Page 101 of The Savage

* * *

Renzo

The late-afternoon sun skims the pale stone buildings, catching on balconies overflowing with bougainvillea. The sea breeze curls around us, carrying the scent of lemon, basil, and the ocean.

And through it all walks my Giada, sweet in her blue dress, her fingers brushing the skirt like she’s relearning the sensation of being touched by luxury air and linen instead of wool.

She keeps glancing at me like she can’t decide whether to thank me or throttle me.

Good. That’s balance.

‘You’re staring,’ she murmurs, eyes straight ahead.

‘You’re worth staring at.’

‘Renzo…’

‘Angel…’

She laughs despite herself. Music. Actual music. And God help me, I walk faster just to keep up with the rhythm of it.

We take Vicolo delle Pergole towards the piazza. The cobblestones radiate warmth underfoot; the narrow street opens into a sunlit square where locals linger over late lunch, musicians tune mandolins, and a grandmother scolds a child stealing figs from a stall.

It’s idyllic.

Too fucking idyllic.

For one suspended moment, I let myself pretend we’re just another couple strolling through Ortigia, the sun on stone, sea breeze around us, life simple and quiet. A man could almost be fooled by the smell of citrus and salt.

Then some idiot pretty boy, linen shirt unbuttoned halfway to his navel, saunters up with a smug smile and a ‘Ciao, bella’ that’s two breaths too familiar.

Giada blinks, surprised, polite by reflex as her lips start to curve.

Fuck that shit.

I’m not polite.

‘Keep walking, stronzo,’ I murmur, stepping in front of her like it’s instinct. It is instinct. Then I level the guy with a smile that feels like the slow unsheathing of a blade. ‘She’s not available,’ I say softly, almost kindly. ‘Even in your fantasies. Capisci?’

Something in my tone must hit the right nerve because he pales, mutters an apology, and scuttles off.

Giada huffs, cheeks pink. ‘You didn’t have to⁠—’

‘I did,’ I say. Because if he’d looked at her a second longer, I would’ve ended up painting his blood in the cobblestones. ‘And I’ll do it again.’

She goes quiet, turning her gelato cup in her hands, sunlight catching in her hair like spun gold. For a heartbeat I see it⁠—

What we could’ve been.

Her hand in mine as we walk this same street.

Her smile without trauma behind it.

Our past not ripped apart by fire and lies and a fucking war none of us asked for.

I also wonder, briefly and, yeah, fucking dangerously, if this is how Orazio felt before Valentina was stolen from him. Before her blood spilled and the world split down the middle. Before he turned into something sharp enough to cut through an entire mafia dynasty.

The thought chills me.