Page 68 of The Savage

Almost as if she can feel the force of my rabid stare, Giada’s head swings my way and she stalks determinedly back towards me.

The look on her face when she steps inside – shock, confusion, betrayal – cuts sharper than any bullet I’ve taken.

‘What’s going on? Madre?’ she whispers.

The nun offers a stiff, disingenuous smile. ‘My child, you are to begin your field period sooner than expected. God calls you to serve beyond these walls.’

Giada blinks, stunned. ‘What? No,’ she protests. ‘But I’m not ready⁠—’

My voice feels like thunder when it leaves me. ‘You are. More than ready.’

She turns to me, eyes wide, glassy. ‘This isn’t how it’s supposed to happen. And it’s most definitely not up to you, the man who kidnapped me and is keeping me prisoner.’ She flicks a look at her superior, urging support that never comes.

For that alone, I will make this bitch suffer longer.

‘Maybe not,’ I say, stepping forward. ‘But life doesn’t wait for permission slips from heaven.’

When she shakes her head, I harden my gaze. ‘You wish to return to the convent, under her supervision, when she’s lied to you for years?’

She swallows. But I’m not done.

‘Think about it, angel. Do you think the people who handed you over to her haven’t been keeping tabs on you? That she won’t sell you out again the first chance she gets?’

Madre sucks in an affronted breath. ‘I will not⁠—’

‘With respect to the sanctity of this place, shut the fuck up, Madre. And be glad I’m in a generous mood.’

I turn to Giada once more and she’s pale, her eyes swimming in hurt and building fury. She’s caught between the proverbial rock and a hard place. And fuck me, but I intended to capitalise on that until the world stops turning.

‘In another time and another place, I would give you a choice, angel. But not this time. Accept that.’

The Madre crosses herself, perhaps for courage.

Giada’s lips tremble. Beneath the confusion and fear, though, I see something else. Something raw. Something that belongs to me. Fury and indignation.

She doesn’t speak when I take her wrist. Her pulse beats against my fingers – fast, defiant, alive.

I turn to the Madre. ‘Thank you for your cooperation. Pray for your own soul. You’ll need it.’ Because I’m nowhere near done with you.

Then, to Giada, low enough for her ears only, ‘Let’s go, baby. The real world’s waiting.’

And without waiting for a blessing, I lead her out of the convent and into the sunlight, every step echoing like the start of a war.

* * *

Giada

The helicopter ride is smoother than the jarring military excursion the night of my kidnapping. And the drive that follows to Ortigia is an act of penance disguised as safety and privilege.

We travel in silence down the Sicilian coast, the late-afternoon sun bleeding gold over olive groves and sea cliffs.

Renzo’s convoy moves like a shadow army of sleek black SUVs slipping between trucks and tourists, always in formation, always menacing. Even the sirens on the road seem to quiet when we pass, as if recognising something they shouldn’t disturb.

I sit beside him, my hands clasped tight in my lap, the smell of salt and leather wrapping around me until I can hardly breathe. He hasn’t said a word since the convent.

But I feel him… the press of his watchful presence, the dark gravity of a man who’s never learned to share space quietly but is doing it now… for my sake?

I shake my head.