Page 22 of The Savage

I shake my head, knowing I’m clinging to false hope. None of the sisters who were seen off on their last journey were treated to this alarming chorus of rotor blades and men with guns instead of hymns and holy water. I know in my heart of hearts that this wasn’t sanctioned by Madre Superiora.

This… I inhale shakily, swallow around an arid throat.

This is the devil’s work.

I can’t see the land below, can’t gauge how high we are, but the pitch of the engines tells me we’re moving fast. The air smells cleaner up here, sharper. I try to focus on breathing, on counting the thrum of the rotors, but my mind keeps circling back to the same thought.

Be careful what you pray for.

I prayed for God to test me. For a chance to prove my faith. For something that would burn away the doubt creeping through my soul.

Maybe this is it. Maybe this is how He answers the faithless.

Maybe I’m being taken somewhere to start again.

Or to end.

The noise shifts as the helicopter banks.

‘ETA to Modena in seventy minutes.’ The word means nothing. But it feels heavy. Final.

I try to pray, but the words stumble and scatter in my throat. My rosary digs into my palm.

Deliver me from evil.

And yet…

The man who’s taken me, who carried me out of my cell, the man with hands that felt far too human for a monster, who even now stares at me with naked savagery in the darkness, doesn’t feel evil.

There’s something in the way he moved. In the way the others deferred to him.

A gravity.

A pull I felt even through my fear.

As if my soul recognised him before I ever did.

The helicopter climbs higher, cutting through the clouds, leaving the only home I’ve ever known shrinking somewhere far below.

* * *

Renzo

I shouldn’t be up and about.

I sure as shit shouldn’t be running around the Italian countryside, stalking convents, gangster or not.

Only three days ago I was in an enforced coma brought on by my severe concussion. Sure, the doctors claim my peak physical state aided a quickish exit from the coma, but hell if I don’t feel as weak as a damn kitten.

And last but by no means least is the questionable gang I’ve surrounded myself with, courtesy of Nightowl.

But there was no way in hell I was simply going to lie in that hospital bed after he sent me the location I knew in my gut I couldn’t ignore.

So here I fucking am.

And Jesus, look how it paid off.

The rotors thrum through my bones, steady and merciless, but I keep my eyes open, locked on the slight, shaking figure across from me.