Page 3 of The Savage

‘You know the problem with you assholes? You sin with greedy hands and eyes wide open because you believe forgiveness is a short knee-to-altar away from a clean slate.’

I pull the pen from his jowly cheek and hold it a half inch from his left eye. ‘You have two choices. Your eyes or your throat. One will kill you, the other will give you a killer patch look you can tell your Vatican cronies about.’

Spittle flies from his mouth as his pleas increase in volume. I glance pointedly at my watch. Slide the jagged pen tip towards his throat.

‘Il mio occhio! Il mio occhio!’

The howl echoes up to the painted saints overhead, and for a second it sounds like the whole damn room is laughing at him.

‘Your eye it is. Now, your offshore accounts and passwords,’ I say simply. ‘All of them. And remember, get even one wrong and I’ll come back, take the other eye.’

He babbles out passwords while his tears drip onto the polished oak. I record everything. Then, because fear without pain is a hollow currency, I take his right hand and pin it to the desk with my forearm.

He starts to struggle. I tighten my grip. ‘Paolo,’ I murmur, ‘focus.’

‘I-I swear, I’m telling you everything⁠—’

I twist his wrist until the bones grind.

He screams again.

Angels stare down at us from the ceiling, their painted eyes full of pity they don’t mean.

‘See, here’s my problem,’ I say conversationally. ‘You didn’t just steal from the Salvatores. Some of that money was supposed to go to a project I care deeply about. So you stole from me. And I don’t take kindly to being robbed before a race weekend.’

Another twist. Crack.

He collapses against the desk, sobbing. Then, through his tears, he whispers something. Something that shouldn’t matter, yet sinks its teeth straight into the place I keep buried deepest.

‘You’re looking for someone. Maybe I can help.’

My blood stills.

Freezes.

Not because it’s a secret – everyone knows I’ve been a man possessed for years – but because he dares bring her into this room. ‘Say that again,’ I murmur.

He looks up, eyes wide, terrified and yet resigned. ‘A girl… You’ve been looking for her for years. I heard things.’

Everything inside me goes black.

Cold and ancient.

‘And what exactly,’ I ask softly, ‘have you heard about her?’

He shakes his head violently, tears dripping onto the ledger. ‘That she is very important to your family.’

‘So?’ I lean in, voice soft enough to flay skin. ‘Half of Sicily whispers about the Salvatores. Give me something I don’t already know. And tread carefully, old man. You’re this close to never seeing again.’

His lips tremble and his voice breaks. ‘The convent… the one in the mountains… it burned down last year. Completely destroyed.’

I stare at him. Then I laugh, quiet and murderous.

‘Old news, stronzo. I knew that the same day it happened.’

He flinches like I struck him.

‘I-I thought⁠—’