Page 41 of Savage Saint (Empire of Secrets #2)

I follow her out, making a show of looking tired and defeated. But inside, my blood is singing with purpose. Angelo thinks he can sideline me, keep me safe and tucked away while he faces danger. He's about to learn that's not how this works.

I wait for an hour after Alessa leaves me. Just long enough for the house to settle into its evening rhythm. Then I slip out of the bedroom, avoiding the creaky floorboard I noticed earlier.

The corridor is empty, just as I expected. I hug the wall, keeping to the shadows, counting in my head. One, two, three... Camera four will pan left in five seconds, giving me my window.

I move on instinct, muscle memory taking over as I navigate the blind spots between cameras. Duck, slide, pause. Wait for the guard's footsteps to fade. Move again.

The service door is exactly where I calculated it would be. I pull a hairpin from my updo, bending it into the right shape without even looking. The lock gives way with a satisfying click, and I'm through, closing it silently behind me.

The night air is cool on my skin as I cross the garden, timing my movements to Marco's patrol pattern. Three minutes to the garage. Two minutes to hot-wire the car. One minute to the gate, which will open automatically for any vehicle leaving the property, a security flaw I'd noted immediately.

The garage side door is locked too, but it's the same mechanism as the service door. Child's play. Inside, the cars gleam under soft overhead lights. I head straight for the Maserati, sliding into the driver's seat.

No keys, of course. But I don't need them. I reach under the steering column, feeling for the wires I need. Red to red, strip the blue, touch it to the starter...

The engine purrs to life, a low, powerful rumble that sends a thrill up my spine.

"Really? His favourite Maserati?"

I nearly jump out of my skin, my hand automatically reaching for a weapon I don't have. Alessa's voice came from the backseat, where she's now sitting up, dangling a set of keys between her fingers.

"Also, I have the keys," she says with a smirk. "All you had to do was ask." She leans forward, her expression turning excited. "So, where are we going?"

The Maserati purrs under my hands as I guide it through the fog-shrouded streets of Blackriver. The headlights barely cut through the thick mist, turning everything beyond their reach into ghostly shapes and shadows.

"Left here," Alessa says, her face illuminated by the blue glow of her phone screen. "Then straight for about a mile."

I take the turn sharply, tyres squealing against wet asphalt. The town's underbelly looks different at night. Darker, dirtier, more dangerous. Neon signs blur into watercolour smudges through the fog, casting eerie red and blue glows that dance across the dashboard.

"Are you sure this is the right way?" I ask, slowing at a junction where three equally uninviting roads meet.

"No," Alessa admits, tapping furiously at her phone. "Google Maps keeps recalculating. But Eclipse should be just past the old warehouse district."

Great. We're lost in the middle of Nico's territory, in a car that screams 'Santoro money.' This night just keeps getting better.

"There!" Alessa points suddenly. "That's the club. The one with the blue sign."

I spot it, a nondescript building with blacked-out windows and a small neon sign shaped like a crescent moon. Nothing flashy, nothing that screams 'high-end strip club.' Perfect for keeping a low profile while trafficking women.

I drive past it, looking for somewhere to park that won't leave us exposed.

"What are you doing?" Alessa asks. "The club's back there."

"I'm not parking right in front. Might as well put a sign on the car saying 'please shoot us'.'"

She nods, understanding washing over her face. "Right. Sorry."

I find a spot between two delivery vans in an alley about a block away. The back entrance to the club should be nearby, if my instincts are right. And lately, my instincts have been screaming at me with increasing clarity.

My grip tightens on the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white. We're so close. The girls are in there. The answers are in there. And Nico might be too.

"This is it," I say, killing the engine. "You're staying here."

"I know." Alessa's voice is small but determined. "Dante would kill me if I put myself anywhere near Nico again so soon. Plus, someone needs to be ready for a quick getaway."

I turn to look at her, surprised by her practicality. "You've done this before?"

"Not exactly." She tries to smile, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "Be careful in there. I'll tell you all about what happened when you come back."

When , not if . I appreciate her confidence.

"If I'm not back in twenty minutes—"

"I'll call Angelo," she finishes for me. "But you'll be back."

I nod, checking the small pistol I found in the glove compartment, tucked into my waistband. "Twenty minutes."

The service entrance is exactly where it should be. A nondescript metal door beside a stack of empty beer kegs. The lock is simple, nothing my hairpin can't handle. Five seconds later, I'm inside.

The narrow corridor smells of stale beer and cheap perfume. Dim red emergency lights cast long shadows on the peeling wallpaper. I move silently, hugging the wall, letting muscle memory guide me.

Wait. Muscle memory?

I pause, a chill running down my spine. I've been here before. I know this place. The corridor bends to the right, leading to the storage closet three doors down, and the service lift at the end leads directly to the VIP area.

How do I know this?

A flash—sharp and sudden—bursts behind my eyes. A hard piece of wood between my teeth. The sizzle of hot metal. Searing pain as someone presses an iron to my hip. The smell of burning flesh. My flesh. I don't scream. I don't move. I just lie there, taking it.

I blink, and I'm back in the corridor, sweat beading on my forehead. The brand. It wasn't random torture. It was... planned. Expected.

I shake it off and keep moving. There's a room on the right, just past the bend. That's where…

Another flash. Lying on my side on a leather couch. A man with tattoo-covered arms working a needle under my breast. The sting barely registers. I watch with disinterested eyes as he etches the outline of a cat onto my skin. A Blackriver Kitten. My cover. My way in.

Jesus Christ.

I wasn't a victim. I was—undercover? Infiltrating?

The sound of voices pulls me back to reality. Female voices, speaking in hushed tones. Eastern European accents. Polish, maybe. Or Ukrainian.

I slip past the room where I got my tattoo and follow the voices to what must be the dancers' dressing room.

The door is slightly ajar, and through the crack, I can see five young women.

They're beautiful in a hollow, haunted way that comes from knowing too much horror.

They huddle together, whispering urgently, fear carved into every line of their faces.

I push the door open. "Are you guys okay?"

They freeze, wide-eyed, like deer caught in headlights.

"I can get you out," I continue in Polish, the language flowing naturally from my lips. "No one will hurt you again."

One of the girls, blonde, with a scar cutting through her left eyebrow, stares at me, recognition dawning on her face.

"Czerwona Wdowa!" she whispers, the name a prayer on her lips. Red Widow. "Did you come to kill us?"