Page 161 of Safe Word

‘Knight in shining armour and such… figured we could cut down another dragon.’

TWENTY-NINE

My fist clenched against the wooden armrest, the grain digging into my skin as the screen’s pale glow flickered through the dark. The office was silent save for the faint buzz of the monitors.

I rewound the footage again. And again.

I nearly had him. So close. And that fucking woman ruined it.

My gaze slid to the next screen, where her details pulsed like a confession waiting to be condemned.

Gianna Bellini. Daughter of Alessio and Francesca Bellini – eldest of two.

The fucking Bellinis.

Publicly – not criminals, but far from saints. Her father, the detective, had owed favours to the mob in the past, and men like that never really crawled out clean. They just balanced on the knife’s edge between law and rot. His whole family carried that same sickness.

I didn’t like having a Bellini at my venue. Especially not that night. But I couldn’t cleanse that woman either. That would spark interest where it didn’t need sparking.

My fingers brushed the golden cross that hung from my neck – the metal cool, familiar. I closed my eyes for a beat, steadying myself in His purpose before hitting rewind again.

Frame by frame, I watched the fight, savouring every punch I’d landed, every grunt, every ripple of control I’d taken from him.

But then… her bruises came back to me.

I hated that colour on her. That ugly, mottled blue. I preferred her fair and red like blood and snow on the day of our Lord’s birth. The thought of her painted in violence made the beast in me stir again, restless under the skin.

But she needed to understand: the bruises, the pain – they weren’t cruelty. They were a ritual – it was a cleansing.

We all served a purpose here.

So did she.

The knock at the door reverberated through my skull, dragging me out of the spiral. Marco, always knocking three times.

‘Avanti,’ I called.

The door screamed open. ‘Vuole che prenda la macchina, capo?’ he asked in crisp Italian, offering to bring the car around.

I glanced at the clock at the bottom right of the monitor – almost time for Sunday worship.

‘Camminerò,’ I responded flatly – I’ll walk – and got up from my chair with my gaze still glued to the monitors.

I’d been patient long enough. Studying. Praying. But faith without action was akin to putrefaction.

The Lord does not tarry forever. His silence had been my test, His stillness my command. But I had listened long enough. The hour had come to cleanse her – to wash the filth from her soul in the only fluid that truly redeemed.

Blood was the holiest baptism of all.

It was time.

Time to cleanse what was mine.

Before I could say another word, Paula pulled her sunglasses out of her purse and shoved them on, her face set in stone. She turned on her heel and headed for the door, her stride purposeful and unwavering.

For a moment, I just sat there, dumbfounded.

She wanted to come with me. To see Ezio, to step into this twisted mess that I could barely stomach myself. Disbelief, but also gratitude, gnawed at me in equal measure.