Page 157 of The Savage

Giada stiffens beside me, her fingers tightening until it hurts. When I glance at her I see a sheen of tears. Tears of rage and regret and recrimination for the woman who played a pivotal role in this cycle of carnage we all got dragged into.

Palinski watches us closely. ‘She arrived three days ago,’ he says. ‘Asking for sanctuary. Offering information.’

‘And you beat it out of her,’ Cesare notes.

‘She was uncooperative,’ Palinski replies. ‘Now she is not.’

The nun lifts her head. Her remaining eye finds me. Recognition sparks.

Fear follows.

The castle feels very small.

And this is where we stop.

23

RENZO

‘Before we go any further and people get… dead,’ I say, voice flat, ‘I need to understand a few things. Who is this woman to you? And why did she run here to St Petersburg?’

Palinski doesn’t look at me right away. He watches her instead. Calculates. Measures the room.

‘She is family,’ he says finally. ‘Distant. Very.’

‘That doesn’t answer the second question,’ I reply.

Palinski sighs like I’ve asked him to explain gravity to a child. ‘She is mostly Russian. Some Italian blood. Her parents lived in Italy for a time. She was… difficult.’

The woman lifts her chin. Even with her face ruined, tied up and body shaking, she’s defiant.

‘As a teenager,’ Palinski continues, ‘she caused problems. Stole. Lied. Ran with boys who had knives in their pockets. Her parents panicked. They believed discipline would cure her.’

‘So they locked her in a convent,’ Dante says.

‘Not exactly,’ Palinski replies. ‘An institution attached to one. Sancta Croce della Penitenza. A corrective house that specialises in short, sharp shocks. The kind delivered to wayward girls.’

My jaw tightens. ‘And?’ I prompt.

‘And she met someone.’

His eyes flick – just for a second – towards Giada.

I move before I think. One step but it’s enough. Palinski’s gaze slides back to me, acknowledging the boundary without comment.

‘Your grandfather,’ he says calmly.

Cesare lets out a harsh laugh. ‘Fucking El Topo. We should change his name from The Toad to The Mould. He’s everywhere and you can’t kill him fast enough.’

He jerks his chin at the woman. ‘And what the hell is her name? Because I’m not calling the woman who killed my mother Madre fucking Superiora.’

She glares at him with her one good eye. Lips pressed tight. A soldier steps in and slams the butt of his rifle into her thigh. She screams and folds, barely staying upright.

‘Say it,’ the soldier snarls.

‘Yelena,’ she spits through pain. ‘Yelena Morozzi.’

Russian cadence. Italian ending.