they know…

The phrase chills me. It is not a promise; it is a weather report. Storms approaching. Seek shelter.

‘Jacinta is a lawyer. We haven’t interacted much but she seems decent. Now Narciso. He’s a little shit who thinks he rules the world. Dante and I take pleasure in proving otherwise. I daresay he’s learning his lesson.’