Page 145 of Savage Saint
"Big affair, I'm guessing."
"The biggest. Every family on the East Coast will send a representative. Half of them to pay respects, the other half to assess whether we're still worth their fear." He glances at me, something protective flickering in his expression. "You don't have to come. I know crowds aren't your favourite, and this one will be particularly... intense."
I straighten slightly, feeling that familiar spark of defiance. The old me might have jumped at the excuse to hide, to avoid thescrutiny and judgment of people who see me as either a threat or a curiosity. But I'm not that woman anymore.
"I'll be there," I say firmly. "Right beside you."
An emotion flashes across his face, pride, maybe, or gratitude. "It'll be a circus. Three hundred people, all watching to see if the Santoro family shows any cracks."
"Good thing I know how to handle clowns."
He laughs, the sound rich and warm. "Is that what you're calling my father's associates?"
"If the red nose fits." I grin at him over my coffee. "Though I suppose some of them are more like lions. You know, big teeth, bad tempers, tendency to eat their own young."
"Now you're just describing half my relatives."
"Exactly my point."
We fall into comfortable conversation as he plates what turns out to be genuinely impressive pancakes, fluffy and golden, served with fresh berries and a drizzle of maple syrup. The domesticity of it should feel strange—the Red Widow and the Santoro enforcer sharing breakfast like any normal couple. Instead, it feels like the most natural thing in the world.
But I can't shake the feeling that something bigger is building beneath the surface. Angelo's nervous energy is infectious, though he's trying to hide it. He's barely touched his food, his attention focused entirely on me.
"These are actually incredible," I say around a bite of pancake. "Where did you learn to cook like this?"
"My mother," he says softly, "before she got sick, she used to make breakfast for us every Sunday. Even when things with Massimo were bad, she'd insist on family breakfast. Said it was the one meal where we could pretend to be normal."
There's something wistful in his voice, a rare glimpse into the boy he used to be before the world carved him into a soldier. "She sounds like she was a good woman."
"She was. She believed in..." He touches his pocket again, that unconscious gesture that's becoming more pronounced. "She believed in a lot of things that seemed impossible at the time."
"Like what?"
"Like hope. Like second chances. Like..." He trails off, shaking his head. "Like love being stronger than fear."
The way he says it, like he's testing the words, makes my chest tight. "She was right about that."
His eyes find mine, and the intensity there makes my breath catch. "Yeah. She was."
We eat in companionable silence for a while, but I can sense Angelo's anxiety building. He keeps touching that pocket, keeps stealing glances at me like he's working up to something. Finally, I set down my fork and turn to face him fully.
"Okay, what's going on?" I ask directly. "You're acting like you're about to defuse a bomb."
Angelo freezes, his coffee cup halfway to his lips. "What makes you think something's going on?"
"Angelo." I give him my best 'don't even try it' look, the one that used to make grown men confess their sins. "I may have had gaps in my memory, but I'm not blind. You've been different since we got back from Chicago."
"Different how?"
"More... settled. Like you figured something out that's been bothering you for years." I tilt my head, studying his face. "Plus, you keep touching your pocket like you've got something important in there."
He sets down his cup and turns to mirror my position, his knees bracketing mine. For a long moment, he just looks at me, those dark eyes searching my face like he's memorising every detail.
"There is something," he admits finally. "Something I need to show you."
My stomach does a little flip. In my experience, when men like Angelo say they need to show you something, it's either very good or very bad. Given his expression, I'm hoping for the former.
"Show me what?"
