Page 49 of Savage Saint
Something shifts in his eyes—approval, perhaps, or satisfaction—before it quickly disappears behind his usual mask.
We stand frozen until Dante clears his throat through the speaker. "Tonight. Eight o'clock. And, Angelo? Don't be fucking late."
The call ends, but Angelo doesn't move his hand from my back. The realisation hits me like a freight train: he put that call on speaker deliberately. Brought me into a conversation about bodies and territory, and family matters. This isn't just breakfast anymore. It's an invitation into something darker, something I'm not sure I'm prepared to face.
I don't want to examine what that means. Don't want to acknowledge the significance of being granted this small sliver of trust from a man who trusts no one. It's easier to focus on the pressure of his hand, the coffee growing cold on the counter, the sunlight painting patterns across the kitchen floor.
Anything but the growing certainty that I'm being pulled deeper into a world I once knew all too well.
17
ANGELO
Iwatch her from the doorway of my study, silhouetted against the dusk as she stands at the floor-to-ceiling window. The last remnants of sunlight frame her in a golden glow, making it seem as if she’s lit by the sun itself.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, but I ignore it. It’s probably Dante. Another demand for our presence tonight. I sigh, exhaling, the weight pressing against my chest, and let it buzz, my attention fixed on the woman before me.
I'm stalling, and fuck if I know why. Except it's her, always her, screwing with my head.
Bringing her to dinner with everyone there is a risk. Not because I’m afraid she might overhear something or learn things she shouldn’t. I’m almost certain she already has violence in her blood. It’s not about shielding her from that side of my life. It’s about what my family might see in her.
She’s already under my skin, floating there like a goddamn leaf in a river current, drifting through my bloodstream, impossible to extract. And if my brothers catch wind of it, they’ll be relentless. It's not just about protecting her from them. I'm becoming obsessive, intrigued in ways I can't afford, drawn toher with an intensity that goes beyond mere attraction. And yet, even knowing the danger, I can't seem to stay away.
Part of me can't help but wonder, would she fit into the picture I’ve never let myself imagine? Like Alessa with Dante, could she stand by my side? Not as a burden, but as something more?
The thought of her at my side, belonging there... It's a dangerous path my mind keeps wandering down. I shake my head, trying to banish it. The weight of my responsibilities settles heavier with her in this house. An unexpected complication. One I never thought I’d have.
My gaze catches on her hand pressed against the glass. She’s both delicate and lethal, a paradox I can’t stop trying to solve. The light floral notes of the shampoo Alessa brought her—saying she couldn’t have her smelling like adude—drift toward me, but underneath it is something else. My own scent, clinging to her skin. The primal satisfaction that brings me should concern me more than it does.
I move closer, my steps deliberate, making just enough noise not to startle her. Still, I catch the slight tension in her shoulders, the barely perceptible straightening of her spine. I catalogue all these tells like I catalogue everything about her. Our reflections merge in the darkened glass—me, a shadow at her back, her, a vision dressed in black, her red hair framing her delicate face. For a moment, I wonder what she sees when she looks at us standing there together. Does her pulse pick up at the sight?
“What are you looking for out there?” The question slips out before I can stop it.
"Myself."
The raw honesty in her voice catches me off guard. Something protective and possessive stirs in my chest. I try to smother it.
"What if you don't like what you find?"
She turns, meeting my gaze with that fierce defiance that first caught my attention. "What if I already don't?"
The words land like a physical blow. I know that feeling, the self-loathing. It's an old friend, one I see in my own mirror every morning.
"I like what I see just fine, Butterfly." My voice drops lower than intended, the nickname escaping before I can catch it. She has no idea what it means to me. No idea what I'm thinking of when I call her that. Not fragile wings, and a fleeting life span, but something far more dangerous.
The air grows thick between us. I should step back, create distance. Instead, my fingers twitch, itching to touch her, to grip the nape of her neck, to taste her pulse point.
She breaks first, stepping away. Relief and frustration war in my chest as I watch her retreat. She is still here, but barely within reach.
“Are you ready?” I ask, my voice steady despite the turmoil beneath.
She nods, and I lead her out to the car.
I drive with careful precision, hyperaware of Kasia beside me. She takes in every detail of the route, studying the road just as I would, just in case she needs to remember it later. Her sharp mind is always working, always on the lookout for potential threats. I notice it, and a small part of me approves.
As we approach Dante's estate, I feel the familiar shift in my demeanour. I become more guarded, more Savage, less Angelo. My eyes scan the surroundings, noting the security measures in place. Kasia's gaze follows mine, her eyes darting between the cameras and guards. She's aware of the risks, aware of the world we inhabit.
Alessa greets us at the door, embracing Kasia warmly while shooting me a knowing look that irritates me. Kasia stiffensslightly before returning the hug, like she's unused to physical affection. I watch her, torn between concern and annoyance.
