Page 44 of Savage Saint (Empire of Secrets #2)

KASIA

A ngelo paces around his living room like a caged animal. There's shattered glass on the hardwood floor, the shards of it crunching beneath his boots as blood slowly drips from his palm. It's my fault. All my fault.

I keep my distance, my knuckles pale around the back of the sofa.

He hasn't spoken a word to me since he came back to Dante's. Not when he looked at me and Alessa, not when he motioned to his car. Not when Alessa hugged me goodbye, whispering that everything would be okay. Not during the tense drive back to his house.

It won't be okay. Nothing will ever be okay again.

The memory of Eclipse haunts me. The girls' terrified faces when they recognised me, the way they whispered my name like a curse.

Czerwona Wdowa . I put Alessa in danger.

Sweet, innocent Alessa, who has shown me nothing but kindness.

I dragged her into my nightmare, and for what?

To confirm what I already knew deep down?

I close my eyes, but that only makes the memories stronger.

The drive back from the club was when it all slotted into place.

Every missing piece of my identity returning in brutal flashes.

My throat had closed up as I told Alessa everything, how I was sent to infiltrate, to destroy the Santoro family from within.

How I was never a victim, but the weapon.

It's only a matter of time before she tells Dante and then… He'll have me killed.

Maybe it's for the better. I've taken enough lives. It's time somebody put a stop to it. To me.

More memories flood back as I watch Angelo.

Missions, targets, perfect kills. The name echoes in my head: Czerwona Wdowa.

Red Widow. My name. My legacy. I remember the weight of guns in my hands, the exact pressure needed on a garrotte wire, the dozens of ways to kill a man without leaving evidence. I remember being proud of these skills.

Angelo stops pacing suddenly, his back to me as he stares out the window. His shoulders rise and fall with each deep breath. I can see the effort it takes for him to stay in control.

Then I remember Angelo's face. The sheer disappointment. The sadness.

The silence in the car had been deafening.

No accusations, no questions, just silence so thick I could barely breathe through it.

And now this. The crystal glass shattered in his hand when he tried to keep himself composed after we arrived home.

The blood dripping onto his expensive floor.

The storm brewing inside him that I can feel from across the room.

"I'm sorry about putting Alessa in danger," I start, my voice smaller than I intend. "I shouldn't have—"

Angelo cuts me off with a raised hand. "You promised to stay put. You gave me your word." His voice is deadly quiet.

The silence that follows weighs more than any shouted accusation could. I watch as he paces, blood still dripping from his clenched fist onto the hardwood floor. Each drop feels like an accusation. Each crunch of glass beneath his boots is a reminder of the trust I've shattered.

The assassin in me calculates exits, weapons, angles of attack with practised precision.

Two steps to the kitchen knife block, where three blades would be sufficient for what I'd need.

Four seconds to the front door, accounting for the slight resistance in the handle.

The heavy crystal lamp on my right could become an easy weapon if needed.

My body tenses instinctively, muscles coiling in preparation as my eyes catalogue each potential escape route and defensive position in the room.

I force those thoughts down, horrified at how easily they surface. This is Angelo. Not a threat. Not a target. Not one of the countless faceless men I've been trained to eliminate without hesitation or remorse.

The woman in me, the one who has begun to care for him, moves almost unbidden.

I reach for the first aid kit from the kitchen counter, my fingers trembling slightly as I cross the distance between us.

The small box feels impossibly heavy in my hands as I approach him cautiously, like one might a wounded predator.

"Let me see," I murmur, gently taking his bloodied hand in mine.

His skin is warm despite everything, and I can feel the tension radiating through his entire frame as I carefully begin to clean away the blood, picking out tiny fragments of crystal with steady fingers.

The silence stretches between us, thick and oppressive, broken only by his controlled breathing and the soft sound of gauze against skin.

Just as I'm almost done wrapping his wound, another memory hits.

Jerzy's voice: "Trust is a weapon, little wolf.

Use it wisely." I feel sick, remembering how many times I've done exactly that.

How many people looked at me with the same trust Angelo did, right before I used it against them?

The businessman in Lisbon who offered me a drink.

The politician in Madrid who invited me into his home.

The diplomat from Budapest who believed I was just a pretty face at the embassy party until I slid a wire around his throat.

I shake my head, clearing the images away.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, the words feeling inadequate as they leave my lips.

My eyes remain fixed on his wounded hand, unable to meet his gaze.

"I'm so sorry, but I couldn't just leave them there," I argue, even as guilt churns in my stomach.

Not just for endangering Alessa, but for every lie I'm still telling.

"Those girls... they're trapped. They're being used and abused and—"

"You put everyone at risk," Angelo growls, stalking closer. "Including yourself." His proximity makes my heart race with fear or desire, I'm not sure anymore. His eyes bore into mine, searching for something. The truth, maybe. The truth I'm too afraid to give him.

He's close enough now that I can smell his cologne mixing with the metallic scent of blood. Close enough that I could kill him in six different ways before he even realised what was happening. The thought makes me want to vomit.

The truth burns in my throat. About who I am, what I was sent here to do. But the words stick. I can't lose him. Not yet. Not now that I'm starting to remember who I really am. Not when I'm finally feeling something beyond the cold emptiness Jerzy cultivated in me for years.

"I know I broke your trust," I whisper, tears threatening.

"But I had to try to help them." It's not a lie, just not the whole truth.

I did want to help those girls. I just didn't expect to find proof of my past there, to have my worst fears confirmed by their terrified faces when they recognised me.

Thunder crashes outside as Angelo stares at me, his expression unreadable. I've never felt more torn between past and present, between duty and desire, between the weapon I was and the woman I want to be.

His eyes never leave mine as lightning illuminates the room, casting harsh shadows across his face.

For a moment, he looks like an avenging angel, beautiful and terrible.

What would he look like if he knew the truth?

That I was sent here to destroy everything he loves?

That I was never a victim, but the weapon itself?

The storm outside mirrors the one raging inside me.

In the spaces between thunder, I can hear my heartbeat pounding in my ears.

The Red Widow wouldn't be afraid. The Red Widow would have a plan, an escape route, a weapon hidden away.

But I'm not just her anymore. I'm something else.

Something more. Something terrifyingly human.

"Do you have any idea what could have happened to you?" Angelo finally speaks, his voice rough with emotion. "What Nicolosi would do if he got his hands on you again?"

I almost laugh at the irony. Nicolosi was never my captor. He was my employer. My co-conspirator. The man who helped Jerzy plant me in the Santoro family like a time bomb waiting to explode.

"I can take care of myself," I say, the words sounding hollow even to my own ears.

"Clearly." The sarcasm in his voice is cutting. "That's why you dragged my future sister-in-law into a death trap."

Shame burns through me. Alessa. Sweet, kind Alessa, who still believes I'm worth saving. Who looked at me with bloodstained hands and chose to see something more than a killer.

"I didn't mean for her to come," I say weakly. "She insisted."

"And you couldn't say no? You couldn't think for one fucking second about the consequences?" His voice rises, the control he's been maintaining slipping. "Do you have any idea what Dante would do if something happened to her? What I would do to anyone who hurt her?"

The question hangs between us, loaded with implications. What would he do to me if he knew the truth? If he knew I was sent here to hurt not just Alessa, but all of them?

"I'm sorry," I repeat, the words feeling inadequate. "I really am."

Angelo runs a hand through his hair, leaving a smear of blood across his forehead. He looks exhausted suddenly, the anger giving way to something more complex. Disappointment? Concern? I can't read him.

"Sorry doesn't fix this, Kasia." He turns away, moving to the sink to finally rinse the blood from his hand. "Sorry doesn't erase the fact that you put yourself in danger. That you put Alessa in danger. That you went behind my back after promising—" He cuts himself off, shaking his head.

I watch as he meticulously cleans the blood away, his movements precise despite the obvious pain. Even in this, he's controlled. Methodical. So different from the chaotic storm of emotions inside me.

"What if I'd lost you?" he asks suddenly, his back still to me. The question is so quiet I almost miss it.

The words hit me like a physical blow. What is he saying? That he cares? That I matter to him beyond the physical attraction between us? The possibility terrifies me more than his anger ever could.

"You'd be better off," I whisper, the truth slipping out before I can stop it.

Angelo turns, his eyes finding mine across the room. There's something dangerous in his gaze now, something predatory and possessive that makes my breath catch.

"That's not for you to decide," he says, each word deliberate and weighted. He crosses the room in three long strides, stopping just inches from me. "You don't get to decide what I need, what I want."

His hand comes up to cup my face, his thumb brushing across my cheekbone. The gentleness of the touch contrasts sharply with the intensity in his eyes. I should pull away. I should run. I should tell him everything and let him decide if I'm worth saving or if I deserve a bullet between the eyes.

Instead, I lean into his touch, my eyes fluttering closed. "Angelo..."

"Look at me," he commands, and my eyes snap open. "I know you're hiding something from me. I know there's more to your story than you're telling me."

My heart stops. Does he know? Is this a test?

"What do you mean?" I manage to ask, my voice steadier than I feel.

"I mean that I'm not a fool, Butterfly." His nickname for me feels like a knife to the heart. "I know when someone is keeping secrets. And I know you're keeping a big one."

I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry. This is it. The moment of truth. Tell him everything and risk losing him forever, or keep lying and risk him finding out from someone else.

"Angelo, I—"

His phone rings, cutting me off. He curses under his breath but doesn't move to answer it. His eyes stay locked on mine, searching, demanding.

"Answer it," I whisper. "It could be important."

For a moment, I think he'll ignore me. Then he steps back, pulling the phone from his pocket. His expression darkens as he sees the caller ID.

"What?" he barks into the phone. His face goes completely still as he listens, a mask slipping into place. "I'll be right there."

He hangs up and shoves the phone back into his pocket.

"We're not done with this conversation," he says, his voice leaving no room for argument.

"But I have to go. Stay here. And this time, I mean it.

When I get back, we're going to have a conversation.

A real one. No more half-truths. No more secrets.

" His eyes bore into mine. "I want to know everything, Butterfly. Everything."

And then he's gone, the door closing behind him with a finality that makes my heart sink. I stand in the middle of his living room, surrounded by broken glass and blood droplets, feeling more lost than I did when I woke up in that hospital with no memories at all.

Everything, he said. He wants to know everything.

But how do I tell him that I was sent to destroy him? That the woman he's been protecting, the woman he's been sleeping with, the woman he's been teaching to trust again, was never meant to be saved in the first place?

How do I tell Angelo Santoro that I am the Red Widow, and that his death was supposed to be my masterpiece?