Page 4 of Angel of Light (Lords of The Commission: New York #5)

MAX

Burnt.

Cut.

Bent.

But alive.

She was fucking alive!

I, on the other hand, was sure I’d sold my soul to the devil, once again, in exchange for getting us out of that burning hell. Even so, the limbo that followed was far crueler than any purgatory I’ll be bound to, courtesy of a life of sin.

The blue linoleum that covered the hospital floor was well-acquainted with the soles of my boots. All ten feet of the hall that ran the length of Alison’s room.

I was stuck in a carousel loop inside my mind, going around between strangled panic and a cold, manic revenge plot.

I was possessed, consumed, and haunted by the possibilities of what could have happened but, by some miracle, didn’t.

All I could see were images of the blast, stained with her blood, and the feel of her limp body in my arms. Going further into the building was a risk I didn’t care to calculate.

It was a primal instinct, a reaction to the notion that Alison, my Alison, was still inside.

I couldn’t see the danger or feel the heat from the flames.

All that bore into my mind was her. Saving her.

It might seem brave, but it was the most selfish thing I’ve ever done. I couldn’t live in a world she wasn’t in. I couldn’t survive knowing I hadn’t drained every drop of my blood to keep hers pumping.

How I found her beneath all the rubble and destruction was still a mystery, but I’m fucking glad I was tailing her every movement since we came back from California.

Call me a stalker, I couldn’t give a fuck. In my book, it was written out as prudence.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that all this was a venomous traveling souvenir that stuck with us all the way from the West Coast. The defining contours were still nothing but conjecture. Somehow it felt like more than a fucking gut feeling.

I stopped in front of the window of her hospital room, staring at her pale face. The cuts and bruises were the only color on her porcelain skin.

I stood as still as I could, trying to catch the faint rise and fall of her chest. The steady, rhythmic beeping of machines did nothing to ease me. I needed to see her breathe since I couldn’t come close enough to hear her heart.

Mine made itself much clearer now that I was blocking everything else from focus. Hard, brutal pumps burned my chest from within. The angst of not noticing that little proof of life made my heart burn, slowing to match the tempo of that damn machine.

This was what I did from time to time. Ever since the agony of not feeling her pulse under my fingers shoved me into a reality where she didn’t exist, I needed to see her breathe, feel her pulse, watch her move to have some peace.

I held my breath. Not a blink or flicker. Even my blood had frozen in my veins, immobile and expectant.

Nothing.

My eyes dried out from the stare, and in a fraction of a second, I finally caught it.

Slow and shy, but it's there.

How could such a small sign bring me so much solace?

There was no force in this world that could move me from this spot before knowing she would be okay. It took time and patience, both of which I didn’t have. It took a hell of a lot more self-control than I could ever fathom not to break and plead on my fucking knees for mercy.

But to whom? Maybe to a God who had abandoned me when I was seven. Maybe to the broken angel fighting for life right in front of me.

I couldn’t keep up with appearances. There was no energy left in me to fake it. I’d have to fight that battle later since my uneasy soul lacked the strength to hold my usual armor. My affection for her was clear and unmasked to anyone who spared so much as a glance towards me.

Until news came that Alison was out of danger and on her way to a full recovery, I couldn’t take a relieving breath.

Unlike hers, my scuffs and scratches were superficial, but this scar would forever run deep. The one she had carved in my heart wouldn’t heal even if hell froze over.

It was crystal fucking clear that I had passed the point of no return concerning my feelings for Alison. I’d jump right back into that burning building if it meant saving her.

I was no hero. My phone booth was broken, and I was sure I couldn’t pull off spandex tights. But for her? I’d burn half the world to ashes and gladly combust with it if it meant Alison would be untouched.

There was no way I would let her die without personally crossing her over the Acheron to rage my hell with the God of the Underworld.

Fuck the boatman. My deal with Hades would be personal if it came to that.

After a couple of days that felt more like weeks of despair, the long-awaited clearance came. She had made it out of the critical time frame that held me captive by my fucking balls.

Alison was out of danger. They were pulling her out of the medically induced coma that had me freaked out like a little child. It could take anywhere from an hour to a couple of days for her to wake up, but I’ll still take that win.

I kept the tears of relief and joy for later. There was a cold dish of revenge in need of serving and I was falling behind on its dispatching.

I reluctantly left the hospital, practically dragged by the collars of my jacket by Matt. After all, there was a one-person restriction that we had all ignored until now, and I knew it wasn’t my place to stake that claim. Why would it be?

To the eyes of all the others, there was no reason why I, of all people in this goddamn place, would be the first in line to take that spot.

Not even in her eyes. Not the second, not even the third.

I would fall so far behind the lineup it was ridiculous.

But I’d find my way to her, one way or the other.

For now, there was work to do, business to attend to, and blood to shed.

The intense and loaded atmosphere followed us from the hospital to the car, from the car to the club. It was embroidered in the threads of my smoke-drenched clothes, and I couldn’t wait to pour it into a glass of rum. Our rum.

There was a bottle of Havana Club Máximo with my name on it. Literally. I couldn’t wait to taste her in every sip. How fucking ironic was it that she had chosen that poison?

More than this drink, I needed revenge. I needed a fucking culprit. To shred him to pieces and find relief in his pain.

Two drinks down, and my target was chosen.

“Close the door, Jimmy,” Matt ordered, taking his place behind the desk, his leather throne left empty as he gave us our orders standing, drawing strength and control from the hate he nurtured for the unknown fucker who dared to harm his little principessa .

Takes one to know one.

He was a mirror image of myself right now. Rabidly thirsty for vengeance.

“Take two men and clear that building as soon as it’s declared safe. I want every piece of evidence you can find before the police get to it. If they find it first, I don’t give a fuck what you have to do to snatch it. Sono chiaro ?” Am I clear?

I paced Matt’s office while he spoke, my feet as heavy on the floor as my inaction on my conscience.

Jimmy and I were now both appointed as Alison’s twenty-four-seven shadows, but I didn’t need that fucking order, or Jimmy, for that matter. My mind was set on it already. Worse than that was having Victor sitting by her bed while Jimmy dug up any evidence from the bomb.

I washed my thirst for blood with another generous swig straight from the bottle, slamming it back onto the coffee table.

The door shut behind Jimmy, and my rage finally spilled.

Two lunges forward, and my fist connected with Matt’s jaw, catching him off guard and making him stumble back. I waited for him to compose himself. I wasn’t about to beat him when he was down. I wanted him to put up the fight I knew he would.

He regained his stance and charged towards me, his shoulder connecting with my torso and sending both of us to the floor.

I couldn’t feel the pain of his punches or the crushing bone from mine. My rage had numbed and blinded me to anything beyond revenge and punishment.

I should have broken this. I should have made him back down from that fucked up marriage agreement the moment I found out about it. His head was misplaced, and now Alison was the one paying for his sins.

I took every punch he threw as a welcoming gift of repentance. I needed the pain. It worked as atonement for my own sins, but every piece of me itched to give back just as much as I was given.

Spinning us around, I released all my pent-up anger and stress. My place in the fucking food chain was long forgotten as my mouth ran away with all the thoughts that had been coursing through my mind.

“I fucking warned you,” I yelled, throwing blow after blow, pinning Matt beneath me. “You did this to her!” I struck again.

He swerved his head to the side, and my closed fist connected with the wooden floor beneath him.

Matt took the chance to spin us around, locking me under him with his knee, punching lefts and rights into any part of my body he could reach.

“She’s my fucking sister. Do you think I wanted this?” I could almost feel the tears from his sadness and guilt, together with the blood I now felt spilling onto my tongue.

His blows brought me the sting of punishment, but I deserved a lot more. Matt unleashed his anger with the same power and force in every rage, guilt, and pain-driven punch. I welcomed them all.

I managed to push him off me, taking the opportunity to stand as did he.

“I warned you. Her fate is on you,” I accused, my finger sharply pointed at him, as lethal as a loaded gun. “She dodged a deadly bullet. I told you, but I’m not a fucking Don, my words mean shit.”

“You pulled that fucking trigger just as much as I did.”

We had our guns in our holsters, but this fight was about self-penance for both of us. His punches brought me some sick sense of redemption as if my guilt could be tamed by physical sanction.

“She was supposed to live a normal life, away from our fucked up ways.”