Page 68 of Savage Saint (Empire of Secrets #2)

LUCA

D eath brings out the worst in people.

Or maybe it just reveals what was always there, lurking beneath the expensive suits and practised condolences. Either way, watching Dante's mansion transform into a three-ring circus of grief coats my tongue with bile.

The funeral's tomorrow, eighteen hours until we put the old bastard in the ground, and every Santoro soldier with a pulse has descended on the estate like carrion birds.

They bustle around with flower arrangements and seating charts, pretending Massimo's death is some great tragedy instead of the best thing that's happened to this family in decades.

I lean against the stone balustrade overlooking the east garden, smoke curling from my cigarette into the evening air.

The mingled scents of funeral lilies and fresh-cut grass assault my senses.

Death and life in a twisted dance. Inside, I can hear Dante barking orders with his usual military precision.

Angelo's probably brooding in some corner, fingering that fortune from our mother he thinks no one knows about.

And Arrow's undoubtedly buried in their laptop, managing the digital side of death.

Christ, we're a cheerful bunch.

The marble beneath my forearms still holds the day's warmth, a stark contrast to the cool bite of approaching night.

I contemplate getting another tattoo to commemorate the occasion.

Maybe a middle finger on my neck, really lean into the family disappointment angle.

Or perhaps something subtle, like 'Good Riddance' in Latin across my knuckles.

Movement in my peripheral vision kills the thought.

A woman navigates the garden path, clearly lost amongst the maze of funeral preparations. She's carrying a massive vase of white lilies—funeral flowers, how original—and looking around with the wide-eyed confusion of someone who's never had to find their own way before.

But it's not her obvious displacement that makes me straighten from my slouch.

It's the way she looks like she stepped out of a fever dream and into my personal hell.

Long black hair spills over her shoulders like liquid midnight, catching the dying light with hints of blue.

The modest black dress she wears is probably meant to be appropriate, conservative even, but whoever designed it didn't account for the body underneath.

It hugs curves that could make a priest reconsider his vows, the fabric clinging to her like a second skin with every step she takes.

Jesus Christ.

I take another drag, cataloguing her as she draws closer.

Her face is all Italian aristocracy. Golden skin that seems to glow in the fading light, a heart-shaped face that belongs in Renaissance paintings, not mob funeral preparations.

Small, straight nose that she probably inherited from some long-dead matriarch.

Features so delicate they look like they'd shatter under rough hands.

Makes me want to test that theory.

She moves with the careful grace of someone who's been taught to be seen but not heard, but there's something else there too.

The way she holds herself. Spine too straight, shoulders too rigid.

Like she's bracing for a blow that hasn't come yet.

Her breathing is shallow, controlled in the way people breathe when they're trying not to panic.

Young. She looks so fucking young. Not jailbait territory, but close enough to make a better man pause.

Good thing I've never claimed to be better than anyone.

She stops near the fountain, those striking brown eyes, the colour of aged whiskey in firelight, scanning the grounds like she's looking for an escape route.

The vase must be heavy; her arms tremble slightly with the weight, but she doesn't set it down.

Just stands there, lost and lovely and completely out of place amongst the orchestrated chaos of Santoro grief.

She glances over her shoulder, a quick, nervous movement that tells me she's afraid of being followed. By who?

The white funeral lilies in her arms frame her face like she's some twisted version of a bride. All that life and youth surrounded by death's flowers. The irony isn't lost on me.

"You lost, little girl?" I call out, not bothering to move from my spot.

She startles, nearly dropping the vase, and when her eyes find mine, pink blooms across her cheeks like watercolour on virgin canvas.

The blush spreads down her neck, disappearing beneath the modest neckline of her dress, and my mind helpfully supplies images of where else that blood might be rushing.

How far down does it go? Does it dust across her chest, her breasts, her—

Fantastic. Add another sin to my collection.

"I'm looking for one of the Santoro brothers," she says, her voice carrying a slight tremor. It's sweet, her voice. Like honey laced with something I can't quite identify. Fear? Determination?

The late evening breeze catches her hair, bringing with it the scent of vanilla and something floral, jasmine, maybe. It's a stark contrast to the funeral flowers and cigarette smoke that's been assaulting my senses all day. Clean. Pure. Alive.

Everything this family isn't.

I flick ash from my cigarette, taking my time. "Any brother in particular? We're not exactly interchangeable, despite what people think."

She sets the vase down carefully on the fountain's edge, the porcelain making a soft scrape against the stone. That's when I see it. The gesture that makes my blood turn to ice water.

She wrings her fingers in a way I've only ever seen one person do—interlocking her two index fingers together, then twisting them back and forth.

The same nervous tic she had at seven years old, standing in her father's shadow at a family gathering. The same gesture she made at ten, the last time I saw her before Nico started keeping her locked away like some princess in a tower.

Natalia.

The recognition hits like a sledgehammer to the chest. This isn't some random funeral assistant.

This is Nico Nicolosi's daughter, his precious sheltered princess.

The girl who used to sneak me cookies during those tense family meetings, who whispered jokes when the grown-ups argued about territory and blood.

The girl who was supposed to marry one of us, according to that ancient contract between Massimo and Nico. Until Alessa showed up with her own Nicolosi blood and made the whole thing moot.

My, my, how little girls grow up.

Natalia Nicolosi is standing in my brother's garden, and I'm deciding whether to fuck her or kill her.

Maybe both.

"No," she says, still wringing those fingers. The motion draws my attention to her hands, soft, unmarked by violence or hardship. Daddy's kept her in a gilded cage. "I just need to speak to one of them. Any of them."

I catch movement in my peripheral. One of our soldiers doing his rounds spots her, his hand moving to his weapon. I give him a subtle signal to keep walking. Not yet. Whatever game she's playing, I want to know the rules first.

I stub out my cigarette against the balustrade, the ember dying with a soft hiss. The acrid smell of extinguished tobacco mingles with her jasmine perfume as I push off from my perch.

"Well then." I move toward her with the kind of deliberate calm that usually makes people nervous. "Looks like today's your lucky day."

Each step brings me closer, and with it, more details that make my mouth water.

The way her dress dips just low enough in the back to tease.

The delicate gold chain around her throat that draws attention to her pulse point—rabbit-quick with fear.

The way her lips, full and naturally pink, part slightly as I approach.

She's nothing like her father. Where Nico is all sharp angles and dead eyes, she's soft curves and vivid life. Makes me wonder if she knows what kind of monster sired her. What kind of monster she's seeking help from.

Sin wrapped in innocence. That's what she is. Daddy's pristine princess about to dirty herself with Santoro business.

She tilts her head, Christ, the same way she used to as a kid, studying me as I close the distance between us. "You're Luca," she says. Not a question.

"Guilty." I stop just close enough to make her crane her neck to look up at me.

Close enough to see the gold flecks in those whiskey eyes.

Close enough to confirm that the jasmine scent is definitely perfume, applied to her pulse points like someone taught her.

Wrists, throat, and if I had to guess...

"Though I'm curious how you knew that," I continue, dragging my thoughts out of dangerous territory.

She takes a breath, too quick, too shallow, and I watch her chest rise and fall with it. When she squares those delicate shoulders, preparing for battle, the fabric of her dress pulls tighter across her breasts.

Definitely going to hell. Do not pass Go. Do not collect two hundred dollars.

"My name is Natalia Nicolosi."

My fingers twitch toward my gun, an involuntary reaction I haven't had in years. The Santoro control, the famous calm I've cultivated like a fucking garden, cracks just enough for her to see.

Her eyes track the movement, those long lashes fluttering nervously, but she doesn't run. Doesn't even step back. Just watches me with those innocent eyes that have no business being in a viper's nest like this.

Brave little lamb, walking straight to slaughter.

"I need your help," she says, and there's something desperate beneath the sweetness of her voice. Something that makes me want to know what could possibly drive Nico's precious princess to come begging at our door.

The funeral starts in eighteen hours. Whatever she wants, it has to happen before we put Massimo in the ground and the underworld descends on us en masse.

A thousand responses crowd my throat. Questions. Threats. The smart thing would be to put a bullet between those lovely eyes and dump her body at her father's doorstep. Send a message. Start the war properly.

My hand hovers near my weapon. One motion. One second. Problem solved.

She watches me decide her fate, still wringing those delicate fingers. The little girl who used to bring me cookies is gone, replaced by this vision of temptation wrapped in funeral black. But the gesture remains, that nervous tell that says she's scared but trying not to show it.

The gun grows cold against my ribs, a stark contrast to the heat her proximity brings. Her jasmine perfume drowns out the funeral flowers, life overwhelming death in a way that feels like a sign. Or a warning.

I think about the tattoo I was contemplating. About marking myself to commemorate Massimo's death. But looking at her, this beautiful, terrified girl, I realise I'm about to mark myself in a different way entirely.

Whatever happens next, there's no going back.

My hand drops from my weapon. Decision made. Damn the consequences.

I should kill her. I know I should kill her. One less Nicolosi in the world would be a public service.

So why am I stepping closer?

To be continued in: WICKED SAINT