Page 7 of The Savage

A snort-chuckle rises and dissolves somewhere in my head.

And somewhere along the line, Rafa’s voice joins in.

I should stay unconscious just to piss him off a little longer. Or better yet, channel some psychic crap – summon a ghostly vision, whisper into his mind, Hand over your prized gun collection, brother. The one Nonno Orazio keeps threatening to throw into the East River every time Rafa screws up.

If only there was a way to communicate any of this.

But even if I could, reassuring my family wouldn’t be top of the list.

No. Number one would be⁠—

Her.

Christ, why the fuck can’t I stop thinking about her?

If Orazio knew how many times I thought about the girl who shot my mother, he’d put a bullet in my skull himself.

I should hate her. I’ve tried… God knows, I’ve tried.

For years, she’s made me feel like a traitor in my own skin. Keeping her secrets.

Our secrets.

The snort in my head sounds harsher this time, edged with bitterness. Serves me right though.

Because long before Cesare fell for Maddelena Mancinelli, and Rafa kidnapped then fell for Sofiya Mancinelli, Giada Mancinelli was my secret.

Our family’s unspoken sin.

Even now, the memory burns hotter than the fires from the crash. Her name, her face, rise through the dark like embers that refuse to die. I try to push it away, but she lingers. Always has. I’m fearing she always will.

I remember Orazio’s volcanic fury when my mother died. I remember my father’s shattering silence, the worst kind of agony a thousand bullets couldn’t bring. I remember my mother’s body, the shock of red on marble, and the flash of Giada’s shadow as she fled through the church, her small, shaking hands covered in blood.

My mother’s blood.

But what came after…

That’s the part that hurts most.

Because I let my mother’s killer go.

Didn’t chase after her because I thought we would have time. For her to explain. To make it make sense.

But she fled without a backward glance and dropped into hiding more effectively than smoke vanishing into a confessional grate.

With every single answer she owes my family.

Owes me.

And every time I’ve come closer, she’s slipped through my fingers.

I allow my fury to build as another teasing image of my virginal traitor surges into my mind’s eye.

For whatever reason the Man Upstairs has decreed, I’ve been spared death.

Again.

It’s time to make better use of it.