Page 48 of Savage Saint
I freeze, then force myself to relax, though I know he's caught the reaction. "I don't remember," I lie again.
"Butterfly," he chides, his voice like velvet, and I know he has my number. He's going to ask me about last night. About my nightmare, or rather my flashback.
I take a deep breath, preparing myself for his interrogation, when Angelo's phone rings. Once. Twice. Three times.
Annoyed, he looks over to where it lies on the counter and sighs, picking it up and sliding his finger across the screen to answer.
"Dante," he says. Followed by a silence as he listens to the man on the other side.
"There were two bodies?" His brow furrows in confusion as his eyes snap to me. I bite my lip. I completely forgot about the man displayed on the side of the road.
"Hold on," Angelo says, before lifting the phone away from his ear and tapping the screen. He watches me as he slides the device, screen up, between us. "Tell me again?"
Dante clears his throat through the speaker and I fight my jaw from falling to the floor from the utter shock. He put the call on speaker so that I could hear the conversation.
I straighten in my chair, muscles tensing as my brain shifts into high alert. The casual morning atmosphere evaporates, replaced by something sharper, more dangerous. My fingers tighten around my coffee mug, using it to hide the slight tremor in my hands.
Why would he trust me like this?
The question burns through my mind as I meet Angelo's steady gaze. His expression gives nothing away, but there's a calculating edge to his attention that makes my skin prickle. This isn't just trust, it's a test. Everything with Angelo is a test. I force myself to appear calm, collected. But inside, my mind races with possibilities. Is this a trap? A way to gauge my reaction? Or perhaps, more dangerously, a genuine gesture of inclusion?
"Like I said," Dante sounds annoyed. "Both bodies are being taken care of. One of them was Aldo, our runner, who disappeared a couple of days ago. The other, one of Nico's men."
"Are you sure?"
"Dental records, Angelo. We needed fucking dental records to identify him after what happened to his face. So yes, I'm pretty sure."
"This changes things. Nico's never come this close to our backyard."
"He's getting bolder."
"Or more desperate," Angelo counters.
I stare at the phone between us, my mind racing to connect pieces. Limbs arranged with precision. Bodies displayed like warnings, or art. The memory of my childhood training claws at my throat, begging to be voiced.
Wolniej. Precyzja jest wszystkim.
I know exactly what this is. A message. A declaration. Nico isn't just making a move, he's starting a fucking war. The arrangement of those bodies wasn't random. It was...
I catch myself before the words escape my lips. Trust is a luxury I can't afford yet, not even with Angelo's chocolate eyes watching me like I'm a puzzle he's determined to solve. Knowledge is power, and right now, I need every scrap I can keep.
"Either way, we need to talk," Dante continues through the speaker. "Alessa wants you both to come for dinner."
Angelo's jaw tightens visibly, the muscle jumping under his skin. "Now's not a good time," he responds, his voice dropping to that dangerous baritone that means his patience is wearing thin.
"It's not a request, brother." Dante's tone leaves no room for argument. The unspoken hierarchy vibrates between them, even through the phone.
Angelo's fingers tighten around the edge of the counter until his scabbed knuckles turn white. I watch in fascination as veins stand out on his forearms, mapping the path of his barely controlled tension. His other hand moves instinctively toward me, seeking an anchor I never expected to provide.
I have a split second to decide. Pull away and maintain the distance we've so carefully constructed, or let him in. Just a fraction. Just this once.
I stay still, letting his palm find the small of my back and fuck me, it feels good. Steady. Like, he's not the only one being grounded in this moment.
"Fine," he says curtly into the phone, the single word carrying the weight of his displeasure.
His hand burns through the thin fabric of my shirt, five points of heat branding my skin. It's not a gentle touch. It's possessive, territorial. A statement to Dante, even though he can't see it. To me. To himself, perhaps.
I feel my pulse quicken traitorously. Angelo's eyes never leave my face, and when our gazes lock, I make a conscious choice not to look away. Instead, I meet his stare steadily, refusing to back down from whatever challenge he's silently issuing.
