Page 76 of Savage Saint
I lower myself to sit on the edge of the bed, giving her space.
"Bad dream?" I ask simply.
She nods, pulling the sheet tighter around herself as if it could shield her from the memories.
Now I'm the keeper of both her nightmares and her secrets. And neither of us knows what to do about it.
25
KASIA
The sound of slicing flesh cuts through my memory. Sharp. Precise. Final. Even as I wake, I can feel the weight of the knife in my small hand, the initial resistance of skin before the blade sinks deeper.
I bolt upright, sweat sticking to my forehead, my hair plastered to my neck. The sheets tangle around my legs like restraints. I kick them off and concentrate on my breathing. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Just like he taught me.
The memory lingers, refusing to be pushed away.
I was twelve. The training room was cold. It was always cold. Grey concrete walls, grey floor, grey ceiling. The huge wolf head graffitied in black on one of the walls. No windows. Just harsh fluorescent lighting that left no shadows to hide in. There was a steel table in the centre with a body strapped to it.
Not a practice dummy. Not a mannequin. A real person.
"Today, you become what you were born to be," Jerzy said, his Polish accent thick with pride as he handed me the knife. "A weapon."
I didn't hesitate. That's what makes me sick now. I didn't question. I didn't cry. I simply stepped forward, found the exact spot between the fourth and fifth ribs, and pushed the blade in at a forty-five-degree angle. Direct to the heart. Clean. Efficient. No wasted movement.
The man on the table hardly made a sound. Just a soft exhale as his life slipped away.
"Wspaniale."Magnificent. Jerzy said, squeezing my shoulder. His highest form of praise.
I bask in the dim morning light filtering through Angelo's bedroom window now, trying to ground myself in the present. The memory feels both distant and immediate, like it happened to someone else but also like I'm still that twelve-year-old girl with blood on her hands.
No child should know thirty ways to end a life with their bare hands. No child should know how to make death look like heart failure or an accident. No child should know how to cause maximum pain without leaving marks.
But I did.
I do.
The knowledge sits inside me like a stone, heavy and cold. I can't scrub it away any more than I can scrub away the brand on my hip. They're both part of me now.
I slip out of bed, careful not to make noise. Angelo isn't here, he must have left already.
I pause at the top of the stairs, hearing his low, rough voice drifting up from below. He's on the phone, his words clipped and tense.
"Another one? Where?"
I creep down a few steps, just enough to hear clearly without being seen. This isn't eavesdropping, it's intelligence gathering. A distinction Jerzy drilled into me.
"It's the sixth this week, Dante. These bastards are getting bolder."
There's a pause while Dante speaks on the other end. I strain to hear, but can only make out Angelo's side of the conversation.
"All of them branded? Shit." His voice drops lower, rougher. "We need to hit back harder. They're laughing at us."
Another pause.
"We need someone on the inside to talk, but no one wants to touch this with a ten-foot pole. They're all terrified of Nicolosi."
I suck in a breath at the mention of Nicolosi's name. My fingers dig into the bannister.
