Page 66 of The Savage

She’s used to dealing with authority and at some point has come to believe she is one herself. But sadly for her she’s not used to dealing with Salvatore power. I take my time to pull my black gloves tighter over my hands, hiding the wince as it aggravates my healing skin.

‘Not wish,’ I correct softly. ‘Command.’

She opens her mouth, closes it again. Then steps aside in silent invitation.

Smart woman.

I take Giada’s elbow, slant her a sharp look when she attempts to step away.

Inside, the air smells of beeswax and incense. The Madonna looks down from her alcove, eyes carved in pity. I’ve stopped expecting divine intervention.

We stop in front of an office door and the next thing that hits me is how calm the Madre Superiora is.

I tilt my head. ‘Before we go any further, Madre… one question. Maybe three.’

She arches a brow, hands folded like she’s posing for a painting.

‘Why haven’t you asked about her?’ I murmur. ‘Since we arrived, you’ve shown no panic. No frantic questions. Not even a goddamn whisper of concern about your little novice. Your “daughter in faith”. A girl who was kidnapped from your care six days ago, dragged out into the night by armed men.’ I take a slow, lethal step closer. ‘Why is it you haven’t even called the police?’

Something flickers across her face, a stutter of emotions she tries to smother. Shock. Calculation. Irritation.

Then serenity snaps back into place like a mask.

Giada sways beside me, her breath catching. ‘Madre…?’ she whispers. A single, fragile tremble in that voice and my rage sharpens to a blade.

The old woman doesn’t even look at her. ‘Signore, the Church teaches trust in God’s will. I assumed she was… elsewhere, as the Lord intended. Besides, I did inform the correct authorities at the Vatican, who were always going to ensure her safe return.’

‘Bullshit.’

Giada gasps and her fingers twist the sleeve of her habit, seeking reassurance, seeking something.

I reach out to touch her shoulder, to ground her, and she flinches away.

From me.

To avoid disappointing this snake in a veil.

My jaw locks.

Fine.

Message fucking received.

I’ll burn every lie this nun ever told to ash before I let Giada worship a goddamn monster.

I open the office door myself and we step into a modest room that apparently escaped the carnage. There’s a gold crucifix on the wall and a ledger on the desk. I glance at the crucifix and smile faintly. ‘How much did he pay you, Madre?’

She blinks. ‘Mi scusi?’

‘For this woman,’ I say, my voice silk over stone. ‘The life of Giada Mancinelli. How much did it cost to erase her?’

A tremor runs through Giada. This time I take her hand and I tighten my hold, infuse warmth even as the Madre’s facade rallies to hold.

‘I have no idea what you mean, Signore. I don’t⁠—’

I gesture, and one of my men cocks his gun. The metallic click fills the room.

The older nun flinches and her hands fly up in surrender. ‘Please – please, Signore. I didn’t ask questions. A man came, years ago. Said the girl had been through tragedy. That she needed peace. He gave a generous donation. It was enough to rebuild our west wing after the storm.’