Page 9 of Savage Saint (Empire of Secrets #2)

BUTTERFLY

O ne night. That’s all.

One night here with Angelo is all I can agree to before I reassess the situation.

After a long conversation, I find out Dante, Angelo and Luca are brothers.

The Santoro brothers, as if that’s supposed to mean anything to me.

Alessa promises to come back in the morning with clothes and shoes, and if at any point I want to stay with her and Dante, their house is open.

I tell her I don’t have any money, but she just laughs it off, saying not to worry.

But I do worry.

I worry about staying in this empty house with a strange man, no matter how at ease I feel around him.

I worry about men being after me for some goddamn reason.

I worry about not knowing who I am or where I’m from.

And I worry I won’t remember. Because apart from a few fractured memories, my mind is still like a dark void.

When Alessa, Dante and Luca leave, a heavy silence falls over the house.

Angelo doesn’t fill it with unnecessary chatter.

Instead, he tells me I’m free to do whatever I want while he goes off to change.

It is at that moment I remember he’s still wearing the shirt I bled all over.

Although it’s only been an hour, maybe two, it feels like it happened a lifetime ago.

The thought of being confined in this house churns my stomach. My bare feet pad lightly against the cool floor as I walk around.

The house is quiet. Too quiet.

Each step feels amplified in the silence as I move past the sterile furnishings, all clean lines and muted colours. Everything about it screams control. Order.

And I want to mess. It. Up.

I walk to the open plan kitchen—spotless, the counters clear of anything personal.

Running my hand lightly along the edge of the countertop, I scan for details.

For anything that might tell me what kind of man Angelo is.

There’s nothing. Not a single photo, memento, or sign that someone actually lives here.

I catch my reflection in the glass of the cabinets—dishevelled hair, tired eyes, a body that doesn’t feel like my own. The person staring back at me is just as much a mystery as the man who owns this house.

I jump when I hear a faint sound behind me. Turning sharply, I find Angelo leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, his dark brown eyes fixed on me.

“You’re hungry,” he says. A statement, not a question.

I tilt my chin up, meeting his gaze head-on. “Not really.”

“I’ll make you something.” He nods, ignoring my reply. His posture is relaxed, but there’s an energy around him, controlled and coiled tight like he’s holding back more than I can see.

Angelo doesn’t wait for words of affirmation or for me to protest. Instead, he walks to the fridge, pulls out a bottle of water, and hands it to me without a word.

“Thanks,” I mutter as he turns around and pulls out ingredients: bread, butter, cheese.

He works in silence, his movements methodical as he slices the bread and heats a pan. The rhythm is almost hypnotic, but I force myself to stay sharp. My fingers tighten around the water bottle as I lean against the counter, observing him.

His back is broad, shoulders taut but not stiff. Everything about him screams restraint, as though he’s a storm bottled up in a man’s body. It’s unnerving how calm he is. Too calm. Like he’s spent his life perfecting the art of control.

The smell of melting butter fills the air, and my stomach betrays me with a low growl. I curse inwardly, but Angelo doesn’t react. He flips the sandwich with an easy flick of his wrist, giving no indication he noticed.

“You don’t strike me as a grilled cheese kind of guy,” I say, beating myself up for speaking at all as soon as the words leave my mouth.

He glances over his shoulder, and for the first time, I see a ghost of something that could almost pass for a smile. “It’s quick and hard to mess up.”

I sip the water, watching as he plates the sandwich and cuts it diagonally. He places it on the counter in front of me, sliding it across the smooth surface.

“Eat,” he says, his voice quiet but firm. It’s not a request.

For a moment, I consider refusing, just to prove I can. But the smell is too enticing, and the ache in my stomach has turned into something gnawing and relentless. I pick up one half of the sandwich, the melted cheese stretching between the pieces.

The first bite is incredible. Warm, salty, and perfectly crisp. It’s better than anything I’ve had in…well, I don’t remember.

“Good?” Angelo asks, leaning casually against the counter as though he isn’t scrutinising my every move.

I nod, reluctant to admit it aloud. “It’s fine.”

“Fine,” he echoes, the word tinged with amusement.

I narrow my eyes at him. “Sure of your culinary skills, I see?”

“I’m sure of many things.” His lips twitch.

“Well, I’m not here for your cooking, in case you were wondering.”

“I wasn’t,” he replies evenly, his gaze focused on the corner of my lips. “You’re here because you need a safe place to stay. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Safe. The word lands heavily, its meaning foreign. I can’t help but feel like ‘safe’ is just an illusion, a fleeting concept that disappears the second you start to believe in it.

I finish the sandwich in silence, the only sound is the low hum of the refrigerator and the soft clink of my plate as I set it down. My eyes drift toward the floor-to-ceiling window, where the faint outlines of the city blur with the ocean behind.

“How long have you lived here?” I ask, breaking the silence.

“Long enough,” he says, his answer as vague as I expected.

“Do you always keep your house this…empty?” I press, testing his patience.

His gaze sharpens. “It’s not empty.”

I raise an eyebrow, gesturing around us. “Could’ve fooled me.”

He straightens, crossing his arms over his chest. “Not every story is written in photographs and trinkets, Butterfly.”

Something about the way he says ‘butterfly’ makes my chest tighten, but I brush it off. He’s good at deflecting, I’ll give him that. Still, his response only reinforces my instincts. He’s hiding something, and whatever it is, it’s buried deep.

But there’s no point in me digging. I look around, biting my lower lip as my shoulders sag on a sigh.

“You’re tired.” Once again, a statement, not a question.

“Not really,” I lie, but he sees right through me.

“You can use the bedroom upstairs.”

“Your room?” I clarify.

He nods.

“Where will you sleep?”

“I don’t sleep much,” he says. I open my mouth to protest, but he interrupts me. “I’ll be fine, Butterfly. Really.”

I stare at him for a moment longer, searching for cracks in his resolve. There are none. Angelo Santoro is an enigma, and it unnerves me. No one helps without expecting something in return.

“Thanks,” I say. But even as I say it, my survival instincts scream at me to stay alert.

The silence of Angelo’s house isn’t comforting. It’s the kind of quiet that wraps around your throat and tightens, leaving you hyperaware of every sound.

I sit there in the corner of his pristine bedroom, wrapped in his oversized hoodie, staring at the endless coastline beyond the glass. On any other day, I might call it breathtaking. Now, it just feels like a reminder of how isolated I am.

My fingers toy with the hem of the hoodie. His scent clings to the fabric, clean and warm. It lingers the way his presence does, even though he isn’t here.

No one helps without expecting something in return.

I try not to think the worst of him. Try to believe he’s just being kind and not trying to lull me into a false sense of safety. But in my heart, I know appearances lie, and I’m finding it hard to believe him.

I rise from the seat by the window, my feet soundless against the polished wood as I pace the length of the room.

My eyes drift to the open layout of the bedroom, once again noting the lack of privacy.

Angelo could come in any minute and I’d have nothing to stop him, nowhere to hide or run.

My mind calculates all the possible escape routes.

The thick forest surrounding the house might provide enough cover to disappear, but then what?

The question stops me in my tracks. My shoulders sag as reality crashes over me.

Even if I escaped, where would I go? I don’t have a name, a place, or a single memory that tells me who I am.

The thought is suffocating, and I rub at my chest, trying to ease the ache building there.

Eventually, exhaustion wins out. I crawl onto the impossibly soft bed, the dark linens cocooning me as I pull Angelo’s hoodie tighter around myself. The fabric feels like armour, though I know it offers no real protection.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I will sleep to come. But when it does, it isn’t the peaceful reprieve I crave.

The shadows swirl in the recesses of my mind, creeping closer until they consume me. A faceless figure looms in the darkness, towering and unyielding. His voice pierces through the haze, sharp and cold, the accent unmistakably Polish.

“Jeszcze raz!” Again.

The word cracks like a whip, making me flinch. I’m running. My lungs burn, my legs ache, but I don’t stop. I can’t. The world around me is a blur. Trees, concrete walls, the faint shimmer of sweat on my skin.

Then the scene shifts, fractures. Smoke fills my lungs, thick and choking.

The training room morphs into a burning house, flames licking up the walls.

Through the fire, I see a figure—tall, broad-shouldered.

For a moment, it's Angelo, his dark eyes reflecting the flames, his hand reaching for me. But when he speaks, it's not his voice.

" Zakryj oczy. " Cover your eyes. It's the same Polish voice. Familiar yet foreign at the same time.

The image warps again. Now it's Dante in the flames, then back to Angelo, then someone else, someone I should remember but can't. Their faces blur together, distorting in the heat, but their eyes remain the same. Dark. Haunted. Burning.

“You’re pathetic!” the voice sneers. “Weak. Worthless. Do it again.”

My knees hit the ground, the rough surface scraping my skin, but I push myself up, gasping for air.

My chest heaves, tears sting my eyes, but I don’t dare let them fall.

The smoke is everywhere now, and the figures in the flames keep changing, shifting between past and present like a twisted kaleidoscope.

“Don’t cry. Only the strong survive. Do you want to die? Do you want to be nothing?”

“No,” I whisper, my voice trembling.

The memory fragments, shattering into disjointed pieces. The fire roars louder, and through the flames, I see Angelo again, but this time he's younger, different. He's holding something—a gun? A knife? The smoke makes it hard to see, hard to breathe.

Then he's gone again and the man I can't quite make out is back again. His hands are on my shoulders, shaking me. The weight of his disappointment suffocating.

“You’ll never be good enough,” he growls. “But I’ll make you useful.”

I scramble to my feet, desperate to please him, show him that I can be what he wants me to be. I throw a punch, my knuckles connecting with something hard. Pain shoots through my hand, but I grit my teeth and do it again. Until the face I’m punching is unrecognisable.

“Better. Again!”

The fragments shift again, blurring into something else.

The faceless figure stands over me, his expression obscured, but his presence suffocates.

“You’re nothing without me,” he says, his tone low and menacing. “Remember that, Kasia.”

The sound of my name echoes in the darkness, and everything stills.

Kasia.

My chest tightens, and my breath catches as the world crumbles around me.

I bolt upright, my heart pounding so hard it feels like it might break free from my chest. Sweat clings to my skin, cold and clammy, and the hoodie suddenly feels too heavy, too constricting.

The room is dark, but the faint glow of the moon filters through the windows, casting long shadows on the walls.

Kasia.

The name reverberates in my mind, louder than my heartbeat. My name . It’s my name.

I press my trembling hands against my face, trying to steady my breathing. The nightmare, no, the memory, lingers, each piece sharp and vivid. The voice, the commands, the need to prove myself.

I don’t know why I call for him, but his name escapes my lips before I can stop it.

“Angelo,” I whisper, my voice hoarse. Then louder, “Angelo!”