Page 88 of Savage Saint
He turns, his face a mask of cold fury. "Explosion at the port. Multiple bodies."
My stomach drops. "Nico?"
"Maybe. But that's not all." He runs a hand through his hair. "They're trying to pin sex trafficking on us."
"Who is?" I sit up straighter.
"The Feds. They've been looking for an excuse to come after us for years. Now they think they've got one." He picks up his discarded boxers. "They've had enough, apparently. Arrow thinks they've got someone on the inside feeding them bullshit."
Just like that, reality comes crashing back with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball. The warmth we created together evaporates, replaced by the chill of what awaits outside these walls. I watch as Angelo transforms before my eyes, the man who held me so tenderly moments ago fading away as the warrior takes his place.
"I need to go. Now." He's already pulling on his jeans, movements quick and efficient.
I throw back the covers and slide out of bed. "I'm coming with you."
"No." The word falls between us, hard and unyielding.
"Angelo—"
"This isn't up for debate." He grabs his shirt, yanking it over his head. "It could be a trap."
I want to argue, but I know that look on his face. Fighting him on this would waste time he clearly doesn't have. So I grab my own clothes from the floor, pulling them on with quick jerks.
Angelo moves to his closet, punching in a code on a keypad I didn't know existed. The back panel slides open, revealing an arsenal that would make a small army jealous. He selects a handgun, checking the magazine before tucking it into his waistband. A second one follows, disappearing into an ankle holster. Then a knife, sliding into a sheath at his belt.
I find myself walking over to him and selecting my own weapons out of habit. Strapping a knife to my thigh and dropping a small blade in my boot. They're not much, but they're better than nothing.
Angelo catches me doing this and hesitates. For a second, I think he might relent and let me come. Instead, he crosses to me in three quick strides, cupping my face in his hands. His kiss is fierce and possessive, stealing my breath.
When he pulls back, his eyes are dark with something I can't quite name. "I'll take you to Alessa."
"I don't need a babysitter," I start to protest.
"You don't. But she does. Please." The word sounds torn from him. Has Angelo Santoro ever begged for anything in his life? "Be safe. For me."
The naked vulnerability in those words—for me—catches me off guard. I grit my teeth, frustration warring with the knowledge that he needs to focus on the threat, not on worrying about me.
"Fine," I nod, hating how easily I cave when he looks at me like that. "But this isn't over. We still need to talk about—"
"Later," he promises, his thumb brushing over my bottom lip. "When I get back."
I watch him finish arming himself, checking weapons with practiced efficiency. His movements are precise, methodical. The Angelo who made me cry out his name is gone, replaced by Savage. The man enemies whisper about in fear.
Yet when he takes my hand to lead me downstairs, his grip is gentle. A reminder that underneath it all, both versions are the same man.
The man I'm starting to care about far too much for my own good.
28
KASIA
The gravel crunches under the tyres as Angelo winds down the mountain road, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows through the windshield. We pass through a set of imposing iron gates that part silently as we approach, then continue along a sweeping driveway lined with ancient oaks.
Dante's mansion emerges from the landscape like something carved from the very mountain itself—a sprawling fortress of dark stone and gleaming glass that seems to stretch endlessly in both directions. Manicured lawns roll away from the structure in perfect waves, dotted with strategically placed trees that look like they've been standing guard for centuries. The building sits where civilisation surrenders to wilderness, the black forest looming behind it like a protective wall of secrets.
I've only seen it at night before, when the windows were lit up like yellow eyes in the dark. But in this fading light, with shadows stretching across the perfect grounds and the forest crowding in, it looks even more intimidating. Less like somewhere people live and more like a statement—that the Santoros don't just occupy this place, they dominate it.
Angelo cuts the engine but doesn't move. His knuckles are white on the steering wheel, jaw clenched tight enough to crack walnuts.
