Page 91 of Savage Saint
I realise I've been silent too long when Alessa clears her throat.
"Feel better?" she asks.
"Much," I lie, flashing her a grateful smile. "Thanks for showing me."
But my mind is already plotting escape routes, calculating timing, assessing risks. It's like riding a bike, the skills Jerzy drilled into me for years have never really left. They've just been dormant, waiting for the right moment to surface.
I can slip out through the service corridor, avoiding cameras four, seven, and twelve. The lock on the east door is a simple pin tumbler that I could pick in seconds. Then across the garden during Marco's loop to the north side, timing it perfectly with the shift change at the garage. The Maserati's ignition system would be child's play.
"Kasia?"
I blink, pulled from my mental planning. Alessa is studying me, her green eyes sharp with understanding.
"Whatever you're thinking," she says quietly, "I'm in."
For a split second, I consider telling her everything. But that would make her complicit. If something goes wrong—when something goes wrong—it's better if she can honestly say she had no idea.
I force a yawn, stretching my arms above my head. "I think I'll have a nap. It's been a long day."
She doesn't believe me. I can see it in the slight narrowing of her eyes, the way her head tilts just a fraction to the left. But she nods anyway.
"Sure. I'll show you to your room."
I follow her out, making a show of looking tired and defeated. But inside, my blood is singing with purpose. Angelo thinks he can sideline me, keep me safe and tucked away while he faces danger. He's about to learn that's not how this works.
I wait for an hour after Alessa leaves me. Just long enough for the house to settle into its evening rhythm. Then I slip out of the bedroom, avoiding the creaky floorboard I noticed earlier.
The corridor is empty, just as I expected. I hug the wall, keeping to the shadows, counting in my head. One, two, three... Camera four will pan left in five seconds, giving me my window.
I move on instinct, muscle memory taking over as I navigate the blind spots between cameras. Duck, slide, pause. Wait for the guard's footsteps to fade. Move again.
The service door is exactly where I calculated it would be. I pull a hairpin from my updo, bending it into the right shape without even looking. The lock gives way with a satisfying click, and I'm through, closing it silently behind me.
The night air is cool on my skin as I cross the garden, timing my movements to Marco's patrol pattern. Three minutes to the garage. Two minutes to hot-wire the car. One minute to the gate, which will open automatically for any vehicle leaving the property, a security flaw I'd noted immediately.
The garage side door is locked too, but it's the same mechanism as the service door. Child's play. Inside, the cars gleam under soft overhead lights. I head straight for the Maserati, sliding into the driver's seat.
No keys, of course. But I don't need them. I reach under the steering column, feeling for the wires I need. Red to red, strip the blue, touch it to the starter...
The engine purrs to life, a low, powerful rumble that sends a thrill up my spine.
"Really? His favourite Maserati?"
I nearly jump out of my skin, my hand automatically reaching for a weapon I don't have. Alessa's voice came from the backseat, where she's now sitting up, dangling a set of keys between her fingers.
"Also, I have the keys," she says with a smirk. "All you had to do was ask." She leans forward, her expression turning excited. "So, where are we going?"
The Maserati purrsunder my hands as I guide it through the fog-shrouded streets of Blackriver. The headlights barely cut through the thick mist, turning everything beyond their reach into ghostly shapes and shadows.
"Left here," Alessa says, her face illuminated by the blue glow of her phone screen. "Then straight for about a mile."
I take the turn sharply, tyres squealing against wet asphalt. The town's underbelly looks different at night. Darker, dirtier, more dangerous. Neon signs blur into watercolour smudges through the fog, casting eerie red and blue glows that dance across the dashboard.
"Are you sure this is the right way?" I ask, slowing at a junction where three equally uninviting roads meet.
"No," Alessa admits, tapping furiously at her phone. "Google Maps keeps recalculating. But Eclipse should be just past the old warehouse district."
Great. We're lost in the middle of Nico's territory, in a car that screams 'Santoro money.' This night just keeps getting better.
