Page 45 of Savage Saint (Empire of Secrets #2)

KASIA

T he bed feels too soft tonight, too luxurious for a woman with blood on her hands. I stare at the ceiling, counting the shadows cast by moonlight filtering through the blinds. Sleep won't come, not with the dam in my mind finally broken.

More memories surface with each passing minute. My mother's voice, sweet and melodic, singing Polish lullabies as she tucked me in at night.

"?pij kochanie, ?pij. Oczka zmru?..."

Sleep, my darling, sleep. Close your little eyes.

Then a man's face—not Jerzy's, but the man I saw once before.

Strong jaw, kind eyes, laugh lines at the corners.

The way he'd swing me onto his shoulders so I could reach the highest branches of the apple tree in our garden.

It can't be... but it is. The memories flood back with such intensity that I press my palms against my temples, as if I could physically contain the revelation tearing through me.

I see him and my mother dancing in the kitchen. His large hands on her waist, her head thrown back in laughter as he spins her around our tiny kitchen. The radio playing softly in the background. The smell of his cologne, woodsy and warm, mixing with the scent of my mother's apple cake in the oven.

The three of us huddled in bed during thunderstorms, him weaving elaborate stories about brave knights and clever princesses until I forgot to be afraid. The way he'd call me his "ma?a królewna" —his little princess—and kiss my forehead before tucking me in at night.

Tomasz. My father. My real father.

How could I forget him? How could these memories have been locked away for so long?

My chest constricts painfully as tears stream down my face.

I loved him so completely, with that pure, unquestioning love that only children can give.

And Jerzy, that monster, stole him from me, then stole me from my own memories, replacing everything with his poisonous lies.

I press my forehead against the cold bathroom tiles, letting out a sound that's half sob, half scream. All these years, I've been calling Jerzy "father." The betrayal cuts so deep I feel it in my bones, in my very marrow.

The smell of our home burning fills my nostrils suddenly, so vivid I bolt upright, gasping for clean air. The acrid stench of melting plastic, scorched wood, and something worse, something I didn't understand as a child but recognise now as burning flesh.

I rush to the toilet, barely making it before I'm sick. My body heaves until there's nothing left but bitter bile and shaking limbs. When I finally sit back against the cool tile wall, the truth hits me with such force I can't breathe.

Jerzy wasn't my father.

He was my uncle. My dad's brother.

The memory plays like a horror film I can't turn off. I was hiding in the cupboard under the stairs, where Dad had pushed me when the men came. "Don't make a sound," he'd whispered, his eyes wide with fear. "Whatever happens, stay hidden."

Through the slats in the door, I watched as Jerzy walked in, unsteady on his feet, with two men trailing behind him. My father stood in front of my mother, trying to shield her.

"Take whatever you want," my father pleaded. "Just leave us alone."

Jerzy laughed, the sound chilling even then.

"What I want is what you took from me." His eyes fixed on my mother, and even at four years old, I understood the hunger in his gaze.

"She was supposed to be mine, brother," Jerzy said, his voice so casual he might have been stopping by for Sunday dinner. "It's time we settled this."

"She chose me," my father said simply.

Jerzy's face twisted with rage. "And that was her mistake."

The gunshot was deafening in our small living room. My father crumpled to the floor. My mother screamed, lunging toward him, but Jerzy caught her by the hair.

"You could have had everything with me," he hissed. "Instead, you chose him and his pathetic little life."

"I would choose him a thousand times over," my mother spat, defiant even with tears streaming down her face. Her voice didn't waver, even as Jerzy's fingers tightened in her hair, even as her husband's blood seeped across our worn floorboards.

I must have made a sound then, a whimper, a cry, something primal and terrified, because Jerzy's head snapped toward the cupboard where I was hiding. His pale blue eyes, so like my own, narrowed as he yanked the door open and found me curled into a ball, trembling like a trapped animal.

"Ah, the little one," he said, his voice softening to something almost gentle, though the malice underneath sent shivers down my spine. "Come here, kochanie . Uncle Jerzy will take care of you now." The endearment felt like poison on his lips, a mockery of affection that made my stomach churn.

When I didn't move, frozen in terror, he reached in with hands that reeked of whiskey and gunpowder and dragged me out by my arm.

I kicked and screamed, my small legs flailing uselessly against his bulk as I called for my mother.

The two men held her on her knees, her nightgown stained with my father's blood, her face a mask of desperate anguish.

Her tears were streaming down her face as she begged Jerzy for mercy, not for herself, but for me. "Please, not my daughter. Take me, kill me, but spare her. She's innocent," she pleaded, her voice breaking.

Jerzy's grip tightened painfully on my jaw, forcing my head to turn toward my mother. His other hand raised the gun, pressing the cold metal against her forehead. "Watch closely, little one," he whispered in my ear, his breath hot and sour. "This is what happens to women who make the wrong choice."

I struggled wildly, but he held me firmly as he pointed the gun at her. He made me watch as he pulled the trigger and shot her. The sound was deafening, and something warm and wet spattered across my face.

"This is what whores deserve," he said, spitting in the place where her body fell on the floor, blood pooling beneath her, mingling with my father's.

Jerzy's eyes were empty, devoid of remorse as he surveyed the scene, my father lying motionless beside her, my mother's fingers just inches from touching his.

The stench of alcohol wafted over my face as Jerzy lifted me, tucking me against his chest like a perverse parody of comfort. I kicked and struggled, my small fists pounding against him, even as I saw them lying still on the floor, blood beneath them both, their eyes open and unseeing.

The second gunshot still echoed through the house, a sound that would haunt my nightmares.

"Burn it," Jerzy ordered his men, his voice cold and methodical. "Burn it all. Nothing remains of this life."

He carried me outside, his grip painfully tight as I struggled. I watched over his shoulder as flames engulfed the only home I'd ever known, taking with it any evidence of the life I'd had before.

"You're mine now," Jerzy whispered against my hair. "And I'm going to make you into something magnificent."

I heave again, but there's nothing left to throw up. The cold tile against my forehead does nothing to cool the burning rage building inside me. Jerzy killed them. Executed them in front of me. Took me. Shaped me into his weapon. His prized possession.

All because my mother chose my father over him.

The training started almost immediately. Endless hours of combat drills, language lessons, and weapons training. Punishment for any show of weakness, for tears, for hesitation, for asking about my parents.

How young was I when I made my first kill? Seven? Nine? The memory comes in fragments: a man tied to a chair, Jerzy's hand on my shoulder, a knife that felt too big in my small hand.

"Prove you're worthy of the name Kowalczyk," Jerzy had said. "Prove you're mine."

The man had begged. I had cried. Jerzy had slapped me hard enough to split my lip.

"Tears are weakness. Mercy is failure. Do it now or I'll make you watch while I do much worse."

I'd done it. Quick, clean, just as I'd been taught. Jerzy had looked at me with that expression he always wore, half disgust, half fascination, before nodding once.

"Good girl."

I wasn't a good girl. I was a child. A traumatised, brainwashed child who just wanted the pain to stop.

The few times I'd asked about my mother, he'd beaten me until I begged him to stop.

"She was a whore," he'd spit. "She was nothing. That's all you need to know."

And I'd believed him. Or at least, I'd learned to stop asking. I'd repressed all of it. The memory of my parents, of their love, of who I was before Jerzy remade me into the Red Widow.

I crawl back to bed, my legs barely supporting me. The mission briefing about the Santoros plays in my mind now, crystal clear. Jerzy's voice, cold and precise: "Infiltrate. Gain trust. Destroy from within."

The plan had been meticulously crafted. I was to be "found" in a shipping container, beaten and branded to appear as one of Nicolosi's victims. The Santoro brothers, known for their hatred of sex traffickers, would take me in.

I'd play the vulnerable victim, while gathering intelligence on their operations, their weaknesses, their secrets.

Then, when the moment was right, I'd destroy them all.

"The youngest one first," Jerzy had instructed. "Then the heir. Save Angelo for last. Make him watch as everything he loves burns. As he fails to protect them all."

I was supposed to be their destruction.

Instead, I've developed feelings for Angelo.

The realisation hits like a physical blow, leaving me gasping in the darkness. I care for him. Not just his body, not just the safety he provides, but him . His quiet strength. His unwavering loyalty. The way he looks at me like I'm something precious despite knowing I'm broken.

I have feelings for a man I was sent to destroy.

I press my hands against my mouth to stifle the sob that tears from my throat. I can't stay. I'll destroy everything, everyone. It's what I was made for. It's what I do.

The decision crystallises in my mind with painful clarity. I have to leave. Now. Before Angelo returns. Before I have to look into his eyes and lie again. Before Jerzy activates whatever contingency plan he surely has in place.

My hands shake as I pack a bag, muscle memory taking over. I raid Angelo's weapons cache first, selecting a Glock and a tactical knife. Next, his safe for cash. The combination easy for someone with my training to crack. Then clean clothes, essentials only. Just like every other mission.

But this isn't a mission. This is running. From my feelings, from the truth of what I am. From Angelo.

No, not from Angelo. For Angelo.

I can't be the instrument of his destruction. I won't be. The only way to protect him, to protect all of them, is to remove myself from the equation.

And then? Then I find Jerzy. I make him pay for what he did. To my family, to me, to all the others he's broken and used over the years.

I pause at Angelo's desk, pulling out a sheet of paper. My pen hovers over it as I try to find the words to explain. To apologise. To say goodbye.

Angelo,

By the time you read this, I'll be gone. I'm not who you think I am. I'm not even who I thought I was.

I was sent to destroy you. Instead, I found myself falling—

I crumple the note in my fist. No explanations. Better to let Angelo hate me than know the truth. Better for him to think I've run away than to know I was sent to kill him. At least that way, he might not come looking for me. He might be safe.

I zip the bag shut and sling it over my shoulder, taking one last look around the room that has been my sanctuary these past weeks.

My eyes land on the bed where Angelo held me through nightmares, where he taught me to trust again, where I began to feel human after years of being nothing but a weapon.

Footsteps up the stairs freeze me in place. Heavy, deliberate footsteps that I'd recognise anywhere. My heart pounds as I turn toward the stairs.

Angelo fills the stairway, his broad shoulders blocking any exit. His eyes take in the scene in an instant, the packed bag, the weapons, me poised for flight. His expression hardens, dark eyes glittering dangerously in the dim light.

"Where are you going?" His voice is low, controlled, but with an undercurrent that raises the hair on the back of my neck.

I could lie. I could say I'm scared, that I need space, that I'm overwhelmed. I could spin a story he might believe long enough for me to slip away. The Red Widow would do exactly that. Manipulate, deceive, escape.

But as I look into Angelo's eyes, I find I can't. Not anymore. Not with him.

"To kill my father," I say, the truth spilling out as soon as our eyes lock.