Page 69 of The Savage

No, this… he’s ripped me from the only sanctuary – as false as that is turning out to be – for his own end game.

The farther we drive, the less I know who I am.

When we finally reach the bridge that connects Ortigia Island to the mainland, I press my palm to the window.

The water catches the sunlight like dappling pixies.

The city glows ahead with honey-stone walls, domes and arches, the promise of quiet luxury and whispered sins. It’s too beautiful. It feels like standing in the doorway of temptation itself.

The cars roll through narrow streets, the tyres crunching over cobblestones older than memory. I catch glimpses of the sea through archways, women gossiping on balconies, priests moving through the dusk. And our destination, when we stop before a pair of tall wrought-iron gates, I think must be a hotel.

It isn’t. It’s breathtaking.

‘This isn’t a simple villa, is it?’ I murmur.

‘No,’ he says, voice low, almost tender. ‘It’s better than a villa. It’s a fortress.’

The gates open into a courtyard glowing with lemon trees and pale marble. Lanterns swing from stone arches. A fountain murmurs softly in the centre, the sound half soothing, half secret.

‘Welcome home,’ he says, as if the words mean something.

They don’t. The only home I remember is made of ancient, silent walls and cold floors. And… I hate that it’s been tarnished by a woman I thought was my saviour.

‘Giada?’

I shake my head and I don’t step out right away.

The weight of everything, of the past I don’t know and the future I don’t understand, presses me to the seat.

But when he opens the door and holds out a hand, I take it. My fingers fit into his like they belong there, and that frightens me more than the guards or the guns or the Madre Superiora’s betrayal.

Inside, the palazzo feels like something between a cathedral and a palace, as if its owner changed its purpose from a monument to a higher being to himself midway, and yet managed to create a masterpiece.

Sumptuous living rooms, terraces and libraries go on for days.

Hallways flow and turn and fork in a dizzying sprawl that will take weeks to get used to. High ceilings painted with fading frescoes, velvet drapes that glow in the lamplight.

There’s a hush to the air. It’s not sterile like the convent, but reverent… indulgent. As if every wall is holding its breath, waiting to see what we’ll do next before granting or withholding its blessing.

A woman with sharp cheekbones and a clipboard greets us in a smaller living room. ‘Signor Salvatore, I’m Caterina Vitale. Everything is as you requested. The rooms are prepared.’

Renzo nods. ‘The doctor and the medical crew?’

‘Installed downstairs in the east wing, sir. Fully equipped.’

‘Good.’ He glances at me, his gaze unreadable. ‘And the clothing issue?’

The woman pivots and gestures towards a pair of lacquered doors. ‘Six couturiers, present and next season. Exclusive selection. As requested.’

Renzo turns and I follow his line of sight.

The double doors to a smaller living room are open and inside, rows upon rows of clothing await inspection. Dresses, silks, and linens hang like a thousand whispered choices I’m not ready to make. And beside each row, tall towers of shoes. Delicate, strappy, decadent. Perfume bottles glint on a vanity table, faintly mocking the simplicity I once wore like armour.

A firm hand arrives at my back and I’m propelled towards the spectacle. ‘What is this?’ I ask, even though I suspect the answer.

‘Your new wardrobe. Whatever you choose will be relocated to your suite upstairs.’

I shake my head. Glance down at my habit. The only uniform I’ve known in six years. I grow dizzy with the shifting sands beneath my feet and I struggle to steady myself.