Page 65 of The Savage

‘You can’t possibly think this is safe,’ she says. ‘You’re still healing. You shouldn’t be leaving the hospital.’

‘Sweetheart,’ I rasp, ‘if I stayed in every room people told me to, I’d have died a decade ago.’

She glares at me, small and furious and so beautiful I want to pull her close and silence her with my mouth. Instead, I lift my chin towards Conti. ‘Tell her.’

The doctor clears his throat. ‘Sister Benedetta, the villa has a private medical crew on standby. Fully equipped. You’ll both be well cared for.’

‘A villa?’ she repeats, suspicion cutting through her voice like glass. ‘And… you still mean to keep me? I mean… kidnap me some more?’

I grin at her flustering. ‘I can try dressing it up or down for you but we both know neither of us will believe it, so yes to all your questions. But maybe it’ll help if you think of it as a retreat,’ I say, offering her a crooked smile. ‘Quiet, beautiful. Fewer locked doors and zero needles.’

She folds her hands in front of her chest, lips trembling between anger and prayer. ‘I see. And if I refuse?’

I shrug, all calm menace. ‘You won’t. But if you need to put on a show for His sake, then you can resist and I can carry you. Broken arm or not.’

Her lips purse. And that ends the conversation.

The transition is near-enough seamless.

The cavalcade of SUVs arrive and we exit through a private entrance, silent, efficient, uniforms crisp as new banknotes. My security men fall into step behind us, weapons hidden but visible enough to make a point.

The hum of quiet, unvarnished power quells her protests faster than my words ever could.

Her fear twists in my gut, makes me wish I could undo what she’s about to see next. But this isn’t a world where innocence is armour.

It’s a world where the ruthless and determined survive longest.

And I have both traits in spades.

* * *

The convoy moves through the Modena dawn like a funeral procession for someone still breathing. Two black SUVs in front, one ambulance and another trail the one I’m in.

Giada sits beside me, hands white-knuckled on her lap, lips moving silently through what I assume is another prayer.

She doesn’t know where we’re going. Not yet.

We reach the Convento di Sant’Isidoro before noon.

Or what’s left of it. The convent burned a little over a year ago, leaving only scorched walls and a skeletal bell tower. Someone rebuilt enough to keep out the weather, not the ghosts. The new cross above the gate gleams too brightly, like guilt polished into metal. It’s the kind of place that remembers screams in the mortar.

Giada gasps when she recognises it.

‘Why are we here?’

‘Closure,’ I say. ‘For you. Maybe for both of us.’

The Madre Superiora meets us at the entrance, her hands folded demurely.

One look at her and I know, her veil might fool saints, but underneath is a woman built from rot, favours, and someone else’s sins. I make a mental note to dig deeper. Something about her stinks of secrets. Of the very, very bad kind.

Her eyes dart past me to the men flanking the courtyard. My men, all dressed in black, all armed. The faint smile she wears dies as quickly as it appeared.

Giada gasps for the second time when she sees the woman who’s been as close to a surrogate mother as one can be in a convent. ‘Madre Superiora.’

The woman’s eyes barely glance over Giada before she dismisses her, riling me the fuck up. I bite my tongue against forcing her to look at my angel. Really look, accept how badly she’s fucked up.

‘Signore Salvatore,’ she greets cautiously, her voice steady. ‘I was told you wished to speak to me.’