Page 1 of Savage Saint (Empire of Secrets #2)

ANGELO

T here are two kinds of people in this world: the ones who run from monsters and those who become them.

Me? I am the latter.

In a family like mine, there was never any question of what I’d turn into, it was only a matter of when.

Growing up as the middle son to the head of the American Mafia wasn’t a choice; it was a curse wrapped in blood and power.

My older brother, Dante, the golden heir, the one who wore our family name like a crown, calm and ruthless, was destined to be the ruler that kept our father’s empire alive.

Luca, the youngest, with a mind too sharp for his own good, whose ideas could either build kingdoms or burn them to the ground. And then there was me.

The one with fists that spoke louder than words, the son whose heart sped up at the sound of screams. I was the one trained to break bones, to take lives, to make our enemies choke on fear, while Dante diplomatically negotiated deals and Luca masterfully manipulated everyone around him.

I’d like to think I wasn’t born a monster—I was sculpted into it, moulded by every fight, every scar, every drop of blood that stained my hands at my father’s request. And the sick part? I embraced it. Every violent, savage piece of it, because someone had to be the devil to protect this family.

And I always do what has to be done, regardless of consequences.

I’m the brother who takes the orders no one else has the stomach to carry out.

The one who makes sure my brothers' hands stay clean while mine are stained with blood I can no longer scrub away. On the outside, I’m a cold, unfeeling killing machine.

But inside? I’m a twisted, fucked-up bastard who craves darkness and pain more than the light.

I’ve stopped fooling myself into believing that I could have a normal life, instead confining myself to a cage made of glass, and the shackles of being a Santoro.

The heartless killer my father moulded me in his own image.

It’s funny how all my childhood, I swore to be nothing like him, only to become a carbon-fucking-copy of the monster he was.

My mother would turn in her grave if she could see me now. All the hopes and dreams she had for her three sons to lead a normal life were discarded the minute she exhaled her last breath.

Thirteen years ago, with my small hand wrapped around our last fortune cookie paper, I watched my mother turn blue as her unseeing eyes dulled, the stress and tension finally leaving her gaunt face.

She looked serene in her death. Finally at peace, no longer a slave to Massimo Santoro, her husband and my father, the devil in disguise.

I hardly remember her face now. Still, I cling to that final memory like a lifeline. It's the only thing that keeps my blackened heart beating.

Instinctively, I tap the breast pocket of my suit.

My mother's ghost making me check for the one physical thing still tethering me to her memory. The last fortune we shared. The one she smiled and said was all for me, with a weak wink I didn’t understand at the time and ignored the meaning of ever since.

A deep sigh escapes me as I reach in and pull the yellowed piece of paper out, muttering the words I know by heart before my eyes even land on the letters.

Flames can burn. Flames can heal. Her red flames will make you kneel.

12.12

The fortune I’ve hated yet could never get rid of. I gently rub the number with my thumb–the date my mother died. How ridiculous, she thought it was about love when all along it was about her death.

My eyes close as a shadow, I do my best to ignore, approaches my car. Knuckles rap on my window in a rhythm I’m way too familiar with. Still basking in the darkness behind my lids, I lower the window.

“ Dov’è Dante? ”Luca's voice cuts through my moment of peace. Where is Dante?

“Not here.” My younger brother’s minty breath fills my car as I slide the piece of paper back into my pocket and open my eyes to look at him. “My guess is, he’s with Alessa.”

I wince at the mention of Dante’s fiancée.

As much as I hate his obsession with her, deep down inside I can understand why he’d prioritise her after she was kidnapped and almost killed.

What I despise is my lack of emotions about the whole situation.

I’m more focused on finding and killing the fucker who took Alessa.

Nico Nicolosi, the capo with a chip on his shoulder.

As tirelessly as Dante has been working on eradicating drugs and crime from Blackwood, the town we own, Nicolosi preferred the old ways.

Drugs, strip clubs and laundering money was how Blackriver, the nearby town gifted to him by our father, was run.

Not breaking eye contact with Luca, I close the window between us.

“Angelo,” he whines on the other side. The sound muffled through the glass. I’m already in motion, opening the door and sliding out of my car.

“You smudged my car.” I look pointedly at where his hand has been when he leaned over to speak to me.

Luca fights a smile that’s threatening to break out, the little shit. “Let’s go and see what Nicolosi has been up to,” he says in reply. “And hopefully nail the motherfucker.”

We move swiftly through the dock, looking for the shipping container that slipped through our logs.

Thanks to Alessa, we have the numbers and location, so it doesn’t take long before we find it.

Luca pulls out a pair of bolt cutters with a manic grin on his face.

Silently cackling, he slices the air before diving for the bolt locking whatever is inside.

His antics would almost be amusing if I had any patience left.

It’s typical of Luca—always the one to find humour in the darkest moments, like the world is his playground.

But I know him too well to mistake it for carelessness.

Beneath the cocky grin is a mind that never stops calculating.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” I mutter, glancing over my shoulder as my fingers brush my gun.

“Come on, fratello ,” Luca replies, his grin widening. “Don’t tell me you’re not curious what’s behind door number one? Drugs, Guns? Or maybe Nicolosi himself, wrapped with a bow. It’s like Christmas Morning!”

“Shut up and cut the fucking lock already,” I sigh, but the corner of my mouth twitches despite myself.

“Chill, Angelo,” he says, slicing through the lock with a flourish. “You’re wound tighter than Dante.”

“That’s because one of us has to take this seriously,” I snap, my patience wearing thin. “You think this is a game?”

Luca shrugs, unfazed. “You’re always so serious. You should relax, live a little.”

The words hit like a slap, even though I know he has no idea how deeply they penetrate. It’s not like I have the option to relax, not when my soul is blacker than coal.

I don’t reply, my jaw tightening as he steps aside, letting me take the lead.

The ever-present Blackwood fog is unrelenting this close to the shore, the salt in the air threatening a sneeze just as I yank the door open. The mist rushes in like a living thing, shrouding everything within in its white tendrils.

It doesn’t stop the stench from assaulting my senses–a vile cocktail of sickness and decay that claws at my throat, dredging up images of things I've seen and done over the years. I instinctively cover my nose with the sleeve of my jacket and take a cautious step inside, squinting as the fog swirls around me. The container seems empty at first glance, but it’s hard to tell with the fog distorting my vision.

“Do you see anything?” Luca’s muffled question comes from behind me, his voice barely above a whisper. I shake my head, taking another step in when a sound startles me motionless. It echoes eerily in the confines of the container.

“Luca,” I breathe, straining to hear it again. “Did you hear that?”

“What the hell was that?” Luca fumbles for his phone, his cocky demeanour finally slipping as I try to make out the dark shape in the corner.

A beam of bright light cuts through the darkness as he flicks the torchlight on, illuminating the far corner of the container.

“ Cazzo, ” he curses from behind me, a sentiment I share in abundance. Fuck , indeed.

There’s a body of a woman, crumpled on the container’s grimy floor. Empty water bottles scattered around her like discarded evidence of a failed survival attempt. Her tangled hair clings to her pale face and even in the dim light, I can see the bruises and cuts marring her skin.

I surge forward, something lodging in my throat as I kneel beside her. The foul odour no longer registering. Reaching out, I press my fingers on her pulse point—faint, but still there.

“Call the hospital,” I bark at Luca, urgency lacing my voice, an emotion I haven’t felt in years.

My reputation as a brutal enforcer may precede me—I’m known for my savage methods and ruthless ways, but I draw the line at harming women and children.

“Then call Dante. And keep fucking calling him until he picks up. Time for fucking around is over.”

Luca hesitates, his gaze bouncing between me and the woman. For all his wit and bravado, I can see the wariness in his eyes. This isn’t a game anymore, and he knows it.

“On it,” he mutters, stepping away to make the calls.

Gently, I scoop her up, her fragile body sagging in my grip, head lolling back like a broken doll.

What the hell was Nico thinking, keeping a woman in this locked-up hellhole for God knows how long?

Her skin radiates heat against me, a feverish blaze that rings alarm bells in my mind.

Red, angry lines streak across her arm, telltale signs of infection feasting inside her. This is not good.

Her matted hair falls away from her face, and something in my heart picks up speed. Even dulled by dirt and blood, that shade of red is stunning. A red like I've never seen before.

One thing is clear, we need to get her out of here, and the sooner, the better. Still cradling her to me, I run outside, trying hard not to jostle her as I make my way back to the entrance.

As we near the car, Luca glances at me, his usual smirk replaced by something sombre. “You think this is Nico’s way of sending a message?”

“If it is,” I reply darkly, “he’d better get ready for one hell of a response."

I try not to look at her, not to notice the ribs digging into my chest or the smattering of pale freckles across the bridge of her nose.

I try to focus on my anger at Nicolosi, who just signed his death warrant in my eyes.

Wars be damned. This is the second innocent woman he has almost killed in as many weeks.

Not to mention how he treats the girls at his strip clubs—sleazy motherfucker.

My arms tighten at the thought of that monster. Too tight.

A gasp escapes her dry, cracked lips and her long eyelashes flutter as her eyes flicker open. I stumble to a stop, unable to rip my attention away from her. Her unfocused gaze lands on my face, her lips curling into a serene smile just as the sun rises behind me, lighting up her face.

“ Anio?, ” she whispers before, with a sigh, her pale blue eyes flutter closed once more, leaving me speechless.