Page 56 of The Savage

‘And you?’ I ask before I can stop myself. ‘What kind of man are you?’

He doesn’t answer quickly. His eyes lower, then lift. ‘The kind who thought hating you would save him.’ A pause. ‘The kind who learned it only made the need louder.’

The need.

It flares between us, undeniable as a raging fire. I hate that it makes my skin aware of itself, every inch suddenly with a pulse.

The doctor scribbles more notes, trying to look like he isn’t witnessing a sacrilege. I want to laugh and cry and perhaps faint, which I refuse to do on principle.

‘Enough for now,’ the doctor says, closing the file. ‘Sister, you’ve done well. We’ll schedule the scan for late afternoon. You may rest, or… sit.’ He glances down and I realise at some point, Renzo’s taken my hand again, that my rosary is once again draped over them, like our wrists are tied. He wisely looks away.

But I can’t. Not until someone knocks on the door.

Renzo’s mouth flattens in dissatisfaction. ‘Enter.’

The door swings wide. Six men file in, different from the ones who escorted me to my room and back this morning, moving with the sort of casual menace you can’t learn. You’re either cursed with it or not.

These men wear dark suits and close-cropped hair with eyes that collect a room in a second and file it under locked. They carry no visible weapons because they don’t need the advertisement.

‘Capo,’ the first says. Not Signore. Not sir. Capo. The word lands like another thunderclap. I know what it means.

Mafiosi.

That strikes something cold and instinctive inside me, a childhood ghost rising from smoke and whispers. Even cloistered girls hear things – rumours of men who rule cities from the shadows, who settle debts in blood, who make entire villages bow with a single command. Sicily has always carried those stories like scars beneath its sun-drenched skin.

And now I’m standing in a room with one of them.

One who came for me.

One who says I’m from the very soil where men like him are made.

Renzo doesn’t look at them first. He points at me.

‘You don’t let her out of your sight,’ he says, voice gone flat steel. ‘Not even to’ – he stops, glances at my habit with a flicker of wicked humour that still doesn’t soften the threat – ‘blink. The other men are here to secure the grounds. She is your sole priority.’

A couple of them almost smile. They swallow it when he doesn’t.

I rise before they can move towards me, the rosary tugging our joined wrists. ‘This is overkill.’

‘No, angel. It’s actually far less than what I want.’

‘Why are you doing this? What’s so special about me?’

He meets my eyes, and the strange thing is… the answer hurts him. I see it in the way his mouth softens, in the exhale he doesn’t intend me to notice. But beneath the ache, something darker flickers. Contained elation maybe? A feral kind of possession barely held in check that drags electricity low in my belly.

Renzo Salvatore looks like he’s been starving for years and suddenly remembers what food tastes like.

‘Ah, tesoru miu, besides the carnage heading our way? If we had infinity itself it wouldn’t be enough time to list all the reasons you’re special.’

8

RENZO

The doctors said I should stay in bed for another week so they can monitor my brain and ribs.

I said fuck that.

So here I am, limping across the private suite of Istituto San Cristoforo with a titanium pin on my left arm and one crutch that keeps slipping on the marble like it’s got a death wish.