Page 149 of Salvatore

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SALVATORE

I battleagainst the need for violence as I dry Ivy’s legs with a towel, wiping the water droplets from her skin, then carry her back to bed.

“Sleep.” I peer down at her, disoriented at how things have changed so fucking quickly. “You’ll be woken soon enough when the doctor arrives.”

She nods and shifts uncomfortably, her arms threaded through the sleeves of my suit jacket, her cheek resting on the lapel draped across her pillow.

I don’t want to leave her. Don’t trust the world to let her out of my sight, even if we’re the only two people in the house—excluding those behind bars. The harsh reality of my to-do list is the only thing that gets me moving toward the door.

“Salvatore?”

The murmur of my name makes me pause, but I don’t look back.

“Am I safe?” she asks.

The festering fury increases, my ability to keep it suppressed a life-or-death battle. “You’ve never been safer,mi reina.No one will hurt you again. I vow it. Now sleep.”

I stalk from the room and trudge along the hall, forcing myself to remain focused.

I assign a guard to the front door, and advise him not to let anyone enter other than the doctor—no staff, no deliveries, no surprises—not unless he and his unwanted visitors plan to eat bullets.

The next task is clean up—a bottle of bleach and a mop from the laundry are all it takes to expunge the evidence of Ivy’s bloodshed from the tile floor. I do it slowly. Meticulously. Like the duty is some sort of meditation ritual, but that fucking rage doesn’t quit. The burnout, either.

Exhaustion has become second nature. The sense of living on borrowed time is now a permanent fixture.

I down a cup of coffee in the kitchen as I focus out the window to the gardens. I picture Adena in the basement, pacing the short length of her cell, wondering when she’ll get her breakfast since the delivery is over an hour late.

Starvation would be a fitting death for her.

The woman who had everything—power, money, prestige—left to die in a dark prison wearing cheap polyester.

If only.

I down the final dregs of my coffee and dump the cup in the sink. Then I do what’s expected of me—find Catarina’s serving tray in the butler’s pantry and cover it with a basic spread of toast, jam, coffee, and juice.

I carry the tray into the hall, my footsteps measured so as not to wake Ivy, then enter the basement in silence.

Blood tracks the stairs and stains the banister. I follow the trail across the basement floor, move the shelves, then enter the PIN code and walk through the passage.

The light is already on, the floor littered with haphazardly scattered knitting needles and a phone surrounded by blood-streaked finger marks, as if my mother tried frantically to reach it through the bars but didn’t quite make the length.

“You’re late.” She shoves to her feet, her eyes pinched and scathing. “I’m supposed to be served breakfast at daybreak. It has to be past seven by now.”

Her body clock is on point. Always has been.

“I’m starving,” she snaps.

I keep the desire to choke her in check and place the tray on the allotted slot in her cell door.

She glares at me as she snatches it. “Toast, Salvatore? What the hell is this?”

I stroll to the corner and claim my seat, dragging it forward to the place I’ve sat on countless visits, my positioning close but always out of reach.

If only Ivy had known better.

“Where’s my cooked meal?” Adena demands. “Catarina prepares me eggs and bacon or pancakes.”

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