Page 138 of Savage Saint
I watch Kasia process this information, filing it away. She's thinking like a partner now, not just someone along for the ride. I like it.
"So what's our immediate priority?" I ask.
"Get through the next seventy-two hours without anyone dying," Dante says dryly. "After that, we can worry about the long term."
"Sounds simple enough," Luca snorts.
"Nothing's simple in this family," I reply.
Kasia squeezes my hand with her good one. "Good thing we like complicated."
A small smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. She's right. We do like complicated. Twisted, dangerous, fucked up complicated.
"I need to make some calls," Dante says, standing. "Arrow, send out the formal notifications. Luca, I need you to coordinate security for the cathedral."
"What about me?" I ask.
Dante pauses. "Rest. Both of you. Tomorrow's going to be hell."
As we prepare to leave, Alessa pulls Kasia aside. I can't hear what they're saying, but I see Alessa slip something into Kasia's pocket.
"Ready?" I ask when they finish.
Kasia nods. "Ready."
We drive home in comfortable silence, both of us processing the evening's events. My father is dead. The man who shaped me into a monster, who taught me that violence was the only language worth speaking.
But sitting next to me is a woman who speaks the same language and still chose to love me. Who saw all my darkness and decided it was worth protecting.
Maybe Massimo's death isn't an ending. Maybe it's just the start of something new.
"Penny for your thoughts," Kasia says as we pull into my driveway.
"Just thinking about tomorrow."
"And?"
"And wondering if we're ready for what comes next."
She looks at me with those piercing blue eyes. "Angelo, we just survived Chicago, a bullet wound, and your family meeting. What could possibly be harder than that?"
I laugh despite myself. "You've got a point."
"I do, don't I?" She opens her car door with her good arm. "Come on. Let's get some sleep before the real chaos starts."
45
KASIA
The house settles around us in comfortable silence, the sort that only comes after a day spent existing in perfect harmony with another person. Angelo moves through his bedroom with the fluid grace of a predator, but there's something different tonight. Something deliberate in the way he arranges items on his dresser, the clinical precision with which he lays out what looks suspiciously like medical supplies.
I watch from the bed, wrapped in one of his shirts that hangs loose on my frame, as he unfolds a sterile cloth and begins placing surgical instruments in neat rows. Scalpels catch the lamplight, throwing sharp glints across the dark wood. Antiseptic. Gauze. Sutures.
"Angelo." My voice cuts through the quiet. "What are you doing?"
His hands still for a moment, broad shoulders tensing beneath the black t-shirt that clings to his frame. When he turns to face me, there's something raw in his expression, something that makes my chest tighten with anticipation.
"I've been thinking about this for weeks," he says, his voice low and rough. "Obsessing over it, really. How to get rid of his mark without destroying you in the process."
