Page 81 of The Savage

There’s a catch on that last word; if I were a better grandson I’d let it pass. If I were a better man I’d rip my own tongue out to avoid the thing I’m going to say next.

‘My mama’s grave,’ I repeat evenly, ‘is the reason I want answers from the damn source. Not the half-baked story we all know is bullshit. The problem is it’s become back-burner shit for everyone.’

There’s a crackle on the line.

Rafa’s tone shifts to sharp, defensive. ‘Careful. You don’t get to take swings at the family for trying to survive it.’

‘Survive it?’ I snarl, heat flaring under my ribs. ‘You all made your peace with the version that hurt least. Meanwhile I’m still choking on the parts that don’t add up.’

Silence. Heavy. Loaded.

I drag a breath in, force it out through clenched teeth. The rage is still there, snarling under my ribs, but I cage it. For a moment. ‘I just need time,’ I say, steadier. ‘Time, space, and the courtesy of not being hunted by my own blood. I’ll reach out when I’m ready.’

We all know they won’t give me that grace.

But the lie is worth the try.

There’s a long breath on the other end. When Cesare speaks, it’s the voice he uses when he’s already decided the bad thing has to be done and he’ll be the one to do it.

‘Fine,’ he says. ‘Interesting fact though. Dr Conti’s wife’s phone pinged with a call from the Sanctuary of Saint Cecilia. Seems he’s taken an unscheduled trip to Sicily?’

Shit.

So Rafa wasn’t bluffing. Of course he wasn’t. I glance at the corridor as if the walls might tattle. ‘How devout of him.’

‘“Devout” is one word,’ Rafa says, the grin back in his tone. ‘“Extracted” is another. And it looks like some random Madre Superiora has been whisked somewhere quiet after a skirmish at her convent. Know anything about that?’

At my stubborn silence, he chuckles. ‘A burned convent isn’t your style, frate. That was someone else’s flourish. But care to explain why your doctor and a disgraced nun were at the same GPS coordinate I visited over a year ago?’

‘I care to explain nothing,’ I say, but my mouth is dry. My mind isn’t in the room; it’s back in that ash-scarred cloister.

Nightowl better not have taken matters into his own hands. His message flashes in memory: New scenery. Better lighting for interrogation.

I’d thought it was for my interrogation.

Fuck, was it something else I misunderstood?

‘You’re a Salvatore, but you’re not invincible,’ Cesare says, softer. ‘You don’t get to drag some poor chick into the undertow of whatever’s going on with you because you’re bored of the surface.’

‘I’m not bored,’ I grate out, and it’s the most honest thing I’ve said all night. ‘I’m—’ What? Obsessed. Starving. Home. The words line up and none of them do the job.

‘—I’m recalibrating,’ I finish. ‘Let’s pretend I’m stopping to smell the roses or some bullshit. Or whatever the opposite of that is. What’s life without a few macabre twists, eh? I can stomach contradictions. Can you?’

There’s a beat.

Then Rafa’s laugh, low and astonished. ‘Listen to the poet. Are you having an existential crisis, baby brother? Remind me, Ces, did you babble crap like this after you drove into the wall in Vegas that time?’

‘Shut the fuck up and don’t encourage him,’ Cesare says, but it’s soft, and I can hear him running a hand over his face the way he does when he’s trying to massage the headache into submission. ‘Ren⁠—’

A sound cuts him off. Not his. Not mine.

A scream. High, jagged and real.

Every muscle in me answers before my head does. The phone’s still at my ear but I’m already moving.

‘Renzo?’ Cesare barks. ‘Jesus, what the fuck was that?’

‘Nothing to worry about. Gotta run.’ I smash the end button and before the phone skids from my hand onto the console, I’m running.