Page 117 of Savage Saint
Fifteen Mississippi. Sixteen Mississippi.
I wait until twenty-five before entering, mask on and knife drawn out of habit. Both guards are unconscious, one sprawled over his desk like he fell asleep reading reports, the othercrumpled by the door in an undignified heap. I check their pulses—alive but deeply under.
The security monitors flicker before me, showing feeds from around the compound. I spot Angelo's SUV in the shadows beyond the gate, a dark shape barely visible against the treeline. My chest tightens with something I refuse to name. Ten more minutes before he moves according to our plan.
My fingers fly across the keyboard, executing shutdown sequences I could perform in my sleep. The interface hasn't changed since I was fifteen. Jerzy's obsession with control extends to hating upgrades that might introduce vulnerabilities he doesn't understand.
"Szybciej, Kasia. Every second counts."
The memory of Jerzy's voice makes my jaw clench.Faster. Always faster. Never fast enough to please him.The irony isn't lost on me. I'm using his own training against him now.
But I'm not that frightened little girl anymore. My hands move with precision born of years of practice, disabling cameras, motion sensors, and silent alarms. The compound's electronic eyes go dark one by one, creating blind spots that will let Angelo move unseen.
Movement on the monitor catches my eye, a guard approaching from the west corridor. More alert than the others, weapon drawn and held in proper ready position. He must have noticed the camera failures, or someone missed a check-in. Smart. Too bad it won't save him.
I slip out of the office, pulling my mask off and melting into the shadows as his footsteps approach. Heavy boots, confident stride, ex-military by the sound of it. He's cautious but not cautious enough, following protocol instead of instinct. When he passes my position, I strike. The blade parts skin and muscle with surgical precision, severing his carotid before he can scream.
Arterial spray paints the wall in abstract patterns, dark against the cream wallpaper. I catch his body as it falls, easing it down silently despite the dead weight. His blood is warm on my hands, as familiar as breathing. How many times have I felt life slip away beneath my fingers?
Five minutes gone. Angelo will be moving soon, I'd better hurry up if I want to spare him seeing me like this.
I drag this body into a supply closet, noting the time on my watch. Someone will find him within the hour when he misses his check-in. By then, it won't matter. Either we'll be gone, or we'll be beyond caring about discovery.
The east wing beckons as I clean my blade on the dead guard's uniform. My old room is down that hallway. The place where I spent countless nights nursing wounds and dreaming of a different life I thought I'd never have. The temptation to look, to see if anything remains of the girl I was, pulls at me like gravity.
But I force myself to stay on mission. Sentiment is weakness. Jerzy taught me that, even if he never meant for me to apply the lesson to him.
Still, my feet slow as I pass the corridor. Just a glance wouldn't hurt the timeline. Just to see if—
No. Focus.
I'm halfway to the west wing when I notice the training room door standing open. My body freezes without my permission. That room. God, that fucking room.
I shouldn't look. I should keep moving.
But my feet carry me forward anyway, drawn by the gravitational pull of old trauma. The door swings open under my touch, silent on well-oiled hinges.
Everything is exactly the same.
The dark mats still cover the floor, faded but clean and carefully maintained. The weapons rack stands against thefar wall—knives, guns, garrotes, all lovingly maintained and gleaming under fluorescent lights. And there, painted across the entire north wall in loving detail, the massive wolf head that haunted my nightmares.
Its eyes seem to follow me as I step inside, tracking my movement like a predator evaluating prey. Black paint on white concrete, every detail rendered with obsessive precision. The bared teeth sharp enough to tear flesh. The raised hackles promising violence. The predator's focus in those painted eyes that seem to see straight through to my soul.
"The wolf is the perfect predator, Kasia. Silent. Patient. Lethal. To bedziesz ty. Bedziesz moim wilkiem."
That's what you'll become. You'll be my wolf.
The Polish words scrape against old wounds like broken glass. I was five when he first brought me here, showed me this room. Five when he explained what I would become. When he told me that I belonged to him, that he would shape me into something magnificent.
My hands tremble, just for a moment. I clench them into fists, nails biting crescents into my palms. The pain grounds me, reminds me why I'm here. Reminds me that I'm not his wolf anymore.
I'm my own. I'm the Red Widow, and I'm working for myself now.
Seven minutes. I need to move.
The west wing welcomes me with an obscene luxury that makes my teeth ache. Persian rugs muffle my footsteps, each one worth more than most people make in a year. Crystal chandeliers cast rainbow fragments across silk wallpaper imported from France. Every surface gleams with wealth built on blood and suffering, polished to perfection by servants who know better than to ask questions.
Two more guards patrol this section, protecting Jerzy's private domain. I take them down in quick succession. One with a sleeper hold that leaves him crumpled behind a marble statue of some Roman goddess, the other with a knife between the vertebrae, severing his spinal cord with anatomical precision. Clean. Quiet. Professional.
