Chapter 9
RENZO
The morning of my self-prescribed emancipation from the Istituto reminds me of bloody victories, anticipation of a race win, and Tom Ford’s Black Orchid.
My Milan-sourced attire, casual but ultra-suave layers of blacks and greys, warns of what’s underneath. Barely leashed savagery of a Salvatore.
The kind of outfit that says convalescence is over, long live the king.
I painfully adjust my cuffs, slip on my watch, and catch my reflection in the glass. I’m a little paler than I’d like, sure, but well-stitched, still dangerous.
I’m no longer a patient. I’m a resurrection with an arm brace.
Can’t say the same for my primary carer though.
Dr Conti looks like a man who’s aged ten years since I last saw him only a handful of hours ago. But even looking the worse for wear, he can’t quite hide his desperation to be rid of me. His fingers tremble when he signs the paperwork, as if even his pen fears reprisal.
Poor bastard. I have far more agitation in store for him.
‘I believe that is everything, Signore,’ he mutters. ‘The private medical team assure me everything is arranged as you requested. It’s been a pleasure—’
‘Not yet,’ I say, cutting across his barefaced lie. ‘One last thing to take care of.’ I fix him with a smile sharp enough to cut glass. ‘You need to go pack a bag, Dottore. You’re coming with me.’
He blinks, startled. ‘Scusi?’ Then he shakes his head, much too vigorously than a man like him, confronted by a man like me, should.
‘One million euros.’ I don’t bother repeating myself.
‘In cash, offshore, or whichever way you sleep best at night. You’ll continue Giada’s treatment.
You’ll help me fix her head – and watch mine while you’re at it.
You keep everything confidential, needless to say.
And if you leave without my permission, you’ll never see daylight again. We understand each other?’
The colour drains from his face. ‘Signore, this is highly irregular—’
‘So is surviving a crash that should have killed me.’ I lean closer, my voice a low growl. ‘I’ll make it simple, Dr Conti. Heaven or hell. Which one do you want to wake up in tomorrow?’
Greed laced with bone-deep fear wins faster than I thought it would. They always fold when they see the zeroes. He nods, voice hoarse. ‘I’ll prepare what’s needed.’
Good.
I push off the bed and test the weight of my injuries.
The arm cast and sling are lighter than my temper.
My ribs are… middling but I’ve endured fractured ribs way more times than is decent so I’ll live.
And every second I’m forced to remember that I was born to move fast, not hobble like a pensioner, I’ll endure the pain and humiliation, because without it, I wouldn’t have her back.
Giada – Benedetta, she insists – has spent the last day hovering between scolding and silence. I may have given myself away when I revealed my desperation mixed with anger to her after Dante’s visit but – I shrug philosophically – it’s better she knows what’s coming.
That whatever malleable feelings I have for her, it would always be overshadowed by her actions where the death of my mother is concerned. And when my family discover her existence, as they will sooner than I want, not even those traitorous feelings I can’t escape might save her.
The sight of her now, arms folded and eyes wary as she watches me prepare to leave, ignites something hot and electric in my chest.
‘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.’
She’s used to dealing with authority and at some point has come to believe she is one herself. But sadly for her she’s not used to dealing with Salvatore power. I take my time to pull my black gloves tighter over my hands, hiding the wince as it aggravates my healing skin.
‘Not wish,’ I correct softly. ‘Command.’
She opens her mouth, closes it again. Then steps aside in silent invitation.
Smart woman.
I take Giada’s elbow, slant her a sharp look when she attempts to step away.
Inside, the air smells of beeswax and incense. The Madonna looks down from her alcove, eyes carved in pity. I’ve stopped expecting divine intervention.
We stop in front of an office door and the next thing that hits me is how calm the Madre Superiora is.
I tilt my head. ‘Before we go any further, Madre… one question. Maybe three.’
She arches a brow, hands folded like she’s posing for a painting.
‘Why haven’t you asked about her?’ I murmur.
‘Since we arrived, you’ve shown no panic.
No frantic questions. Not even a goddamn whisper of concern about your little novice.
Your “daughter in faith”. A girl who was kidnapped from your care six days ago, dragged out into the night by armed men.
’ I take a slow, lethal step closer. ‘Why is it you haven’t even called the police? ’
Something flickers across her face, a stutter of emotions she tries to smother. Shock. Calculation. Irritation.
Then serenity snaps back into place like a mask.
Giada sways beside me, her breath catching. ‘Madre…?’ she whispers. A single, fragile tremble in that voice and my rage sharpens to a blade.
The old woman doesn’t even look at her. ‘Signore, the Church teaches trust in God’s will. I assumed she was… elsewhere, as the Lord intended. Besides, I did inform the correct authorities at the Vatican, who were always going to ensure her safe return.’
‘Bullshit.’
Giada gasps and her fingers twist the sleeve of her habit, seeking reassurance, seeking something.
I reach out to touch her shoulder, to ground her, and she flinches away.
From me.
To avoid disappointing this snake in a veil.
My jaw locks.
Fine.
Message fucking received.
I’ll burn every lie this nun ever told to ash before I let Giada worship a goddamn monster.
I open the office door myself and we step into a modest room that apparently escaped the carnage. There’s a gold crucifix on the wall and a ledger on the desk. I glance at the crucifix and smile faintly. ‘How much did he pay you, Madre?’
She blinks. ‘Mi scusi?’
‘For this woman,’ I say, my voice silk over stone. ‘The life of Giada Mancinelli. How much did it cost to erase her?’
A tremor runs through Giada. This time I take her hand and I tighten my hold, infuse warmth even as the Madre’s facade rallies to hold.
‘I have no idea what you mean, Signore. I don’t—’
I gesture, and one of my men cocks his gun. The metallic click fills the room.