Page 61 of Savage Saint
I melt into his embrace, my arms sliding around his waist. His body is all hard muscle and barely contained power, yet he holds me with a gentleness that makes my throat tight. I press my face against his chest, breathing in his scent, letting the calm wash over me.
I know this moment can't last. That the danger hunting me hasn't disappeared. That my memories, when they fully return, might change everything between us. That Angelo Santoro is a dangerous man with blood on his hands.
But right now, wrapped in his arms, I let myself believe that maybe I've found where I belong. That my jagged edges fit perfectly against his. That in this strange, violent world I've woken up in, I've stumbled upon the one person who can both protect and destroy me.
And God help me, I want it all.
21
ANGELO
Islam the tattoo removal machine that was delivered yesterday onto the folding table with more force than necessary. The sleek black device stands out against the white backdrop of the massage room like a threat. Like a promise. Metal instruments clink together as I methodically unpack them beside the machine. Every tool has a purpose. Every tool will help erase Nico's tattoo from Kasia's skin.
My fingers tighten around a steel clamp. The thought of his marks on her makes my blood simmer. That burn on her hip, a fucking "N" like she's his property. I'm not sure how I'll get rid of that. So far, the burn is healing nicely, and if everything goes well, there will be nothing but a faint scar left. But even that makes me want to hunt down the motherfucker and brand his sorry ass with something. A dick on his forehead would suit him nicely.
And if Kasia's scar doesn't heal? I'll have to cut it out. No fucking way I'm letting her wear someone else's brand. She's mine.
The possessive thought hits like a fist to the gut. I freeze, surprised by the intensity of it. This isn't about ownership.This is about... what exactly? I push the thought away, focusing instead on arranging the antiseptic wipes in a neat row.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, vibrating against my thigh. I fish it out, glancing at Dante's name on the screen before answering.
"What?"
"We found Dahlia, one of Nico's strippers. Dead." His voice is grim, matter-of-fact in that way only Dante can manage when delivering news about a corpse. "She was the one willing to talk. Now all the others are terrified, and we're back to square one."
My jaw locks. One step forward, two steps back. Always the same fucking song and dance with Nicolosi. I know exactly what those women are going through. They've seen what happens to snitches now. We've been working this angle for weeks, trying to gather enough intel to pin down where Nico's been hiding. The strip club was our best lead, a pipeline for girls coming in from Eastern Europe. Some of them were definitely underage, I'd stake my life on it. Dahlia was the only one who'd made eye contact when we came asking questions, the only one who finally agreed to meet up tonight. She was going to tell us where the girls were being kept before they were distributed to Nico's various establishments. Now she's dead, and any chance of those women talking to us died with her.
"We need to get them out. Now." My voice comes out as a low growl, barely controlled rage simmering beneath each word.
"Hold off, Angelo." Dante's tone brooks no argument, that familiar command that normally I'd respect. "We need more intel."
The order lights a fire inside me. These women, just like Kasia, are pawns to him. Sacrifices on the chessboard.
"Fuck that!"
I hurl the phone against the wall, watching with grim satisfaction as it shatters, plastic and glass exploding in a satisfying spray of destruction.
A soft gasp makes me whirl around.
Kasia stands in the doorway, her eyes wide, taking in the scene—me, breathing hard, the broken phone, the strange machine on the table. Something in my chest tightens at the sight of her. Her hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, wisps of strawberry blonde framing her face. She's wearing workout clothes: a sports bra and leggings that hug every curve.
"What's wrong?" she asks, her voice cautious, like she's approaching a wild animal.
Maybe she is.
"Nothing." My jaw is so tight it aches. I stare her down, daring her to call me on the obvious lie. Instead, she glances at the machine, curiosity evident in her eyes as she steps into the room.
"What's that?" she asks, moving closer.
I watch her, the way she studies the equipment with sharp intelligence. Always analysing, always looking for angles. In another life, she might have been one of us.
"Curiosity killed the cat, Butterfly."
The nickname slips out before I can stop it, and I see her blink, her gaze landing back on me. Maybe she's no longer annoyed. Then her mouth tightens into a frown. She turns, making to leave, and panic rises in me at the thought of her walking away.
"Fight me."
"What?" She turns back, confusion etched on her face.
