Page 12 of Savage Saint (Empire of Secrets #2)

“—doesn’t matter, Arrow. This isn’t a charity case.”

A pause.

Then another voice, slightly muffled like it’s coming through a loudspeaker but unmistakably amused. Arrow?

“What are you gonna do with her?”

My fingers curl against the hem of the oversized shirt, knuckles whitening. Something inside me stills, coiling tight.

Angelo exhales through his nose. The sound is sharp and impatient. Like this entire conversation is a waste of his time.

“She’s not staying here. She can’t.”

The words land like a punch. Short. Uncompromising. Not even a hint of hesitation. I feel something deep in my chest go cold. Fuck him.

I wanted to get out of here anyway.

Arrow hums thoughtfully on the other end. “She doesn’t seem dangerous.”

Angelo’s answer is immediate. Cutting. Absolute. “She’s not my problem. The sooner she’s gone, the better.”

The slap of it is instant. I shouldn’t care. I don’t care. But for some stupid reason, something in me tightens. Like the space between my ribs is suddenly too small. Like I’m… wrong for standing here, breathing the same air as him.

I’m not surprised. I knew this was temporary.

I knew I was here only because I had nowhere else to go.

And still, some traitorous, pathetic part of me had let last night feel like something else.

Like I was something more than just an inconvenience.

Something warm brushes my wrist, and I realise my grip on the fabric is too tight, the edges of the shirt wrinkling beneath my fingers.

I release it, forcing my hands to relax. Forcing myself to breathe.

I should walk away. Pretend I never heard anything. Pretend I don’t care. But my body moves before my mind can catch up. I push off the wall, making my feet move forward, each step heavier than the last.

The second Angelo sees me, something shifts in his face. It’s quick, so quick I might have missed it if I wasn’t already looking. A crack in his perfect indifference. Unease? Guilt? Not guilt.

But he knows.

Knows I heard.

Knows there’s no taking it back.

He doesn’t apologise, though. Because apparently, men like Angelo Santoro don’t apologise. They just move on, wiping their hands clean of people like me.

His jaw tightens, the grip around the coffee mug in his hand flexing. The other holds his phone, but he doesn’t say anything. He just watches me, waiting.

Waiting for what? For me to storm out? To cry?

Not a fucking chance.

I meet his gaze, chin tilting up just slightly. If he wants me gone, fine. I want to get out of here too. Anywhere is better than here.

“Morning,” I say coolly, stepping further into the kitchen like I don’t feel the weight of his words pressing against my skin.

Arrow’s voice crackles through the phone as my eyes land on the knife block sitting on the counter—six blades, easily accessible.

“Well… shit.”

Yeah. Shit, indeed.

“I’ll call you back,” Angelo snaps into the phone and disconnects, his eyes never wavering from mine. A lump rises in my throat as his eyes soften–dark brown melting into milky chocolate. “Kasia...” he says softly.

I shake my head, opening my mouth to say... something. Anything. But before I do, the silence is interrupted.

“Helloooo.” Alessa bounces into the kitchen, unaware of the tension between us. My mask slips into place a second before Angelo’s does.

“Hi.” I turn just as her arms wrap around me, pulling me into a tight hug. Stiffening, I stop breathing, unsure of how to react.

She chuckles before stepping away and looking around. “It’s okay,” she rumbles. “I grow on people. I swear. You can ask Mel. Or Arrow.”

My head tilts to the side at the name. “Who’s Arrow?”

“My bestie. Oh! You’re having breakfast. Praise the lord. I’m starving!” She exclaims, looking past me. “Angelo, caffeinate me, por favor .”

“Wrong language. It’s per favore .”

“Potato-patatoh,” Alessa sighs, longingly looking at the plate of toast on the counter.

I slide it towards her as I look at Angelo.

“You’re Italian,” I say as another piece of a puzzle clicks into place.

“ Sì. ”

“ Interessante ,” I mutter, my brain working overtime as I pick a piece of toast and nibble on it.

“ Parli italiano? ” Angelo puts two coffee mugs in front of Alessa and I. She grabs hers, instantly taking a long sip and sighing with contentment.

I snort. “ Dio, no! ” Why is he even asking?

“Kasia.” Angelo walks around the kitchen island towards me. Every step bringing him closer makes my heart speed up. He stops inches away, towering over me. “ Dove hai imparato l’italiano? ” He leans closer.

“ N–non capisco ,” I stutter, his proximity making the hair at the nape of my neck stand up. “ Non parlo italiano .”

Alessa drops her toast on the plate with a clatter, making my head swivel away from Angelo to see what startled her. “Holy shit,” she whispers, her mouth hanging open.

“What’s wrong?” I swallow.

“Babe, you just spoke fluent Italian. I’d know, I’m an expert in Italians.”

“I did?” I ask as Angelo’s breath fans over my cheek. The man still firmly invading my personal space with no thought of consequences.

“You totally did.” She grins.

I shake my head, trying to figure out if she’s telling the truth. My thoughts are jumbled and I’m finding it hard to focus on anything with Angelo’s looming presence.

“Can you move away? I can smell your coffee breath.” I scrunch my eyebrows and push my fingers against his hard chest.

Alessa bursts out laughing, making Angelo scoff and take a step back. Thank God for that. He doesn’t need to know I love the smell of coffee, especially mixed with whatever cologne he’s wearing.

“At least now we know something about you.” Alessa picks her toast back up and takes a big bite. “You speak Italian. Maybe... you are Italian. That would be pretty cool.”

“Why are you here, Alessa?” Angelo exhales sharply.

“I wasn’t going to leave the poor girl in your sour company all day.” She shrugs. “Plus, we have things to discuss.”

“ Things ?” One dark eyebrow arches up.

“Yup.” Unperturbed, Alessa continues munching on her toast, completely ignoring the waves of hostility rolling off Angelo.

He watches us for a second, his face unreadable as he crosses his arms in front of his chest, the muscles in his biceps bulging out of his t-shirt.

"Eat your breakfast,” he orders, leaning over the counter and reaching for a plate filled with scrambled eggs, cherry tomatoes and avocado on toast. I’m speechless.

Surely, the plate is not meant for me. It’s not like Angelo would go through the trouble of making an elaborate breakfast for me after admitting to Arrow how desperately he wants me gone. Would he?

He pushes the plate towards me.

"So, am I still ‘not your problem,’ or do you usually go around making breakfast for problems?" I can't help but ask.

He doesn't grace me with a reply, instead he just moves away, leaving me alone with the plate and my confused thoughts.

“That looks yummy,” Alessa mutters as Angelo grabs his coffee mug and turns away from us.

“It’s Kasia’s,” he barks, walking away from the kitchen.

“Sometimes I think I should be way more scared of him than I am,” she whispers, watching him leave.

I know the feeling.

“Kasia?” she asks. “Did you get upgraded from Butterfly, then?”

My cheeks blush, at the mention of the nickname Angelo gave me. “It’s my name, actually,” I say, pushing the scrambled eggs around with a fork.

“You remembered your name!” she exclaims excitedly.

“I did,” I can’t help but smile back at her. “Not much else though. I thought I was Polish, actually, not Italian. Although now I’m not so sure.”

She pulls her phone out and taps it a few times. “So, if your name is Kasia... You’re most likely Polish or... Hindu.” She looks up, her eyes bouncing between my pale complexion, blue eyes and the freckles around my nose.

I lift a strand of my red hair between us with an arched eyebrow.

“Probably Polish,” we laugh in unison.

“I don’t suppose you remember your clothing and shoe size?” she asks, her eyes twinkling with mirth.

I rattle off the numbers without thinking, including my bra size. “Memory loss is so surreal.” I shake my head. “Do you think they’re correct?”

“We can check.” She smiles, kicking off her shoes. “Your feet are the same size as mine. Try these on."

Reluctantly, I slip my bare foot into the designer sneaker, wiggling my toes to test the fit. The material is soft, moulding to my foot like it was made for me.

“It fits.” I glance at Alessa, who is watching me with a far too pleased expression on her face.

“Knew it,” she sings, fingers already flying over the screen of her phone.

I narrow my eyes, slipping out of her shoe and handing it back to her. “What are you doing?”

She waves a hand dismissively, not bothering to look up. “Just texting someone who can get you actual clothes instead of letting you drown in Angelo’s loungewear.”

I blink at her, trying to process the casual way she says it, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re... ordering clothes for me?”

“Well, yeah,” she says, still focused on her screen. “You can’t exactly walk around looking like a toddler who raided her dad’s closet.”

Despite myself, I snort, shaking my head. “A toddler with a brand on her hip and no underwear. Classy.”

Alessa’s fingers pause over the screen, her expression softening slightly.

There’s something in her gaze, something close to sympathy, and I immediately regret making the joke.

I don’t want sympathy. I don’t want pity.

I just want answers and to get the hell out of here.

Before she can say anything, I shake my head and look away, shutting down any chance for her to turn this into a bonding moment.

She seems to take the hint, because she slips her phone into the back pocket of her jeans and leans against the counter instead, tilting her head to the side as she studies me. “How was last night?”