Page 110 of Savage Saint
And I believe him.
36
ANGELO
Isit at the far end of the private jet, watching Kasia as she stares out the window. The woman who melted in my arms last night is gone. In her place sits someone harder, colder—a weapon honed to lethal perfection.
The papers spread in front of her tell a story in cold, clinical terms. Guard rotations. Security protocols. Escape routes. Her handwriting is sharp and precise, betraying nothing of the woman who trembled beneath my touch mere hours ago. Notes appear in the margins; Polish, Italian, and languages I don't recognise. She switches between them effortlessly, probably not even aware she's doing it.
The Red Widow.
I've heard the whispers for years. An assassin who moves like a ghost. A woman who can seduce information from the most guarded men before slitting their throats. A killer who leaves no trace except bodies and whispered legends.
And now she sits across from me, her finger tracing the outline of Jerzy's compound for the tenth time.
"You've memorised it already," I say.
She doesn't look up. "There's always something you miss. A detail. A shadow. A blind spot in the security cameras."
"We've been over this plan a dozen times."
"And we'll go over it a dozen more." Her voice is flat, emotionless. Professional.
I know this version of her. I've seen it in myself, in the mirror, when I'm preparing to do what needs to be done. The cold calculation. The compartmentalisation. The shutting down of everything human.
It's necessary. It's how we survive.
But it fucking terrifies me to see it in her.
I've never been afraid before. Not when I had a gun pressed to my temple. Not when I was bleeding out in the back of Dante's car. Not when I faced men twice my size with nothing but my fists.
But I'm afraid now. For her.
"You're staring," she says without looking up. Her voice carries an edge I haven't heard before. The accent is slightly more pronounced, like her old self is bleeding through.
I don't deny it. I've been watching her transform since we boarded the jet, the softness I'd grown accustomed to hardening into something lethal and precise. The woman who'd curled against me in bed last night has disappeared behind a mask of cold efficiency.
"You're different," I observe. She finally meets my eyes, and something flickers in her gaze. Uncertainty, maybe fear.
Her fingers still on the papers, the building schematics momentarily forgotten. The cabin feels smaller suddenly, charged with an energy I can't quite name. Not quite tension, not quite desire. Something in between.
"This is who I am," she says softly. "Who I was trained to be." Her hands still on the papers. "If you want to back out—"
I'm across the cabin before she can finish, pulling her to her feet. "I told you, Butterfly. You're mine. All of you. The weapon, the woman, whatever comes next."
Her eyes widen, searching my face for deception. "I've killed people, Angelo. Dozens. I've seduced men to get close enough to slit their throats. I've poisoned drinks and disappeared into crowds. I've—"
"And you think I haven't?" My grip tightens on her arms. "You think my hands are any cleaner than yours?"
"It's different," she insists, trying to pull away. "You did it for family. For loyalty. I did it because I was programmed to. Because I didn't know how to say no."
I cup her face, forcing her to look at me. "Listen to me. The past is written. We can't change it. But this—" I gesture between us, "—this is ours. Our choice. Our future."
"What if there is no future?" Her voice drops to a whisper. "What if we don't make it out?"
"Then we burn together." The words come easily, truthfully. "But Jerzy dies first."
Something shifts in her expression, a softening around her eyes even as her spine straightens with resolve. The Red Widow and my Butterfly, existing in the same body, both parts of the woman I've come to—
