Page 129 of The Savage

‘No,’ I hiss out loud, grateful they’re not fucking with cryptic messages for once. ‘My turn.’

I show the message to my brothers and Rafa cracks his knuckles, a manic grin creasing his face. ‘Let’s go hunting.’

Cesare tucks his gun into his waistband. ‘We do this quiet. No bodies on the street if we can help it.’

Dante smirks as he checks the knives secreted about his person. ‘Define quiet.’

I’m not listening. I’m too busy kissing my girl. ‘Be right back, baby. Save that sweet mouth for me.’

* * *

The Docks – Later

The docks of Ortigia shouldn’t be this quiet.

The sea slaps lazily against the stone pilings, moonlight carving silver bones through the water. A humid, fish-salted wind rolls through the shipping crates. The perfect kind of night for violence.

We move like shadows – me, Cesare, Rafa, Dante. Four Salvatores with the kind of presence that shifts air pressure.

I feel the moment my brothers sense it too.

Rafa mutters, ‘Small crew. Pathetic.’

Cesare scans the perimeter. ‘You’d think he’d send a bigger team. I’m not sure whether to be insulted or amused he’s tickling our balls.’

He’s testing us. Testing me. Testing to see how far I’ll go to protect her.

A figure shifts behind a forklift. Another crouches near the boat ramp. A third near the rusted bollards.

They’re pathetically sloppy… but not scared.

Good. Fear makes men stupid. Confidence makes them bleed better.

Cesare flicks his chin. ‘Take them clean. No noise unless necessary.’

We move.

The first clash is fast as blades catch moonlight and boots grind flesh into gravel. One of Vittore’s men lunges at Dante with surprising speed. They trade blows, vicious and tight, Dante taking a punch to the ribs, grinning as he returns one that cracks bone.

Rafa and I double-team another. He swings a crowbar at me and misses by an inch. Rafa grabs him from behind, slamming him face-first into a crate while I drive my knee into his gut.

For a moment, it’s surprisingly evenly matched – the lapdogs have sharp teeth, it seems – Salvatore precision against Mancinelli ferality.

Then something shifts.

Rage, maybe.

Purpose.

Bloodline.

This bullshit’s been going on long before we were born. With El Topo off the board, it should’ve died a natural death. But apparently, culos will be culos.

The four of us synchronise the way only brothers raised in war can.

Cesare drops his opponent with a brutal elbow to the throat. Rafa gets his man on the ground, knee on his spine, twisting until cartilage pops.

Dante disarms the one with the knife and sends it spinning across the pavement; he follows it with a kick that knocks the bastard unconscious.