Page 25 of The Savage

Thanks to me, he almost unravelled this particular mystery last year. And thanks to me and a little fire I set to a convent, he failed. Because when it comes right down to it, this isn’t his problem to solve.

It’s always been Lorenzo Salvatore’s.

The Mancinellis will feel the shift like wolves scenting blood. Their lack of a clear leadership these days will make things… interesting when his particular pawn surfaces on the board.

I’ve done more than move a pawn tonight.

I’ve tossed a live grenade onto the board and dared both kings to keep playing. Every click of the rotor blades as the chopper nears its destination tightens the fuse.

But that’s the beauty of it.

Chaos breeds clarity.

Families show their true loyalties when the floor catches fire. And secrets, no matter how well buried, always rise in the smoke.

I watch the feed for a few more seconds, just long enough to see the helicopter cross from Sicilian into Italian airspace. Then I lean back, fold my arms behind my head, and let the grin widen.

They’ll call it interference.

I call it enlightening entertainment.

* * *

Sister Benedetta

The first thing that hits me is the light.

Even through the fabric of the hood, I can feel it burning brighter, colder and artificial. The kind of light that doesn’t come from candles or the sun, but from manmade things.

The helicopter has landed on a harder surface than the garden of the convent.

And by the sudden clinical stillness that surrounds me, the shift from vibration to silence, I know that God hasn’t performed a miracle and returned me to the safety of the only home I remember.

Still, I summon a prayer, just in case.

But before I can utter it, the gloved and impersonal hands return, to firmly guide me down. My bare feet meet solid ground, smooth and echoing like expensive tiles. There’s a gust of air, dry and sterile, scented faintly with disinfectant and metal that reminds me of the hospital visits I’ve made with the other sisters to attend those of faith and even those without.

But this scent is sharper. Cleaner. Colder.

And unsettlingly… expensive.

The man in charge, the one whose silent presence has pressed against my awareness since the convent courtyard, hasn’t spoken in the last half hour. Not one word. Not a command, not a reassurance, not even a grunt of pain.

But I heard him earlier, the ragged edges in his breathing. The strain knotted beneath that silence.

Is he hurt?

I swallow hard, grasping for the safest explanation for this wild, impossible night. Perhaps the extraction was for him, not for me. Perhaps I am only here because he needed medical attention and I⁠—

I what?

Was nearby? Convenient? Disposable?

And dear God… why should it twist inside me that he might be in pain? Why should the thought make something warm and terrified unfurl low in my ribs?

Because he’s one of God’s children, I tell myself fiercely. That is all. Nothing more.

I repeat it again, slower, as if conviction can be conjured by cadence.