Page 13 of Savage Saint (Empire of Secrets #2)

KASIA

I tighten my grip on the edge of the counter, the cool marble grounding me as memories flicker through my mind. The warmth of Angelo’s body pressed against mine. The solid weight of his arm around my waist, his steady breath against my hair, the quiet way he made me feel safe.

Then, the moment he pulled away, like I was nothing.

Alessa’s voice drags me back, her question still hanging in the air.

How was last night?

I exhale slowly, forcing my voice to stay even. “I had a nightmare. Or rather a flashback. Either way. it wasn’t pretty.”

Alessa nods like she already knows. Maybe she does.

She doesn’t react right away, just watches me carefully. “And?”

“He came,” I say simply, because the details feel too complicated to unpack. “Stayed with me.”

“And then?”

“He left.”

Her brows knit together, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Left? As in—”

“As in, he pulled away the second he woke up, like comforting me was a mistake,” I finish, my tone sharper than I intended. There’s something bitter in it. Something I don’t want to examine too closely.

Alessa scoffs, shaking her head. “These men... He’s an idiot.”

A humourless laugh slips past my lips before I can stop it. “Yeah well. So am I.”

She studies me for a moment, her gaze searching. “What makes you say that?”

I push off the counter, squaring my shoulders. “Because I let myself think, even for a second, that I was safe here. That I was...” My throat tightens. The words won’t come out.

Alessa watches me carefully, her expression unreadable. Then, softly, “That you mattered?”

I look away. Because, yeah. That.

I shake off the thought, forcing myself to focus on something else. “It doesn’t matter. He made it quite clear this morning. He doesn’t want me here. I should leave.”

She doesn’t immediately respond. Instead, she just watches me, like she’s deciding something, weighing her words before speaking. When she finally does, her voice is calm, steady, but firm.

“You should stay.”

I blink at her, caught off guard. “What?”

“You should stay,” she repeats, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

I let out a short, incredulous laugh. “You didn’t hear him, Alessa. He’s counting down the minutes until I’m out of here.”

She shrugs, unfazed. “Let him. But that doesn’t mean you should leave just yet.”

I shake my head, trying to make sense of her logic. “Why?”

Alessa places her coffee mug down with a soft clink, her eyes locking onto mine.

There’s something unshakable in the way she looks at me, something that sees past all the barriers I have up, and finds the parts of me I’m trying my hardest to keep hidden.

“Because he’s being ridiculous and he knows it.

Like it or not, you’re safest with the Saints. ”

I blink at her, the name hanging between us, the weight of it pressing down on my chest, thick and suffocating.

The Saints.

The words feel too big, too heavy, too familiar in a way I can’t place.

Like a half-remembered dream, a song lyric stuck on the tip of my tongue, a language I should know but don’t.

There’s something about it. Something that doesn’t sit right, something that makes my skin itch and my stomach twist. The feeling is immediate, visceral, and it takes everything in me not to react, not to let it show that the mere sound of it has sent a ripple through me, unsettling something deep, something I can’t name.

“The Saints?”

“Yes. The Saints—The Santoro’s.” She watches me carefully, waiting, like she expects something. A reaction. A flicker of understanding. Maybe even fear.

Santoro’s.

The name repeats, echoes, claws at something inside me, something buried.

My fingers tighten against the counter, my breath just a little too shallow, my chest just a little too tight.

I don’t know why the name makes my stomach clench, why it sits wrong and right at the same time.

Why it feels like I’ve heard it before, whispered in the dark.

I stare at her, my pulse picking up, something dark curling at the edges of my mind.

A distant memory brushes against my consciousness, slippery, out of reach, vanishing before I can grasp onto it.

A voice.

Low. Dark. Heavily accented.

“Don’t forget, darling, the Santoro’s are very dangerous.”

My breath catches, the ghost of the words slamming into me like a fist to the gut.

I must react, a shift, a tightening, a flicker of something across my face, because Alessa’s brows knit together, her head tilting just slightly.

“You okay?”

I force my grip to loosen, flexing my fingers, shoving the creeping unease to the back of my mind, locking it away before it can take hold.

“I...” My throat feels dry. I clear it. “I don’t—”

“The Santoro’s,” she interrupts me, voice soft but heavy.

I shake my head, staying silent, because I have no idea what she expects me to say. My mind is blank.

“Who are the Santoro's?” I finally ask.

Alessa leans over slightly her eyes never leaving mine. “The Saints. The Santoro brothers. Dante, Angelo and Luca.” Her voice drops just a fraction, as if speaking the words too loudly will shift something in the air. “They’re mafia.”

The words settle between us.

I stare at her, letting them sink in, letting the reality of them penetrate my chest.

Then I blink. “That’s it?”

Alessa blinks back at me, brows lifting slightly, like she wasn’t expecting that. “What do you mean, that’s it ?”

I shrug, shifting my weight, trying to loosen the tension coiled inside me. “I mean...yeah, okay. Mafia. Not exactly shocking.”

Her eyes narrow slightly, her gaze sharp, assessing. She’s waiting for me to crack, to panic, to react.

But I don’t.

Because something inside me already knew.

I already suspected they were something else. The awareness, the way my instincts screamed at me to tread carefully, the way I wasn’t surprised when I found out they had guns, that they moved like predators rather than men. I just hadn’t named it yet.

In fact, I have the crazy urge to chuckle. I don’t know what sort of Boogeymen I was expecting that had me so on edge, but the Mafia revelation is a relief.

Alessa watches me like she’s trying to figure out a puzzle. “You’re not scared,” she says, her voice slow, careful, as if she’s saying it more to herself than to me.

I exhale, staring down at my hands.

No.

I’m not.

And that? That should terrify me.

Silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken thoughts and questions not asked.

Alessa watches me carefully, waiting for some kind of delayed reaction.

But it doesn’t come. The signs were there, the security, the quiet authority they carried, the way even their casual words felt like commands.

I might not remember who I am, but I know power when I see it. And the Santoro's? They bleed power.

It all makes sense now.

I stand from my seat, rolling my shoulders and ignoring the aches that have become a part of me now. I let the knowledge settle into my bones. The Mafia. Fine. What does that change? They were dangerous before I knew their name, and they’re dangerous now.

Alessa raises a brow, clearly waiting for me to speak first. When I don’t, she finally exhales, shaking her head. “I thought I was the only insane person here. Angelo’s got his work cut out for him.”

I know Alessa doesn’t mean anything by it. She isn’t trying to hurt me, isn’t trying to make me feel like some lost, broken thing, but her words burrow under my skin anyway, clawing at my insides.

I don’t belong anywhere.

Not in this house. Not in my own past. Not even in my own body.

The walls feel closer than they should, the air thick and pressing against my lungs. I need out. I need space. I need to breathe.

“Sorry,” I mutter, pushing away from the counter, my feet already carrying me out of the kitchen before I can think twice about it.

Alessa doesn’t stop me.

Neither does he.

But I feel him.

Even before I step into the hallway, before I see him, I know he’s there.

Angelo.

His gaze is like a fire, scorching hot against my skin, tracking my every move, watching, measuring, dissecting. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t move from where he’s seated on the sofa, doesn’t try to stop me. But his presence is suffocating, pressing against my back.

Waiting.

Seeing what I’ll do next.

I don’t look at him. I don’t acknowledge him. If he wants me gone, I’ll make it easy for him.

My feet are silent against the hardwood floor as I walk towards the stairs, already picturing the path ahead. I need a plan, need to find out more about myself before I leave this place for good.

But I don’t make it far.

A shift in the air warns me before I even see him.

A whisper of movement, a disruption in the stillness, a predator stepping too close to its prey.

My pulse spikes. My body knows before my mind catches up.

A shadow moves against the light, a dark figure stepping inside the house, his frame blocking the doorway.

Too close.

Too sudden.

A threat.

I don’t think. I react.

A surge of adrenaline slams into me, my vision narrowing as my instincts take control. My body moves before my mind catches up, muscles coiling as I twist toward the threat. This isn’t panic. This isn’t fear.

The man barely has time to register me before I slam into him, every moment clean. Efficient, effortless.

His arm reaches for my shoulder, but I already know his next move. Twisting beneath his grip, I adjust my body, predicting, controlling the movement before it even happens.

Like muscle memory.

Like a dance I’ve danced before.

Like I’ve done this a thousand times.

My elbow slams into his ribs, the sharp thud vibrating through me, a familiar sound. Comforting. Ignoring the pain in my body, I pivot, moving way too fast for someone who just woke up in a hospital bed a day ago. In one fluid motion, I catch his wrist and pull, using his own momentum against him.

He stumbles, cursing under his breath. But I don’t stop. I don’t think.

My knee connects with his stomach, my forearm pressing against his throat before he can recover.

I could break his windpipe.

I should.

His hands scramble against my arms, struggling, gasping, but I don’t let up.

My pulse pounds in my ears, drowning out everything else.

I have him.

I have control.

And God help me, it feels amazing.

A thrill courses through me, hot and raw, something dangerous and primal twisting inside me, something that feels like it belongs.

I could kill him if I wanted to.

And worst of all?

The thought doesn’t disgust me. It doesn’t make my moves falter. It feels natural.

A voice cuts through the moment.

“Jesus Christ, Kasia!” The sound is distant, as if I’m hearing it through water, through static.

Alessa.

My grip loosens just a fraction, just enough for me to finally see the man beneath me.

His face is red, his lips parting as he tries to suck in air. There are bags filled with clothes scattered around.

“You can let go of Antonio, Butterfly.” Angelo’s voice slides through the tension in my body like a sharp knife, smooth and deliberate.

I should release him immediately. I should push myself back, put distance between us, force my fingers to let go.

But I don’t.

I inhale slowly, trying to calm my instincts. Telling myself the fight is over, there’s no real threat, and that Antonio is not my enemy.

Tension slowly uncoils limb by limb, but my mind lags behind, stuck on what I was about to do. What I almost did without thinking. There was no hesitation, no fear, no second- guessing. Only the need to react, to defend, to make sure I wasn’t the one left on the ground gasping for air.

My grip loosens as Antonio stares up at me, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his breaths uneven.

His grip on my wrist is tight, but it’s more like he’s trying to steady himself, not fight back.

Like he’s trying to make sense of what just happened, of the fact that a woman half his size just handed his ass to him.

And it’s not fear in his eyes.

It’s disbelief.

Because we are both aware I wasn’t just defending myself. I was poised to kill.

A slow, shaky breath shudders through me as I try to process what just happened. I need to let him go, need to step back and put space between us. But I don’t. Not yet. Because my body is still wired, still on edge, still responding to a past I don’t remember.

I want to be horrified at myself. I should be.

But I’m not.

Instead, I feel something else beneath the shock, beneath the confusion. Something dark and unsettling.

It makes sense.

The way I moved. The way I struck. The way I anticipated his next step before he even made it.

None of it was new.

None of it felt strange.

I knew exactly what to do, and I did it without hesitation, without a second thought, without anything holding me back.

And that terrifies me more than anything.