Page 9 of The Savage

Then warmth.

A different kind of light now, gold and dappled, soft as candle flame.

I know this place. I’ve been here before.

The echo of church bells drifts through the haze, mingling with the scent of lilies. My pulse slows and the pain ebbs.

And she’s there.

Giada.

Barefoot on the marble floor, skirts whispering against stone. Her hair’s shorter than I remember, darker. But her eyes – those eyes – still hold that impossible light, like forgiveness and fire all at once.

‘Renzo,’ she whispers and steps closer, her hand reaching for mine.

I should pull back. I should curse her, hate her, condemn her for what she did.

But… I can’t. My greatest sin in this goddamn life is that I never could.

Her fingers brush mine. Warm and soft and so fucking real.

And then the church dissolves into smoke, and I’m falling again – back into the dark, back into the sound of my name echoing through machines.

Renzo.

I try to hold on to her, to the memory, to the only piece of heaven I’ve ever known.

But she slips away like light through stained glass.

* * *

The Past

Three more nights.

I feel like I’m crawling out of my skin watching the seconds tick away.

Sure, the law would string me by the balls for pining after a seventeen-year-old three years my junior. But guess what? The law can get fucked.

For all intents and purposes, I’ve been an absolute gentleman where Giada Mancinelli is concerned. Save for a handful of torrid kisses and a few dozen thoughts that would make a saint faint.

I know worse guys than me who’ve broken worse laws. And as the youngest capo of the Salvatore family, I’ve seen men marry girls her age in the old country without anyone blinking or threatening to call the carabinieri. Not that I’m planning to marry the chick.

I just want her to turn eighteen in three days so I can finally part those satin-smooth thighs and⁠—

‘—finally stop humping the air like a dog in heat?’

Dante’s voice slices through the haze of my thoughts. My twin’s leaning against the doorframe, arms folded, the usual smirk playing on his face.

‘Jesus Christ,’ I mutter, dragging a hand through my hair. ‘Do you ever knock?’

‘Do you ever stop thinking with your dick?’

I throw a pillow at him. He dodges it easily, laughing.

Then his face – with features so identical to mine, I have to look away – turns serious as fuck.

‘She’s seventeen, Ren. And she’s fucking Mancinelli blood. You’re either insane or suicidal.’