Page 101 of Savage Saint
"Angelo, I—"
His phone rings, cutting me off. He curses under his breath but doesn't move to answer it. His eyes stay locked on mine, searching, demanding.
"Answer it," I whisper. "It could be important."
For a moment, I think he'll ignore me. Then he steps back, pulling the phone from his pocket. His expression darkens as he sees the caller ID.
"What?" he barks into the phone. His face goes completely still as he listens, a mask slipping into place. "I'll be right there."
He hangs up and shoves the phone back into his pocket. "We're not done with this conversation," he says, his voice leaving no room for argument. "But I have to go. Stay here. Andthis time, I mean it. When I get back, we're going to have a conversation. A real one. No more half-truths. No more secrets." His eyes bore into mine. "I want to know everything, Butterfly. Everything."
And then he's gone, the door closing behind him with a finality that makes my heart sink. I stand in the middle of his living room, surrounded by broken glass and blood droplets, feeling more lost than I did when I woke up in that hospital with no memories at all.
Everything,he said. He wants to know everything.
But how do I tell him that I was sent to destroy him? That the woman he's been protecting, the woman he's been sleeping with, the woman he's been teaching to trust again, was never meant to be saved in the first place?
How do I tell Angelo Santoro that I am the Red Widow, and that his death was supposed to be my masterpiece?
32
KASIA
The bed feels too soft tonight, too luxurious for a woman with blood on her hands. I stare at the ceiling, counting the shadows cast by moonlight filtering through the blinds. Sleep won't come, not with the dam in my mind finally broken.
More memories surface with each passing minute. My mother's voice, sweet and melodic, singing Polish lullabies as she tucked me in at night.
"Spij kochanie, spij. Oczka zmruz..."
Sleep, my darling, sleep. Close your little eyes.
Then a man's face—not Jerzy's, but the man I saw once before. Strong jaw, kind eyes, laugh lines at the corners. The way he'd swing me onto his shoulders so I could reach the highest branches of the apple tree in our garden. It can't be... but it is. The memories flood back with such intensity that I press my palms against my temples, as if I could physically contain the revelation tearing through me.
I see him and my mother dancing in the kitchen. His large hands on her waist, her head thrown back in laughter as he spins her around our tiny kitchen. The radio playing softly in thebackground. The smell of his cologne, woodsy and warm, mixing with the scent of my mother's apple cake in the oven.
The three of us huddled in bed during thunderstorms, him weaving elaborate stories about brave knights and clever princesses until I forgot to be afraid. The way he'd call me his"mala królewna"—his little princess—and kiss my forehead before tucking me in at night.
Tomasz. My father. My real father.
How could I forget him? How could these memories have been locked away for so long? My chest constricts painfully as tears stream down my face. I loved him so completely, with that pure, unquestioning love that only children can give. And Jerzy, that monster, stole him from me, then stole me from my own memories, replacing everything with his poisonous lies.
I press my forehead against the cold bathroom tiles, letting out a sound that's half sob, half scream. All these years, I've been calling Jerzy "father." The betrayal cuts so deep I feel it in my bones, in my very marrow.
The smell of our home burning fills my nostrils suddenly, so vivid I bolt upright, gasping for clean air. The acrid stench of melting plastic, scorched wood, and something worse, something I didn't understand as a child but recognise now as burning flesh.
I rush to the toilet, barely making it before I'm sick. My body heaves until there's nothing left but bitter bile and shaking limbs. When I finally sit back against the cool tile wall, the truth hits me with such force I can't breathe.
Jerzy wasn't my father.
He was my uncle. My dad's brother.
The memory plays like a horror film I can't turn off. I was hiding in the cupboard under the stairs, where Dad had pushed me when the men came. "Don't make a sound," he'd whispered, his eyes wide with fear. "Whatever happens, stay hidden."
Through the slats in the door, I watched as Jerzy walked in, unsteady on his feet, with two men trailing behind him. My father stood in front of my mother, trying to shield her.
"Take whatever you want," my father pleaded. "Just leave us alone."
Jerzy laughed, the sound chilling even then. "What I want is what you took from me." His eyes fixed on my mother, and even at four years old, I understood the hunger in his gaze. "She was supposed to be mine, brother," Jerzy said, his voice so casual he might have been stopping by for Sunday dinner. "It's time we settled this."
