Page 32 of The Savage
Her mouth trembles. ‘No. And would you please stop cursing so much.’
‘Yes to the first. And if you want the second, you know what to do, Giada.’
‘Please – stop saying that name.’
I can feel my pulse hammering like it’s trying to crack bone. The doctors exchange a glance; one reaches for a syringe, whispers to the other. Sedative. They think they can put me down like a wild animal.
‘Don’t,’ I warn, still without taking my eyes off her. Jesus, I don’t think I’ve blinked since I open my eyes from the way they burn. And I won’t. Not if she intends to run.
‘Signore,’ the younger one says, ‘we have to stabilise you. Your vitals—’
‘Put me to sleep,’ I snarl, cutting him off, ‘and you better fucking kill me. Because when I wake up’ – I lean forward, eyes locking with his until he pales – ‘I’ll peel this place apart, brick by brick, starting with you. And if she’s gone, I’ll hunt down your family, kill every last one of them. Capisci?’
The room goes silent.
Even the machines hesitate, as if afraid to make a sound.
* * *
The doctors step back, raw fear filming their eyes.
Good. Whichever family member dumped me here… Cesare, Rafa or most likely Orazio, they’ve adequately apprised the staff of the Salvatore power and might.
So I can safely return my focus where it craves to be.
On the woman still standing too far away.
After all this time, what the hell was she doing in that place? And why? The Giada I remember had zero plans of giving herself to God.
Unless under the colossal weight of guilt?
The thought isn’t a sentence so much as a detonation ripping through my skull. She’s five feet away in a habit like a cross between a dare and the filthy temptations entertained at stag dos or red rooms.
Her skin is too pale for my liking, eyes too wide for my sanity. The room reeks of antiseptic and fear. Mine. Hers. Theirs.
Too fucking much.
The younger doctor takes a nervous step forward, still holding his syringe like he’s summoning the courage to tranquillise a tiger. I don’t bother looking at him.
I only point. ‘Out,’ I say, eyes on her. ‘You. The puppy. Get out.’
He glances to the older doctor for permission. The older one with grey at the temples, hands that have cut into bodies and pulled lives back out, lifts his chin a fraction.
‘Go,’ he tells him, voice even.
The door whispers shut behind the kid. Good. One less heartbeat cluttering the air and my thought process.
‘Dottore,’ I rasp, ‘tell her to come closer.’
The older doctor studies the monitor, then me, then her. He knows what he’s seeing. Spikes that will turn into storms if he picks the wrong word. And he knows what will make his very much hanging-in-the-balance life easier.
His gaze flicks to the soldiers hugging the walls. They don’t blink. He turns back to her with a professional calm I almost respect.
‘For the patient’s own good,’ he says gently, ‘come a little closer, Sister.’
My spine stiffens at Sister.
Everything inside me screams but I strive not to show it.
