Page 14 of Savage Saint (Empire of Secrets #2)

ANGELO

I watch as Kasia releases Antonio, like a snake uncoiling from its prey. Careful, planned, and almost sorry to release him.

Her fingers uncurl one by one from his throat, her posture shifting from lethal to deceptively casual in a heartbeat. The transformation is... fascinating.

Antonio scrambles back, his hand flying to his neck, where angry red marks bloom across his skin. His face flushed, partly from lack of oxygen, partly from wounded pride. After all, he's just lost a fight to an injured five foot nothing woman in a spectacular fashion.

"What the actual fuck?" He wheezes, eyes darting between Kasia and me.

But I'm too focused on her to care about his bruised ego.

The way she holds herself now—weight perfectly distributed, hands loose at her sides—speaks volumes.

I can't believe I hadn't noticed it before.

The way she moves, the way she reacts to situations…

What just happened was not born from panic or survival instinct.

Her movements were honed, practiced, deadly.

A smile tugs at my lips as I catch the flash in her eyes. That split second before she masks it. Satisfaction. Pure, dark satisfaction at having dominated a threat.

Something tightens low in my gut, dark and deep, awakening in me something primal.

I thought my little Butterfly was running from monsters.

But she isn't just running. She's something else entirely.

Comfortable with violence. Perhaps even craving it, the same way I do.

The thought shouldn't excite me. But fuck, it does.

"I—I'm sorry." The words sound like a forced habit, like she knows she should say them but doesn't believe them.

But her eyes meet mine, steady. Measuring.

Are you sorry, Butterfly?

Or are you just wondering if I see you for what you really are?

My fingers itch to trace the tension in her shoulders, to unravel the mysteries written in her muscle memory. Who taught her to fight like that? What else is she hiding behind those blue eyes?

I lean back against the counter, crossing my arms. The smirk spreading across my face is impossible to contain. "Tell me, Antonio, how does it feel to have your ass handed to you by a girl?"

Antonio shoots me a dark look, rubbing his throat as he pulls himself to his full height. "She caught me off guard."

Bullshit. I watched every second of that encounter.

I almost feel bad for him but he had no chance.

The moment he stepped into her space, Kasia had already mapped his weak points.

Her attack wasn't some lucky strike. It was calculated precision.

The way she positioned herself, using his own momentum against him.

.. No, that wasn't a beginner's luck or desperate self-defence.

But I keep that observation to myself, letting my smirk deepen as Antonio straightens his jacket. There's something delicious about knowing something no one else in the room does, that the woman we all dismissed as a helpless victim is so much more.

My gaze drifts to Kasia. She stands there in those oversized clothes, looking deceptively fragile. But now I see the predator lurking beneath that vulnerable facade. The way her fingers still twitch, ready to strike. The slight shift in her stance that keeps her perfectly balanced.

Antonio sees a lost girl who got lucky. I see a weapon. One that's been carefully forged and honed and left unsheathed.

But I don't know who made her. And that's a bigger problem than Nicolosi nipping at my heels like an excited chihuahua.

The silence stretches, tight as a wire.

Alessa blinks, her mouth opening and closing like she wants to say something but can’t quite find the words. Her gaze flicks from Kasia to Antonio’s red-streaked throat, then back again.

The shopping bags Antonio dropped lie scattered across the marble floor, forgotten in the chaos. The paper rustles as Alessa bends down to gather them, her movements jerky, like her body is still catching up to what her brain just processed.

"What the hell was that?" she whispers, her voice barely more than breath.

She straightens, arms full of bags, and fixes Kasia with a wide-eyed stare. “He was just bringing the clothes I asked him to get for you.”

Kasia hesitates, her fingers twitching at her sides. The earlier steel in her stance is gone, replaced by something uncertain, almost exposed.

Her gaze drops, avoiding mine, and she reaches for the bags with careful, measured movements.

"Thanks," she mutters, voice small, like she’s embarrassed she even needs to say it.

Alessa still looks like she wants to say more, but Kasia grips the bags tighter, forcing a weak, uneasy smile.

"I—I should change into something that actually fits me," she adds, almost to herself. Then, before anyone can respond, she turns on her heel and bolts upstairs.

My eyes track her steps, something dark and hungry stirring in my chest. The smirk that's been playing on my lips fades as she disappears from view.

Kasia doesn’t just know how to fight—she’s been wired for it.

Her body reacts before her mind does, instincts firing before logic can catch up.

I’ve seen it before, in men trained for war, in those who had to become weapons before they understood what it meant to wield one.

The ones who don’t hesitate, because hesitation gets you killed.

The ones who don’t flinch, because flinching is weakness. In men like me.

She doesn't understand this yet. Grasping at who she thinks she is, who she thinks she's supposed to be.

That hesitation in her voice, the barely there blush on her cheeks, the way she turned and fled—not from me, not from Alessa, but from herself. It wasn’t fear. It was uncertainty. Something inside her is waking up, but she doesn’t trust it yet. Doesn’t trust herself.

And that’s what makes her so fucking enticing.

I exhale slowly, rolling my shoulders, my muscles still tense. My fingers tap against my leg, thoughts unraveling at an unhurried pace. She’s strong, but how much of that strength is conscious? How much is buried so deep it only surfaces when she’s cornered?

Was that a flicker of memory? Or just instinct responding to instinct?

And if I push her, if I test her, will she remember more?

The possibilities are endless, thick and tempting. There’s no reason I should be this interested, no reason I should care what she remembers or doesn’t. But I do.

I wait until Kasia's footsteps fade before turning to Alessa and Antonio. "You should go back to Dante's."

Alessa folds her arms across her chest, her chin lifting in that stubborn way, reminding me why she and my brother are perfect for each other. "You're kicking me out?"

My jaw flexes. I don't need witnesses for what comes next. Don't need their judgement or interference when I figure out exactly what makes my Butterfly tick. "I need to talk to her alone."

Alessa hesitates, her gaze drifting towards the stairs, uncertainty written across her features. She opens her mouth, closes it, then opens it again. But whatever protest she's considering dies on her lips as she catches my expression.

She knows the look. The one my brothers and I are known for. The one that says I won't be swayed on this.

A sigh escapes her as she nods, gathering her bag from the counter. "Fine. But call if—"

"I know."

Antonio doesn't need convincing. His hand still hovers near his throat, fingers tracing the marks Kasia left behind. His pride's taken a bigger hit than his windpipe, and he can't get out of here fast enough.

Watching them leave, I wait until the front door clicks shut before letting my shoulders drop. The house falls silent, save for the distant sound of movement upstairs.

Just me and my dangerous little Butterfly now.

Perfect.

I walk to the minibar beside the sofa, pouring three fingers of whiskey. The amber liquid catches the light, the crystal tumbler cool against my palm as I lean against the counter, staring at nothing in particular.

My pulse remains steady, controlled, but my mind keeps replaying her movements. The fluid grace of her attack. The way she anticipated Antonio's reactions before he made them. The perfect positioning of her hands around his throat.

I take a slow sip, letting the burn coat my tongue before I swallow. Christ, in that moment, she was beautiful. Not the fragile creature who'd been sleeping in my bed, but something else entirely. A predator wearing prey's clothing.

She was dangerous to me before. She's downright lethal now.

The memory of her fingers uncurling from Antonio's throat sends a shiver down my spine. Such precise control. Such... artistry. Like a dancer performing steps she'd practiced thousands of times.

I close my eyes, but all I see is the flash of satisfaction in her gaze before she masked it. That split second where her true nature peeked through. My fingers tighten around the glass.

I want to see it again. Want to watch her shed that vulnerable facade and show me what else she can do. Want to push her until all her carefully constructed walls come crashing down.

The whiskey burns as I drain the glass, but it does nothing to dull this new hunger growing inside me. This need to unravel her mysteries, to peel back her layers until I find the weapon beneath.

My little Butterfly isn't just beautiful when she fights.

She's fucking magnificent.

Movement catches my eye, a shadow against shadows. Kasia, all sleek in black leggings and an oversized sweater, slipping through the side door like a ghost.

Lips curling into a smile, I set my whiskey down. The crystal clinks against marble, loud in the sudden stillness of the house.

She thinks she's being clever. Thinks I haven't noticed how she's been watching, learning the layout, tracking the exits. Testing the waters while pretending to be lost and confused.

My pulse quickens, but not from anger. No—this is something darker. Sweeter.