Page 21 of Savage Saint (Empire of Secrets #2)

KASIA

" W olniej. Precyzja jest wszystkim." Slower. Precision is everything.

The voice slides through my memory like a blade between ribs. Not cruel, not kind, just expectant. His face isn't blurry anymore, though I can't focus on details. But I know him. I know every contour of that face. Someone I'd tear myself apart to please.

"You are nothing without purpose, Kasia." His accent heavy as he crouches before me, his cologne mingling with the metallic scent of blood. "The weapon has no desires, no needs beyond its function."

I nod, understanding and not understanding all at once. How can a child comprehend being nothing?

"Again, maleńka. Again."

I taste copper on my tongue where I've bitten the inside of my cheek.

My small fingers are sticky, wet with something I know is blood, but can't remember whose.

How old am I, seven years old? Eight? The cold concrete floor bites into my knees as I arrange limbs with precision, though whose limbs I can't recall.

A training dummy? A person? The memory fractures, images flashing chaotically.

I remember reaching for him once, arms lifted for an embrace after I'd done well. His reaction burns brighter than any other memory.

"Affection is weakness, maleńka." He steps back, leaving my arms empty. "I am not raising you to be weak."

His ice-blue eyes—my eyes—watch with clinical detachment as I lower my hands. When his heavy palm finally lands on my shoulder, the approval I've earned leaves me colder than the floor beneath my knees. Still, some broken part of me leans into his touch, starved for acknowledgement.

"Tata," I hear myself say. The word feels hollow in my mouth, rehearsed rather than natural.

The slap comes fast. A crack of lightning across my cheek that sends me sprawling onto the cold floor.

"Weak. So fucking weak," he spits, looming over me like a storm cloud.

I blink back tears, knowing they'll only make it worse. "I'm sorry, Jerzy," I whisper, the name foreign on my childish tongue. I can't be more than seven.

After each session, he makes me recite my purpose. It's a ritual more sacred to him than any prayer.

"What are you?" His voice carries no warmth, only expectation.

"A weapon," I respond mechanically.

"And what does a weapon do?"

"It serves its purpose."

"And what is your purpose?"

"Whatever you command."

Pride swells in my chest when he nods, even as disgust curdles in my stomach. I hate that I crave his approval, despise how my self-loathing tangles with reverence. My voice becomes less childlike and more grown up, but the purpose remains the same.

Sometimes, as he speaks, his face shifts, becoming someone else before snapping back to Jerzy. A glitch in my memory, perhaps, or something more.

The lesson hammers against my instincts: connection is weakness, emotion is failure, obedience is survival. These are the contradictions I'm still fighting, the conditioning that sits like poison in my veins.

I gasp, reality crashing back into me like a freight train. The dark bedroom materialises around me, replacing cold concrete with warm sheets. My heart hammers against my ribs so violently I'm surprised it doesn't wake Angelo up.

Copper floods my mouth. Fuck, I've bitten my lip hard enough to draw blood. I swipe my tongue over the small wound, trying to ground myself in this physical pain rather than the phantom aches of memory.

Angelo's arms are wrapped around me, his body curled protectively against mine. What felt like safety now feels like a trap, a cage I need to escape. I shift slightly, testing his grip.

" Breathe, " I command myself silently. " Just breath e."

One, two, three, four on the inhale. Hold. One, two, three, four, five, six on the exhale. The technique keeps me from spiralling, even as my mind reels.

Jerzy. My father. The man whose approval I'd killed for—perhaps literally. Shame burns hot in my chest, twisting with a fear so primal it makes me nauseous. How fucked up am I that some damaged part of me still yearns for the cold satisfaction in those icy eyes when I performed well?

Bile rises in my throat at what my hands might have done under his instruction. Were those training dummies in my memories? Or something worse? Something I've buried beneath layers of survival instinct and denial?

My fingernails dig into my palms, the crescents of pain another anchor to the present. My throat constricts, trapping a scream I can't afford to release.

I feel a shift in Angelo's breathing before I open my eyes.

When I do, I find him watching me, his gaze unnervingly focused for someone who just woke.

Those warm chocolate eyes—so different from Jerzy's frosty ones—study me with the same predatory assessment I recognise from my memories. Different eyes, same calculation.

"Bad dream?" His voice is rough with sleep, but his mind is clearly sharp.

I swallow hard, tasting blood again. "Just fragments," I manage, the lie bitter on my tongue.

His lips twitch slightly. "Fragments can cut deeper than the whole."

Before I can respond, his fingers brush against my cheek, catching a tear I didn't realise had fallen. The touch is gentle, almost tender, but I don't miss how his eyes track my involuntary flinch, how they narrow slightly at the way my breathing hitches.

He doesn't press me for details. Doesn't need to. His silence is its own form of interrogation, patient, relentless observation that pulls information from me without a single question.

We lie there, a show of false intimacy, as he catalogues every micro expression that crosses my face, storing away my vulnerabilities for future reference.

I watch Angelo's chest rise and fall steadily as he drifts back to sleep, his arms still a protective cage around me.

The warmth of his body should be comforting, but all I can think about is cold concrete and clinical eyes.

Every time I close my eyes, fragments of memory flash behind my eyelids like a broken reel.

Maybe amnesia wasn't such a curse after all. This glass bubble I've built with Angelo, as dangerous as it might be, feels safer than my past. At least here, in his arms, I know who I am. Or who I'm pretending to be.

When morning finally creeps in through the windows, I slip from Angelo's embrace and go through my routine on autopilot. Shower. Dress. Brush teeth. Each action mechanical, distant, like I'm watching someone else perform them.

The kitchen is quiet except for the soft sounds of Angelo preparing coffee.

His movements are precise, controlled. A morning ritual performed with military precision.

A rich coffee aroma fills the air, mingling with the scent of butter sizzling in a pan.

Morning light streams through the windows, turning dust motes into floating specks of gold.

I feel his eyes on me, though he appears focused on his task. It's like a physical touch, that gaze, assessing and collecting data. When he hands me my coffee, our fingers brush. The contact feels deliberate, sending an electric current up my arm that has nothing to do with the heat of the mug.

"Sleep well?" His tone is casual, but his eyes are intense, searching.

Shame and fear war in my chest. Shame for hiding, fear of judgment. "Fine," I lie, the word hollow even to my own ears.

His mouth twitches slightly, acknowledging the game we're playing. He takes a slow sip of his coffee before speaking again. "You talk in your sleep," he mentions casually. "Polish sounds beautiful, even in nightmares."

I freeze, then force myself to relax, though I know he's caught the reaction. "I don't remember," I lie again.

"Butterfly," he chides, his voice like velvet, and I know he has my number. He's going to ask me about last night. About my nightmare, or rather my flashback.

I take a deep breath, preparing myself for his interrogation, when Angelo's phone rings. Once. Twice. Three times.

Annoyed, he looks over to where it lies on the counter and sighs, picking it up and sliding his finger across the screen to answer.

"Dante," he says. Followed by a silence as he listens to the man on the other side.

"There were two bodies?" His brow furrows in confusion as his eyes snap to me. I bite my lip. I completely forgot about the man displayed on the side of the road.

"Hold on," Angelo says, before lifting the phone away from his ear and tapping the screen. He watches me as he slides the device, screen up, between us. "Tell me again?"

Dante clears his throat through the speaker and I fight my jaw from falling to the floor from the utter shock. He put the call on speaker so that I could hear the conversation.

I straighten in my chair, muscles tensing as my brain shifts into high alert. The casual morning atmosphere evaporates, replaced by something sharper, more dangerous. My fingers tighten around my coffee mug, using it to hide the slight tremor in my hands.

Why would he trust me like this?

The question burns through my mind as I meet Angelo's steady gaze.

His expression gives nothing away, but there's a calculating edge to his attention that makes my skin prickle.

This isn't just trust, it's a test. Everything with Angelo is a test. I force myself to appear calm, collected.

But inside, my mind races with possibilities.

Is this a trap? A way to gauge my reaction?

Or perhaps, more dangerously, a genuine gesture of inclusion?

"Like I said," Dante sounds annoyed. "Both bodies are being taken care of. One of them was Aldo, our runner, who disappeared a couple of days ago. The other, one of Nico's men."

"Are you sure?"

"Dental records, Angelo. We needed fucking dental records to identify him after what happened to his face. So yes, I'm pretty sure."

"This changes things. Nico's never come this close to our backyard."

"He's getting bolder."

"Or more desperate," Angelo counters.

I stare at the phone between us, my mind racing to connect pieces. Limbs arranged with precision. Bodies displayed like warnings, or art. The memory of my childhood training claws at my throat, begging to be voiced.

Wolniej. Precyzja jest wszystkim.

I know exactly what this is. A message. A declaration. Nico isn't just making a move, he's starting a fucking war. The arrangement of those bodies wasn't random. It was...

I catch myself before the words escape my lips. Trust is a luxury I can't afford yet, not even with Angelo's chocolate eyes watching me like I'm a puzzle he's determined to solve. Knowledge is power, and right now, I need every scrap I can keep.

"Either way, we need to talk," Dante continues through the speaker. "Alessa wants you both to come for dinner."

Angelo's jaw tightens visibly, the muscle jumping under his skin. "Now's not a good time," he responds, his voice dropping to that dangerous baritone that means his patience is wearing thin.

"It's not a request, brother." Dante's tone leaves no room for argument. The unspoken hierarchy vibrates between them, even through the phone.

Angelo's fingers tighten around the edge of the counter until his scabbed knuckles turn white. I watch in fascination as veins stand out on his forearms, mapping the path of his barely controlled tension. His other hand moves instinctively toward me, seeking an anchor I never expected to provide.

I have a split second to decide. Pull away and maintain the distance we've so carefully constructed, or let him in. Just a fraction. Just this once.

I stay still, letting his palm find the small of my back and fuck me, it feels good. Steady. Like, he's not the only one being grounded in this moment.

"Fine," he says curtly into the phone, the single word carrying the weight of his displeasure.

His hand burns through the thin fabric of my shirt, five points of heat branding my skin. It's not a gentle touch. It's possessive, territorial. A statement to Dante, even though he can't see it. To me. To himself, perhaps.

I feel my pulse quicken traitorously. Angelo's eyes never leave my face, and when our gazes lock, I make a conscious choice not to look away. Instead, I meet his stare steadily, refusing to back down from whatever challenge he's silently issuing.

Something shifts in his eyes—approval, perhaps, or satisfaction—before it quickly disappears behind his usual mask.

We stand frozen until Dante clears his throat through the speaker. "Tonight. Eight o'clock. And, Angelo? Don't be fucking late."

The call ends, but Angelo doesn't move his hand from my back.

The realisation hits me like a freight train: he put that call on speaker deliberately.

Brought me into a conversation about bodies and territory, and family matters.

This isn't just breakfast anymore. It's an invitation into something darker, something I'm not sure I'm prepared to face.

I don't want to examine what that means.

Don't want to acknowledge the significance of being granted this small sliver of trust from a man who trusts no one.

It's easier to focus on the pressure of his hand, the coffee growing cold on the counter, the sunlight painting patterns across the kitchen floor.

Anything but the growing certainty that I'm being pulled deeper into a world I once knew all too well.