Page 105 of The Savage

‘You can’t fight⁠—’

I smile, slow, lethal. ‘Baby… I already am.’

The echo of boots on cobblestone draws closer. Giada’s grip tightens as the first shadow spills into the alley. I lean down, my mouth grazing the shell of her ear.

‘Stay behind me. Close your eyes. I’ll let you know when to open them.’

She nods, throat bobbing, and I don’t move until I see her slam her hand over her eyes, fingers trembling just once before she steels them.

Good girl.

I pivot, stepping into the first man’s space before he expects it. My bad arm screams, but I ignore it as my good one swings clean and fast, the blade I palmed from my boot punching up beneath his rib cage. He exhales wetly. No time to watch him fall.

Second one lunges.

I meet him halfway.

Steel bites through tendon, collarbone, then artery – a slick, practised motion born from a lifetime of being taught how to kill quicker than you can think. He drops like a sack of rotten grain.

The third bastard freezes, wide-eyed when I pull out my gun.

That’s right, fuckface, I bring a knife and a gun to a gunfight.

I step forward, raise my arm. And then I hear the sound of more bodies hitting the ground before a low, cold voice from behind the first man: ‘Capo.’

My security.

Thank fuck.

Three of my own men melt out of the shadows, silent as wraiths, forming a wall between us and Mancinelli dogs.

Giada gasps, relief and terror tangling in her eyes.

I slide my arm around her waist again. ‘You didn’t keep your eyes shut, baby.’

‘Sorry,’ she mutters in a very not-sorry way.

I pull her closer and brush my mouth over her temple. ‘Gelato walk is over,’ I murmur. ‘Time to go home.’ I turn to my men, nod at the last squirming fucker. ‘Bring him.’

‘Is it safe?’ she whispers.

‘For you?’ I press a kiss to her temple. ‘Always.’

She trembles but I suspect it’s not in fear.

In something else.

Something dangerous and inevitable, pulling us both towards a storm we can’t unmake.

15

RENZO

My men haul him in like a sack of badly tied meat, boots thudding against the villa’s stone floor, the salt air still clinging to our clothes, still humming with the aftermath of what I just did in that alley.

This Mancinelli lapdog is bleeding enough to paint a fresco. The other is already dead. The third – well, he found the good sense to run. Sense is rare in Mancinellis these days, but I’ll grant him that much.

Giada is still in the doorway when we come in. She’s pale, eyes too wide, gelato forgotten in her hand, a smear of pistachio melting down her wrist.