Page 6 of The Savage

My tongue feels heavy. My throat burns. I want to tell him I’m fine. That I’ve had worse. That the spin was beautiful right up until the impact.

But all that comes out is her name. ‘Giada.’

The medics freeze. Someone mutters, ‘Who the hell is Giada? Does anyone know a Giada?’

If only they knew. That she’s everything.

Angel. Ghost. Soul-wrecker. Fucking traitor.

I drift again. Voices fragment into muffled radio chatter. Helicopter blades thump above me, whipping the smoke into ghosts. Pain pulses somewhere distant, like it belongs to someone else.

‘Move him… he’s burning up⁠—’

‘Christ, he’s still breathing. But that pulse… Shit, it’s thready. We need to go!’

‘We have instructions to wait. The other Salvatore driver’s on the way – someone tell him he needs to hurry!’

The other Salvatore driver. Dante.

Shit, my twin brother. He’ll lose his mind.

We’ve always joked that if one of us went out, the other would feel it first, some twin telepathy bullshit. Maybe he does. Maybe right now he’s hurling his helmet across the paddock, swearing to God and the devil both that I’d better not die before him.

‘Tell him…’ I try to speak, but my lips barely move. My vision fills with light, blinding white against the charred black. ‘Tell Dante⁠—’

But it’s too late. The world starts to fold in on itself.

Sound tunnels, vision narrows. All that’s left is the scent of burning oil and lilies, the echo of church bells, and her face… soft, haloed and unreachable.

I can barely move my tongue. Or my hands. Or even blink. But it feels fucking essential that I speak my last word before the darkness claims me. And when I do, it’s not to pray for heaven or salvation.

It’s her name.

It’s always been her fucking name.

‘Giada.’

2

RENZO

Voices bleed through the dark.

They come and go like the tide, breaking against the edges of my consciousness before retreating into the nothing. At first, I think it’s the whine of the machines or the hiss of the oxygen feed. Then I catch the familiar rhythm beneath it – the gravel of Cesare’s voice, the clipped tone of Rafa’s temper, the quieter cadence of Bibiana murmuring in the background.

Hospital air always smells the same, like bleach and despair.

Even half gone, I can feel it seeping into my skin, leeching the fire from my veins. I’m not sure how long I’ve been out but as I catalogue the shit show going on in my body, I can just about guess how bad things are. Halfway through, the memory of someone’s voice – probably the doctor’s – returns.

Something about second-degree burns along my shoulder and hip, a cracked rib and a broken arm. But what everyone seems to be wringing their delicate hands about is a very bad concussion. Or possibly worse… brain damage.

Ha. Fuck.

Could be worse though. I could be dead.

But as I drift in and out, it’s Cesare’s voice I hear most often, even more than hers. Irritatingly. My brother’s deep, controlled voice, too calm to be anything but terrified.

‘The burns were minimal. You get to keep your good looks. That alone should make you wake up, eh? Dammit, you dumb, prissy fuck. It’s been days and this is getting old.’