Page 64 of Savage Saint (Empire of Secrets #2)

KASIA

I wake to an empty bed and the sound of coffee brewing downstairs.

Angelo's side of the bed is already cool to the touch, which means he's been up for a while.

It's not unusual. He's an early riser when his mind is working through something, and lately there's been plenty to work through.

But this morning feels different. The air itself seems charged with possibility, like the moment before lightning strikes.

I stretch languidly beneath the Egyptian cotton sheets, feeling muscles that are finally free of the constant tension I used to carry. When did that happen? When did I stop sleeping like a weapon ready to be deployed and start sleeping like a woman who knows she's safe?

The pre-dawn light filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting everything in soft greys and golds. I should get up, find Angelo, start the day. But for just a moment, I want to savour this feeling of belonging somewhere, of waking up in a place that feels like home.

Eventually, the smell of fresh coffee and something that might be pancakes draws me from the warm cocoon of blankets. I slip from beneath the covers and pad over to the bathroom, my bare feet silent on the cool marble. The motion-sensor light flickers on, and I freeze.

There, in the mirror, is a woman I almost don't recognise.

The last time I looked at myself—really looked—was in those first days after the accident.

I remember standing in this same spot, staring at a hollow-eyed stranger who looked back at me with nothing but questions.

No memories, no identity, no sense of self beyond the bone-deep knowledge that I was dangerous.

That woman had been all sharp edges and barely contained violence, a puzzle missing so many pieces that I couldn't even begin to guess what the complete picture might look like.

The woman staring back at me now has found those missing pieces.

She stands tall, shoulders back but relaxed, not braced for attack.

Her strawberry blonde hair catches the light like spun gold, no longer the dull, lifeless curtain it had been in those early days.

And her eyes, God, when did they start looking so alive?

The hollow uncertainty has been replaced by something bright, fierce and utterly confident.

There are faint lines at the corners of those eyes now, laugh lines that I definitely didn't have before.

When did those appear? Probably somewhere between Angelo's terrible jokes and Luca's dramatic storytelling.

Between family dinners and quiet moments, and learning that laughter could be a choice rather than a mask.

I step closer to the mirror, studying this stranger who is somehow, finally, completely me.

The small scar on my collarbone is still there, a thin white line where a knife bit too deep during a mission in Prague.

I used to trace it obsessively in those early days, one of the few concrete things I could hold on to when everything else was smoke and shadows.

Back then, it felt like evidence of my failure, proof that I wasn't perfect enough, wasn't good enough to be whatever Jerzy had made me into.

Now I see it differently. I survived Prague.

I survived the knife, the mission, the handler who decided I was expendable.

I survived everything that came after. The conditioning, the missions, the slow erosion of everything that made me human.

I survived long enough to burn it all down and walk out of the flames.

I trace another mark, this one newer, a faint line on my forearm where broken glass caught me during the casino attack.

Evidence not of failure, but of choice. I chose to protect Mel instead of fleeing.

I chose to shield an innocent woman instead of thinking only of my own survival. I chose to save rather than destroy.

"I'm not broken," I whisper to my reflection, and the words settle into my bones like a key finding its lock. "I'm forged."

Every scar, every nightmare, every moment of Jerzy's brutal training… It didn't break me. It couldn't break me. It made me into something stronger, something that could bend without snapping, something that could endure long enough to find this life, this love, this choice.

The woman in the mirror straightens slightly, and I realise I'm looking at someone who has finally, truly, come home to herself.

Kasia. Not the Red Widow, not Jerzy's weapon, not Angelo's project or mystery to solve. Just Kasia. A woman who has survived hell and chosen herself.

I shower quickly, letting the hot water wash away the last remnants of sleep and the lingering ghosts of old memories. The steam fogs the mirror, erasing my reflection, but I don't need to see it anymore. I know who I am now.

I slip into one of Angelo's Henleys—navy blue and soft from countless washings—and a pair of black leggings. The shirt hangs perfectly on me. The sleeves rolled up to my elbows, the hem hitting just below my hips. It smells like him, like sandalwood and Angelo. It makes my chest warm.

When I make my way downstairs, bare feet silent on the hardwood, I find him in the kitchen exactly where I expected.

He's standing at the espresso machine with his back to me, his broad shoulders filling out a chocolate brown t-shirt that matches the colour of his eyes.

Dark jeans hug his legs, and his hair is still damp from the shower, curling slightly at the nape of his neck.

But it's his posture that makes me pause at the bottom of the stairs.

Usually, there's a coiled tension in Angelo's shoulders, a readiness for violence that never fully leaves him.

He carries the weight of his family, his responsibilities, his past like a physical burden.

Even in quiet moments, even when he's relaxed, there's always that underlying alertness, that sense of a predator at rest but never truly off guard.

This morning, the tension is gone.

He moves around the kitchen with an easy confidence I've never seen before, humming something under his breath as he works. There's a lightness to him, a sense of... peace? Settlement? Like a man who's finally figured out the answer to a question that's been plaguing him for years.

"You're up early," I say, sliding onto one of the bar stools at the kitchen island.

He turns, and my breath catches. His eyes hold something new.

A certainty, a quiet confidence that makes my pulse quicken.

When he smiles, it's different too. Not the careful, guarded expression he wears for the world, or even the softer version he reserves for family.

This smile is completely unguarded, radiant with something that looks suspiciously like joy.

"Couldn't sleep," he says, but there's no exhaustion in his voice. If anything, he looks more rested than I've seen him in weeks. He sets a perfect cappuccino in front of me, the foam art resembling a butterfly. "Figured I'd make us breakfast."

I wrap my hands around the warm ceramic, studying his face over the rim. "Making your famous pancakes again? I'm not complaining."

The corner of his mouth quirks up. "You say it as if it's a rare occurrence."

"It's not every day, but I'm not mad about it." I take a sip and hum appreciatively. "The coffee's perfect as always."

"Good, because I'm going all out this morning." He moves around the kitchen with practised efficiency, pulling ingredients from the fridge. Fresh berries, plant-based milk, vanilla, maple syrup. "Figured we both deserved something special today."

I watch him work, noting the way he keeps touching his breast pocket. It's subtle, just a quick brush of his fingers, like he's checking that something important is still there. A nervous habit I've seen before, but it's more pronounced this morning.

"The funeral is in six days," I say, testing the waters.

His hands still for just a moment before he continues whisking eggs into what smells like pancake batter. "Yeah. Dante's handling most of the arrangements, thank God."

"Big affair, I'm guessing."

"The biggest. Every family on the East Coast will send a representative.

Half of them to pay respects, the other half to assess whether we're still worth their fear.

" He glances at me, something protective flickering in his expression.

"You don't have to come. I know crowds aren't your favourite, and this one will be particularly. .. intense."

I straighten slightly, feeling that familiar spark of defiance. The old me might have jumped at the excuse to hide, to avoid the scrutiny and judgment of people who see me as either a threat or a curiosity. But I'm not that woman anymore.

"I'll be there," I say firmly. "Right beside you."

An emotion flashes across his face, pride, maybe, or gratitude. "It'll be a circus. Three hundred people, all watching to see if the Santoro family shows any cracks."

"Good thing I know how to handle clowns."

He laughs, the sound rich and warm. "Is that what you're calling my father's associates?"

"If the red nose fits." I grin at him over my coffee. "Though I suppose some of them are more like lions. You know, big teeth, bad tempers, tendency to eat their own young."

"Now you're just describing half my relatives."

"Exactly my point."

We fall into comfortable conversation as he plates what turns out to be genuinely impressive pancakes, fluffy and golden, served with fresh berries and a drizzle of maple syrup.

The domesticity of it should feel strange—the Red Widow and the Santoro enforcer sharing breakfast like any normal couple.

Instead, it feels like the most natural thing in the world.

But I can't shake the feeling that something bigger is building beneath the surface. Angelo's nervous energy is infectious, though he's trying to hide it. He's barely touched his food, his attention focused entirely on me.

"These are actually incredible," I say around a bite of pancake. "Where did you learn to cook like this?"