Page 39 of Savage Saint
The heavy bag becomes my silent partner in this pre-dawn hour. Muscle memory takes over. Jab, cross, hook. Each strike flows without thought, precise and measured. My body remembers what my mind tries to forget.
One-two. Pivot. Hook. The bag swings under my assault, chains creaking above. The shock reverberates up my arms, grounding me in the present. Sweat slicks my skin as I find my rhythm.
I sense him before I see him. That prickling awareness that comes with being watched. Angelo stands in the doorway, a silent sentinel. His presence fills the room like smoke, heavy and thick. I don't turn to look, but I feel his eyes tracking every movement.
My strikes grow harder. The bag groans under each hit. Jab-cross-uppercut. My combinations turn vicious, aggressive. My breathing turns ragged, but I push through. Still, he watches. Silent. Waiting.
This has become our new normal. Him lurking in doorways and corners. Calculating. Weighing. Never speaking. The firstfew times, I told myself I didn't care. That his silence meant nothing.
But my body betrays me. My punches become sharper, more precise when he's there. Each strike a question he won't answer. Each combination is a challenge he won't accept.
The heavy bag swings wildly now, my frustration evident in every brutal hit. Four days of this bullshit. Four days of silence after I put a bullet in the bear's head to save him. The least he could do is say something—anything—instead of this brooding routine.
He leaves without a word, just like he always does.
The days blur together,marked only by his silent visits and my growing frustration. Six days total now. Six days of nothing but the sound of my own thoughts bouncing off the glass windows.
The sharp rhythm of a knife against a cutting board draws me downstairs.
I find Angelo in the kitchen, his back to me as he works at the counter. His movements are controlled, measured, each cut of the knife as precise as a surgeon's. I cross my arms and lean against the doorframe, watching him work.
"Didn't peg you as the cooking type," I say, breaking our carefully crafted silence.
He doesn't look up from his task, but his knife pauses for a fraction of a second. "Didn't peg you as the boxing type."
A smirk tugs at my lips despite myself.Touché.
The scent of fresh herbs fills the air. Basil, oregano, something earthier underneath. My stomach twists, though I'm not sure if it's from hunger or the way his forearms flex as he works.
That's when I notice two things: the distinct lack of meat on his cutting board, and the small silver frame partially hiddenbehind a whiskey bottle. The photo shows a young boy, maybe seven or eight, with those familiar molten brown eyes and a gap-toothed smile, proudly displaying a plate of fortune cookies.
I tear my gaze away from the photo. "Where's the meat?"
Finally, he meets my gaze, those dangerous eyes locking onto mine. "I don't eat animals."
I blink, certain I've misheard. "You're a vegetarian?"
Amusement flickers across his face, there and gone like lightning. "Something wrong with that?"
"Don't you like... kill people? Or whatever they do in the Mafia?"
He shrugs, turning back to his chopping. "Doesn't mean I have to eat them."
I wait, watching him as he prepares then plates up our food. Seems like he wants things to go back to what they were like between us these past few days.Not on my watch.
My fingers drift to just beneath my breasts, tracing the outline of the tattoo hidden under my shirt. The question burns on my tongue, demanding release. I draw in a steadying breath.
"Hey, Angelo?" I keep my voice deliberately casual. "Ever heard of Blackriver Kittens?"
The air shifts instantly. Angelo's fork stops halfway to his mouth, a piece of grilled tomato suspended in the air. His stillness is primal, like a wolf catching a scent.
I watch his face, picking apart every tiny movement. The slight clench of his jaw. The way his throat works as he swallows. The way his fingers tighten almost imperceptibly around the fork.
"What is it?" I lean forward, abandoning pretense.
Angelo places his fork down. The soft clink against the plate reverberates in the emptiness between us. Every movement is too precise, too controlled.
His eyes find mine, burning with intensity. "Why do you want to know?" The words come out low, wrapped in warning.
