Page 58 of Savage Devotion

I sprint across the distance in impossible time, spear tackling my body into the attacker with enough force to shatter his fucking ribs. We crash into ancient stone, his weapon skittering across the ground.

His eyes widen with recognition as I fumble my way so I'm sitting heavy on his chest, pressing my gun beneath his chin with brutal force.

"Who sent you?!" I demand, pressing the barrel harder against his flesh.

His laugh is wet, blood already speckling his lips from internal injuries.

"The true Ravelli!" he spits at me. "The one who sits on the throne while you play happy homes in the countryside."

The bastard beneath me fights back with unexpected strength, bucking his hips and throwing me off balance. His elbow connects with my jaw, pain exploding across my face as I stumble backward.

I regain my footing and fire, but he's already rolling away. The bullet strikes stone, sending fragments flying.

"You're not as good as they say," he taunts, blood staining his teeth. "The great Dante Ravelli, hiding in his mother's villa like a coward."

My finger tightens on the trigger, rage burning through my veins. But before I can take the shot, movement catches my eye.

Francesca.

She's emerged from her cover, likely drawn by the sound of our struggle. Her eyes meet mine across the ruins, and in that split second of distraction, I see the attacker's hand move to his shirt.

The blade appears in his grip. A ceramic knife, the kind designed to slip past metal detectors.

He lunges toward Francesca with deadly intent, the knife aimed at her throat.

"No! Francesca!"

I don't hesitate.

And this time, my aim is fuckingperfect.

The bullet enters through his eye, exiting in a spray of blood that splatters across ancient stone. His body crumples, blade falling uselessly from lifeless fingers.

Silence descends, broken only by Francesca's shaky breathing and the distant call of birds who have witnessed centuries of human violence in this place.

I turn to her, scanning for injuries, for trauma, for shock.

Instead, I find her staring at the dead man, then at me, something unreadable in her expression.

"You killed him," she says quietly.

"He was going to hurt you," I reply simply, holstering my weapon. No explanations. No apologies. "I would kill anyone who threatened what's mine."

Her eyes meet mine. "Are you alright?"

The question catches me off-guard. I've just killed a man before her eyes. Yet her concern is for me.

"I'm fine," I answer automatically. Then notice the warm wetness on my knuckles, the sting I'd ignored during combat. Glass has cut my hand open, blood flowing freely down my wrist.

Romano approaches, confirming the area is secure. "The others have fled, signore. But we should leave immediately."

I nod, already taking the next steps, processing the implications of this attack while pushing aside the physical pain.

Back at the villa, Francesca insists on treating my hand herself, dismissing Maria's offers of assistance. She works with efficiency, cleaning glass fragments from the wound, applying antiseptic that stings like fire.

"You've done this before," I observe as she wraps clean bandages around my knuckles.

"My father believed basic medical training was essential," she explains, securing the bandage with gentle fingers. "In our world, hospitals ask too many questions. It was easier to train me."

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