Page 113 of Broken

“Thank you, Father,” they reply, almost simultaneously.

But it’s Bianchi who says, “We’re always looking for informants…”

Without waiting for me to reply, he and Esposito depart, leaving me with a doctor who prods me worse than the barb-spiked lash does when I whip myself.

But as she asks questions, takes my vitals, and works with a nurse who makes an appearance, I’m left wondering if it was God who’d been watching over me or an angel He sent for that explicit purpose.

An angel who knows when someone is at the door before they knock, who can guide a knife into my stomach without causing me major damage, and who knows what I’m thinking without my having to utter a word…

CHAPTER 34

Andrea

FOUR DAYS LATER

Maybe Tomorrow - Stereophonics

When you’re in love with a man who was literally tortured, it diminishes your ability to say that the time spent away from the love of your life isthat.

It might feel like torture to me, but I’d never undermine what Savio went through by saying it out loud to him.

It’s why I hover outside his church every morning, just waiting for a glimpse of him from the coffee shop across the street.

On the fourth morning, for the fourth time, I don’t see him, but Idonotice a woman rushing from the front door of Santa Cecilia. I recognize her—she had lingering bruises on her cheek the morning I met Savio. That pedophile bastard, Lorenzo, had struck the fear of God into her before she disappeared from the chapel.

Today, those lingering bruises are back in full force.

The itch on my shoulders where my wings are has me jerking to my feet. My recently ordered espresso goes flying, but I leave some cash to cover the mess and my bill before I rush onto the street.

When the usual white spots begin their waltz around the periphery of my vision, I heave a sigh, but she’s getting away.

This is Lorenzo’s wife.

Their niece is his victim.

Sheis his victim.

Every Watcher bone in my body pushes me onward until I reach her side.

The state of my breathing is shocking, but when I grasp onto her arm and tug her to a halt, she jerks in surprise at the sight of me.

“Are you well? Do you need an ambulance?”

Apparently, I look as shitty as I feel. Still, I play on it: “C-Can you help me sit down, please?”

She blinks in surprise but shuffles me over to a nearby bench and does as I ask. “Do you need water?”

Bobbing my head, I tuck my hand into my pocket and shove some euros at her. “P-Please.”

She disappears with the cash and returns five minutes later with three bottles in hand and a bunch of change, which she drops on my lap before twisting the cap on one for me.

“You need to be more careful, dear,” she chides as she holds the bottle to my lips. “Not everyone can be trusted with money.”

With my breathing settled and the eye-waltz finally at an end, I take a deep sigh and shift on the bench. “I can’t thank you enough.” I pass her an unopened water. “Have one. Please.”

She accepts but studies me over it as she takes a sip too. “You’re American, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

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