Page 144 of Savage Saint
There, in the mirror, is a woman I almost don't recognise.
The last time I looked at myself—really looked—was in those first days after the accident. I remember standing in this same spot, staring at a hollow-eyed stranger who looked back at me with nothing but questions. No memories, no identity, no sense of self beyond the bone-deep knowledge that I was dangerous. That woman had been all sharp edges and barely contained violence, a puzzle missing so many pieces that I couldn't even begin to guess what the complete picture might look like.
The woman staring back at me now has found those missing pieces.
She stands tall, shoulders back but relaxed, not braced for attack. Her strawberry blonde hair catches the light like spun gold, no longer the dull, lifeless curtain it had been in those early days. And her eyes, God, when did they start looking so alive? The hollow uncertainty has been replaced by something bright, fierce and utterly confident.
There are faint lines at the corners of those eyes now, laugh lines that I definitely didn't have before. When did those appear? Probably somewhere between Angelo's terrible jokes and Luca's dramatic storytelling. Between family dinners and quiet moments, and learning that laughter could be a choice rather than a mask.
I step closer to the mirror, studying this stranger who is somehow, finally, completely me.
The small scar on my collarbone is still there, a thin white line where a knife bit too deep during a mission in Prague. I used to trace it obsessively in those early days, one of the few concrete things I could hold on to when everything else was smoke and shadows. Back then, it felt like evidence of my failure, proofthat I wasn't perfect enough, wasn't good enough to be whatever Jerzy had made me into.
Now I see it differently. I survived Prague. I survived the knife, the mission, the handler who decided I was expendable. I survived everything that came after. The conditioning, the missions, the slow erosion of everything that made me human. I survived long enough to burn it all down and walk out of the flames.
I trace another mark, this one newer, a faint line on my forearm where broken glass caught me during the casino attack. Evidence not of failure, but of choice. I chose to protect Mel instead of fleeing. I chose to shield an innocent woman instead of thinking only of my own survival. I chose to save rather than destroy.
"I'm not broken," I whisper to my reflection, and the words settle into my bones like a key finding its lock. "I'm forged."
Every scar, every nightmare, every moment of Jerzy's brutal training… It didn't break me. It couldn't break me. It made me into something stronger, something that could bend without snapping, something that could endure long enough to find this life, this love, this choice.
The woman in the mirror straightens slightly, and I realise I'm looking at someone who has finally, truly, come home to herself.
Kasia. Not the Red Widow, not Jerzy's weapon, not Angelo's project or mystery to solve. Just Kasia. A woman who has survived hell and chosen herself.
I shower quickly, letting the hot water wash away the last remnants of sleep and the lingering ghosts of old memories. The steam fogs the mirror, erasing my reflection, but I don't need to see it anymore. I know who I am now.
I slip into one of Angelo's Henleys—navy blue and soft from countless washings—and a pair of black leggings. The shirthangs perfectly on me. The sleeves rolled up to my elbows, the hem hitting just below my hips. It smells like him, like sandalwood and Angelo. It makes my chest warm.
When I make my way downstairs, bare feet silent on the hardwood, I find him in the kitchen exactly where I expected. He's standing at the espresso machine with his back to me, his broad shoulders filling out a chocolate brown t-shirt that matches the colour of his eyes. Dark jeans hug his legs, and his hair is still damp from the shower, curling slightly at the nape of his neck.
But it's his posture that makes me pause at the bottom of the stairs.
Usually, there's a coiled tension in Angelo's shoulders, a readiness for violence that never fully leaves him. He carries the weight of his family, his responsibilities, his past like a physical burden. Even in quiet moments, even when he's relaxed, there's always that underlying alertness, that sense of a predator at rest but never truly off guard.
This morning, the tension is gone.
He moves around the kitchen with an easy confidence I've never seen before, humming something under his breath as he works. There's a lightness to him, a sense of... peace? Settlement? Like a man who's finally figured out the answer to a question that's been plaguing him for years.
"You're up early," I say, sliding onto one of the bar stools at the kitchen island.
He turns, and my breath catches. His eyes hold something new. A certainty, a quiet confidence that makes my pulse quicken. When he smiles, it's different too. Not the careful, guarded expression he wears for the world, or even the softer version he reserves for family. This smile is completely unguarded, radiant with something that looks suspiciously like joy.
"Couldn't sleep," he says, but there's no exhaustion in his voice. If anything, he looks more rested than I've seen him in weeks. He sets a perfect cappuccino in front of me, the foam art resembling a butterfly. "Figured I'd make us breakfast."
I wrap my hands around the warm ceramic, studying his face over the rim. "Making your famous pancakes again? I'm not complaining."
The corner of his mouth quirks up. "You say it as if it's a rare occurrence."
"It's not every day, but I'm not mad about it." I take a sip and hum appreciatively. "The coffee's perfect as always."
"Good, because I'm going all out this morning." He moves around the kitchen with practised efficiency, pulling ingredients from the fridge. Fresh berries, plant-based milk, vanilla, maple syrup. "Figured we both deserved something special today."
I watch him work, noting the way he keeps touching his breast pocket. It's subtle, just a quick brush of his fingers, like he's checking that something important is still there. A nervous habit I've seen before, but it's more pronounced this morning.
"The funeral is in six days," I say, testing the waters.
His hands still for just a moment before he continues whisking eggs into what smells like pancake batter. "Yeah. Dante's handling most of the arrangements, thank God."
