Chapter 7
SISTER BENEDETTA
I shouldn’t be shocked. I’ve seen power before.
Many times in the past I’ve seen men in important robes visiting the convent, their smiles too sharp, their low-spoken commands doing nothing to hide the clear power behind their words.
Madre Superiora and the senior nuns are always in a bad mood after such visits.
But those men have nothing on him.
His injuries and pain should diminish him, but Renzo Salvatore commands every conversation as if he’s king and we’re his subjects.
The moment he speaks, people move. The nurses, the doctor, even the guards outside. Every one of them jumps to obey as if their bodies are wired to his voice.
He’s lying in a hospital bed, bandaged, bruised, half-crippled, and still the entire world bends around him.
It’s obscene.
But also… exciting?
I hate the way it stirs something deep inside me – something that feels far too much like awe.
The nurses return after the table and chair Renzo demanded are brought in and placed next to his bed, wheeling in a tray that smells of pastries, butter and espresso. Steam curls upward in delicate ribbons. My stomach betrays me with a growl, but I press my lips together, ignoring it.
He notices. Of course he does.
‘Go on. Eat,’ he says.
‘I’ll wait until you’ve been served,’ I counter automatically.
He cocks an eyebrow. ‘You planning to wait all day? I’m not hungry.’
‘Then I’ll wait until you are,’ I repeat.
He smirks, eyes glittering. ‘Fine. I’ll eat. But only if you feed me.’
I blink, certain I’ve misheard. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You heard me, Sister.’ His grin widens, dangerous and amused. ‘You want me to eat? Make it worth my while.’ There’s an audible gasp from one of the nurses, but he doesn’t even glance her way. His focus stays on me, eyes gleaming and daring.
‘Besides.’ He lifts his cast-encased, partially bandaged hand, ignoring the perfectly capable one lying next to mine. The one he used to hold mine all night. ‘I’m an invalid.’
Heat climbs my throat. I should refuse. I should call his bluff. But something in me wants to show him, and me, he doesn’t unnerve me. That this fluttering inside me is nothing but a natural reaction to being kidnapped.
‘Fine,’ I say quietly.
I move to the tray, pick up the spoon. The honey-drizzled porridge steams faintly as I bring it to him. He opens his mouth obediently, lips parting around the silver. My pulse thrums so loud I barely hear the nurses whispering as they retreat.
When he swallows, his gaze doesn’t drop from mine as he licks his full lower lip. The lip I can’t seem to stop staring at. ‘Hmm, yummy.’ He nods at the bowl. ‘Again.’
The word drips like honey, but something else hums beneath it. Gratitude, maybe. Or fascination.
I feed him another spoonful. Then another. The silence grows dense and intimate.
‘Your turn,’ he says eventually.
‘I’m not—’
He nods towards the tray. ‘Eat, Giada. Don’t make me mad at you.’
I lower myself onto the edge of the bed, feeling the heat of his body through the thin sheet. My knees brush his. I lift a small piece of toast, bite into it, aware of his eyes following every motion. He watches me through bite after bite, and I… Heavens, why do I not hate everything about this?
Why do I want… breathlessly… more of it?
He shifts in the bed. And when I glance up, I see it – him. The unmistakable evidence of his desire beneath the sheet.
My breath catches. I look away too fast, cheeks burning. My hand trembles as the last piece of toast falls from my nerveless fingers.
‘A decent man would apologise. But I’m not a decent man, angel.
Besides, I can’t help it,’ he says softly.
‘You’re so fucking beautiful. Over the years, I’ve driven myself crazy wondering how you would turn out.
How you would’ve changed. I should curse God for making you even more breathtaking.
But how can I when He gave me something to worship again? ’
I shake my head, mortified, though my pulse is singing wild and oh so reckless. ‘That’s blasphemy.’
‘Maybe,’ he murmurs. ‘But it’s also true.’
‘Do you always say things like that to women?’
‘Only the ones who stop my heart.’
I glare at him, though it’s weaker than I intended. ‘You’re impossible. And incorrigible.’
‘Good,’ he says, mouth curving. ‘Way better than being boring and predictable.’
Staring at his mouth is sinful. Staring at his mouth is sinful.
I repeat the words over and over until it sticks. Until I feel stable enough to pick up the porridge bowl. ‘Would you like some more?’
He shakes his head, his head sagging against the pillows even as his eyes pierce me, moving over my face with rabid intensity I can’t dismiss. ‘Food isn’t what I crave now, angel.’
I stand abruptly, brushing crumbs from my lap. ‘I need to… I need to shower.’
He opens his mouth, already smirking. I cut him off.
‘I’m not showering in your room. I would rather stink.’
His grin is feral. ‘You’d still smell better than holy water.’
I stare, lips parted, caught between outrage and something uncomfortably close to laughter. ‘Signore, I’m beginning to think you’re pazzo.’
He shrugs. ‘I’m Sicilian, pazzo is our middle names,’ he says, as if that explains everything. ‘And you should drop to your knees right now and pray for forgiveness for calling God’s child crazy.’
‘Have no doubt, I will be praying for your soul. But I’m still not showering in this room.’ While you lie mere feet away. The very thought of it sends shivers all over my spine.
When I don’t move, his amusement fades. His expression hardens to something colder, more deliberate.
‘Fine.’ He picks up the phone on the table and presses a button. ‘Doctor.’
It takes less than a minute for the man to appear, clearly out of breath.
‘I want her escorted to the nearest empty room,’ Renzo says, his tone suddenly pure command. ‘She wants a shower. Bring two nurses and two of the security men with you.’
The doctor blinks. ‘Of course, Signore.’
Renzo fixes him with a look that could carve marble. ‘And make sure she comes back soon and in one piece… or else… Do I need to go on?’
The silence that follows is heavy, absolute. Even the machines seem to hesitate.
The doctor nods so quickly it’s almost a bow. ‘Subito, Signore.’
He hurries out.
I swallow hard, torn between fury and disbelief. ‘You can’t keep threatening people like that.’
He leans back against the pillow, studying me through hooded lashes. ‘Sister, I’ve spent my entire life doing exactly that. If there’s a heaven and a hell, I know which one I’m destined for.’
The worst part is, I believe him.
I fold my arms, wishing I could fold the world back to the way it was this time yesterday, instead. ‘And you mean to keep me prisoner while you throw your weight about?’
‘I mean to treat you like the most precious thing in my life. Even more precious than my Furia racing car. And that machine is a sexy thing of sublime beauty.’
‘You’re a terrible man.’
He smiles lazily. ‘And yet, you haven’t plastered yourself into the corner of the room or shrieked like a banshee. Or even tried to kill me in my sleep. I take all that as a sign of extreme progress.’
I don’t answer, because I don’t know how.
When the door opens again, and the doctor returns with two guards and the nurses, I let them usher me away, the weight of his gaze following me like a brand and his ‘hurry back, baby’ beating a pulse in my ears and in… other parts of my body I’m deeply ashamed to acknowledge.
* * *
Renzo
The moment the door shuts behind her, I grab my phone again and open the encrypted line.
Renzo
Madre Superiora. I want everything you have on her. I want her questioned. Hard.
A few seconds later, the reply pings in.
Nightowl
Hard questioning? Sounds like blasphemy, racer boy. You sure you’re not confusing your vengeance with your foreplay?
I grit my teeth.
Renzo
You’re in a chatty mood. I’m not. I want answers, not commentary.
Nightowl
Oh, come on. She raised your little angel, didn’t she? Gave her a new name, taught her how to pray, how to forget? Maybe she did you a favour. I mean, you didn’t really want a killer in your bed, did you?
I stare at the message until my jaw aches from clenching.
Renzo
Help me. Or don’t. I’m not into edging.
A few dots blink, vanish, blink again.
Nightowl
Tempted to test that theory. But I’ve got a soft spot for lost causes. Nun’s keeper incoming. Just remember… wrong threads pulled brings the whole damn tapestry down.
I kill the chat before I’m tempted to put my fist through the screen.
When I look up, the older doctor is standing in the doorway, clutching a clipboard like a shield. His face pales when I crook a finger at him.
‘How’s our patient?’ I ask, meaning her.
He swallows. ‘She’s almost done.’
‘Good, and her tests?’
‘We’re scheduling an MRI and a cognitive test this afternoon. But this morning, we’ll start simple and gentle, just visual prompts and associative memory work. Nothing invasive.’
‘How much can I tell her?’
‘Enough to keep her calm.’ He shifts, uncomfortable. ‘If you push too hard, it could trigger neurological shutdown or false recall. That would… complicate recovery.’
I drag a hand down my face. ‘So I’m supposed to watch her drown while pretending she’s fine.’
‘I’m saying, Signore,’ the doctor says cautiously, ‘take it easy.’
‘Not my strong suit.’
He half-smiles, nervous. ‘Then perhaps it’s time to learn.’
I dismiss him with a flick of my hand, and he flees, no doubt grateful to still be breathing.
For a minute, I stare at the empty doorway, the echo of her voice still soft in my ears: You’re a terrible man.
Yeah. Probably.
But terrible men are the only ones who get things done.
* * *
When the door opens again, I almost forget how to breathe.