Page 155 of Savage Saint
LUCA
Death brings out the worst in people.
Or maybe it just reveals what was always there, lurking beneath the expensive suits and practised condolences. Either way, watching Dante's mansion transform into a three-ring circus of grief coats my tongue with bile.
The funeral's tomorrow, eighteen hours until we put the old bastard in the ground, and every Santoro soldier with a pulse has descended on the estate like carrion birds. They bustle around with flower arrangements and seating charts, pretending Massimo's death is some great tragedy instead of the best thing that's happened to this family in decades.
I lean against the stone balustrade overlooking the east garden, smoke curling from my cigarette into the evening air. The mingled scents of funeral lilies and fresh-cut grass assault my senses. Death and life in a twisted dance. Inside, I can hear Dante barking orders with his usual military precision. Angelo's probably brooding in some corner, fingering that fortune from our mother he thinks no one knows about. And Arrow's undoubtedly buried in their laptop, managing the digital side of death.
Christ, we're a cheerful bunch.
The marble beneath my forearms still holds the day's warmth, a stark contrast to the cool bite of approaching night. I contemplate getting another tattoo to commemorate the occasion. Maybe a middle finger on my neck, really lean into the family disappointment angle. Or perhaps something subtle, like 'Good Riddance' in Latin across my knuckles.
Movement in my peripheral vision kills the thought.
A woman navigates the garden path, clearly lost amongst the maze of funeral preparations. She's carrying a massive vase of white lilies—funeral flowers, how original—and looking around with the wide-eyed confusion of someone who's never had to find their own way before.
But it's not her obvious displacement that makes me straighten from my slouch.
It's the way she looks like she stepped out of a fever dream and into my personal hell.
Long black hair spills over her shoulders like liquid midnight, catching the dying light with hints of blue. The modest black dress she wears is probably meant to be appropriate, conservative even, but whoever designed it didn't account for the body underneath. It hugs curves that could make a priest reconsider his vows, the fabric clinging to her like a second skin with every step she takes.
Jesus Christ.
I take another drag, cataloguing her as she draws closer. Her face is all Italian aristocracy. Golden skin that seems to glow in the fading light, a heart-shaped face that belongs in Renaissance paintings, not mob funeral preparations. Small, straight nose that she probably inherited from some long-dead matriarch. Features so delicate they look like they'd shatter under rough hands.
Makes me want to test that theory.
She moves with the careful grace of someone who's been taught to be seen but not heard, but there's something else there too. The way she holds herself. Spine too straight, shoulders too rigid. Like she's bracing for a blow that hasn't come yet. Her breathing is shallow, controlled in the way people breathe when they're trying not to panic.
Young. She looks so fucking young. Not jailbait territory, but close enough to make a better man pause.
Good thing I've never claimed to be better than anyone.
She stops near the fountain, those striking brown eyes, the colour of aged whiskey in firelight, scanning the grounds like she's looking for an escape route. The vase must be heavy; her arms tremble slightly with the weight, but she doesn't set it down. Just stands there, lost and lovely and completely out of place amongst the orchestrated chaos of Santoro grief.
She glances over her shoulder, a quick, nervous movement that tells me she's afraid of being followed. By who?
The white funeral lilies in her arms frame her face like she's some twisted version of a bride. All that life and youth surrounded by death's flowers. The irony isn't lost on me.
"You lost, little girl?" I call out, not bothering to move from my spot.
She startles, nearly dropping the vase, and when her eyes find mine, pink blooms across her cheeks like watercolour on virgin canvas. The blush spreads down her neck, disappearing beneath the modest neckline of her dress, and my mind helpfully supplies images of where else that blood might be rushing. How far down does it go? Does it dust across her chest, her breasts, her—
Fantastic. Add another sin to my collection.
"I'm looking for one of the Santoro brothers," she says, her voice carrying a slight tremor. It's sweet, her voice.Like honey laced with something I can't quite identify. Fear? Determination?
The late evening breeze catches her hair, bringing with it the scent of vanilla and something floral, jasmine, maybe. It's a stark contrast to the funeral flowers and cigarette smoke that's been assaulting my senses all day. Clean. Pure. Alive.
Everything this family isn't.
I flick ash from my cigarette, taking my time. "Any brother in particular? We're not exactly interchangeable, despite what people think."
She sets the vase down carefully on the fountain's edge, the porcelain making a soft scrape against the stone. That's when I see it. The gesture that makes my blood turn to ice water.
She wrings her fingers in a way I've only ever seen one person do—interlocking her two index fingers together, then twisting them back and forth.
