Page 5 of The Savage

1

RENZO

It happens at Lap 52. Copse Corner. British Grand Prix.

I always expected my glorious life to flash before my eyes in the seconds before death, especially snuffing it at twenty-seven, the age of the most revered in the Twenty-Seven Club.

Jean-Michel Basquiat, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Kurt Cobain.

Turns out it was all a pile of bullshit.

As the percussive hit from behind sends me careening towards the gravel at insane speed, there’s only one thing that flashes like a fast forward movie reel – her.

The tilt of her chin, the dark veil of her hair beneath a halo of sunlight, the sound of her laughter echoing in a cathedral. Her beautiful pale green eyes. Those sweet, plump, infinitely fuckable lips.

Giada. Always Giada.

The rear axle snaps with a gunshot crack. My car spins once, twice, then slams sideways into the barrier at 190 miles an hour before it launches into the air, suspends for a brilliant cinematic three seconds. Before the world detonates into fire.

Metal screams, my body jerks like I’m in a giant tumble dryer, and the smell of burning rubber and fuel floods my helmet.

The crowd roars in horror – or maybe it’s my screams? – an ocean of sound muted by the concussion ringing in my skull. My head slams against the seat restraint, and everything in me goes white-hot, then nothing but silence – no engine, no heartbeat, no air.

I should’ve been ready.

I’ve flirted with death since the day I could drive, kissed it on the corner of every lap as I ignored brake pedals. But this… this feels personal.

Before it all goes black, I remember the promise I made to that fucker Nightowl – the ghost in the machine who’s been in my ear longer than anyone realises. They promised to help me find her. To trace the ghost who vanished the night my mother died.

They failed spectacularly.

So yeah, if I die now, I swear to fucking God I’ll find their puny ass in the afterlife and haunt them into eternity.

But… maybe this far too early death is okay too. Because I’ll finally see her, even if I can’t touch her and taste her. I’ll know where she is, where she’s hidden all this time. If she’s safe.

Fuck, please God, let her have been safe. Don’t let her⁠—

Static screams in my ear. Then voices. Loud and urgent.

Right. Okay. So I didn’t die. Unless the devil is shouting in my ear?

‘…Renzo – can you hear me? Stay with me, you little shit, stay—’ Rafa’s voice, rough, desperate, cutting through the crackle of radio and the roar of flames. Of course my second oldest brother would threaten me even as worry thickened his voice.

My visor’s gone. Something stings my eyes. I smell blood. Mine.

‘Get the extinguisher – now, now!’ someone screams.

Hands tug at my suit.

Metal shrieks as the marshals tear the cockpit open. Someone curses in Italian, then another voice, lower and colder, cuts through the chaos. Cesare. First born. Underboss. Everlasting pain in my ass.

‘Listen to my voice and hear me well. If you die, Renzo, I’ll drag your soul back and kill you again myself.’

Typical. My eldest brother doesn’t even believe in God but he’s making threats into the afterlife.

There’s movement. I smell smoke. I think I hear Rafa again, his tone splitting between command and panic.

Then someone on the medical team. I think. ‘Pulse is weak – Renzo! Hey, Salvatore! Stay with me. Open your eyes, sir⁠—’