Page 94 of The Savage

She nods. ‘Topo.’

I watch her carefully. ‘Does the name El Topo mean anything to you?’

She frowns for a second, then shakes her head slowly. ‘Should it?’

I hold my breath for a half a second, then call fuck it. ‘Yeah, it should. It’s your grandfather’s name.’

Her eyes widen. ‘He called himself the rat?’

I laugh, and yeah, I don’t hold back the satisfaction. ‘Not willingly. He was called the rat because he was an ugly fucker, pardon my French. Thankfully, he had the good grace not to inflict any of his fugly genes onto you or your siblings. Probably the best thing he’d ever done in his miserable life.’

I realise how much bitter vitriol I’m spewing when her eyes grow wider with each word. ‘Diu, you make him sound⁠—’

‘Worse than shit-stained pond scum? That’s cuz he is, baby. Sorry but I’m not going to mince my words when it comes to your dear old nonno.’

Shadow and light dance in her eyes in a brief show of troubled confusion. ‘Is he… is he alive?’

I purse my lips, wondering if I should’ve kept my fucking mouth shut after all. ‘Unfortunately, he’s very much alive, if not kicking as hard as he’d like. He’s rotting in a cell in Ryker’s Island, New York.’

More shadow than light in her eyes now. ‘Why? What… what did he do?’

‘The list is too long for today, but all you need to know is I’m fairly confident he was ass-to-elbow deep with the Madre about your “relocation”.’

The cutlery in her hands clutters noisily to the plate and her face pales so drastically I think my fucking heart stops. ‘Jesus. Giada, are you okay?’

She swallows, but her lashes flutter madly, her breath coming in shallow, panicked pulls like she’s been dunked under icy water and is only now remembering how to surface. ‘I – I’m…’

She sways, then lists in the chair.

‘Giada.’ I’m up before my chair even finishes scraping. I catch her as she folds, my arms locking around her just in time. She’s light, too light, and for a horrifying second I feel her slip, feel her vanish.

‘Doctor!’ I bark, lifting her clean off her feet.

She gives a small, broken whimper that rips through me. My chest goes tight, savage with remorse. I’m already marching her off the terrace into the living room, yelling again because apparently today I’m a lunatic who doesn’t know his own strength.

The butler appears. ‘Get Doctor Conti! Now!’

Her head is tucked against my shoulder. One hand fumbles for the front of my shirt, clutching like she can anchor herself there. Her mouth is at my collarbone, her breath hot, frantic.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Dr Conti sprints in within seconds, hair dishevelled, face pale with the kind of professional fear that comes from treating a Salvatore while knowing there are consequences for getting it wrong.

‘What happened?’ he demands, already kneeling by the couch as I lower her carefully.

‘I was a fucking schmuck,’ I snap, because there’s no other way to say it. ‘I told her things maybe I shouldn’t have.’

Conti shoots me a look like you think? and then turns to Giada. His voice gentles the way mine never can. ‘Sister – Giada – look at me. Breathe slowly. In. Out. That’s it.’

Her eyes are huge in her paper-white face.

She nods once, twice, but the panic doesn’t drain.

I pace. I know I’m pacing. I can’t stop.

The doctor prises her fingers open, checks her pulse, shines a small light in her eyes. He asks questions in Italian that are meant to soothe and assess at once.

‘What did you see, cara? What did you feel? A smell? A sound? A name?’