Page 61 of Angel of Light (Lords of The Commission: New York #5)

ALISON

“I need the key to Max’s apartment,” I said, cornering Jimmy in the kitchen while he unpacked another care package that Max had apparently ordered before disappearing.

Jimmy froze, a container of soup halfway to the counter. “Miss Battaglia, I don’t think–”

“Jimmy.” I stepped closer, my voice dropping to that low, dangerous tone I’d learned from watching my brothers. “Max has been missing for three days. Three days without contact. I’m going to get into his apartment whether you help me or not.”

“I can’t.”

“You can, and you will.” I moved closer, letting him see the steel in my eyes. “Because if you don’t give me that key, I’m going to pick the lock myself. And when building security finds me breaking into an apartment, do you really think that’s going to end well?”

Jimmy’s face went serious. The thought of a Battaglia getting arrested for breaking and entering would create exactly the kind of media shitstorm that would bring unwanted attention to all of us.

“Miss Battaglia, you’re putting me in an impossible position here.”

“If you’re still debating, maybe I should just kick the door in. I’m sure the neighbors would love the noise, the police reports, the questions about why the Don’s sister is so desperate to get into her missing bodyguard’s apartment. Unless you know where he is, and you’re keeping it from me.”

That did it. Jimmy’s shoulders sagged in defeat.

“You’ll call me if you find anything concerning?” he asked, reluctantly unhooking the key from his ring.

“I’ll call you if I find anything at all. I promise.”

Twenty minutes later, I was standing outside Max’s apartment building, the key burning a hole in my palm. The insistent panic in my chest had been growing stronger with each passing hour of silence. Max didn’t just disappear into thin air. He didn’t turn his phone off and vanish without a trace.

Unless something was very, very wrong.

The hallway smelled like that exquisite cologne of his, just like it had over three years ago when I’d first stumbled into his world. When I lost my virginity on sheets that still smelled like him, in a bed that had felt like the center of the universe.

My hands shook as I slid the key into the lock. I feared what I might find inside. God, please be safe. Please be okay.

The apartment was exactly as I remembered, the same feeling of a depleted home that never got to earn that status. It was just a place to live. Same dark, hardwood floors, same floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, same black leather furniture that screamed understated wealth.

But the Pollock painting that used to hang over his couch, the chaotic splash of color that brought personality to this space, was gone.

In its place hung a photograph of me.

I stopped breathing as I took it in.

It was a candid shot, taken without my knowledge.

It was nighttime, and I was sitting in the garden at my parents’ house, laughing at something off-camera.

It seemed to be from the birthday dinner my mother had thrown over a year ago.

The moonlight was caught in my hair, creating a halo effect around my face.

I looked... happy. Radiant. Completely unaware that someone was capturing the moment.

How long had it been hanging there?

My heart hammered against my ribs as I moved closer, studying every detail. The way my eyes crinkled at the corners, the genuine joy in my expression, the way the light seemed to love me in that moment.

Was this how Max saw me?

I stumbled backward, my hand pressed to my mouth, tears blurring my vision. All this time, I was convinced he didn’t want me, didn’t love me the way I loved him, while he’d been staring at this, every single day. At me.

My feet carried me toward his bedroom without a conscious thought. The door was slightly ajar, and I pushed it open with trembling fingers.

More photos littered the space. Dozens of them.

They were carefully arranged on his dresser, his nightstand, even tucked into the corners of his mirror. All of me. Some were professional shots from events, while others were candid moments captured when I wasn’t looking.

But it was the newspaper cutouts that made me sink onto his bed in disbelief.

“Dornier Heiress Leads Revolutionary Green Architecture Project”

An article about the sustainable housing development I led last year. The one that had been nominated for an international design award. I lost to someone a lot more experienced, but still.

“ Dozens Dead in Manhattan High-Rise Explosion”

The headline that had destroyed my world. Below it, a smaller subheading that made my heart beat faster. “Adrian Dornier’s Daughter Fighting for Life in Hospital.”

He’d kept them all. Every mention of my name, every achievement, every moment of terror when my life hung in limbo.

The newspaper from the bombing was worn out around the edges, like it had been handled repeatedly. Like he’d read it over and over, torturing himself with the reality of how close I’d come to death.

I picked up the article with shaking hands, remembering that horrible time when everything was darkness and pain. When I’d woken up to find him sleeping in the chair beside my hospital bed, looking like he hadn’t slept in days. Blue eyes turned bloodshot red. I’d never forget that image.

“Oh, Max,” I whispered into the empty room.

This wasn’t the behavior of a man who didn’t care. This was obsession. This was a love so deep and consuming that it had transformed his sterile apartment into a shrine.

A shrine to me.

I crawled into his bed, not bothering to remove my shoes or jacket. The sheets smelled like him. One deep inhale making my chest ache with longing and more despair.

“Where are you, my love?”

I curled into a fetal position, pulling his pillow against my chest, letting his scent surround me completely. And for the first time in days, I felt like I could finally breathe.

I was walking down the aisle of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, my hand resting on my father’s arm. But instead of the cold dread that had been consuming me for weeks, I felt light.

Radiant.

Blissfully happy.

Because when I looked up, it wasn’t Vincenzo waiting for me at the altar.

It was Max.

He was dressed in a perfectly tailored black tuxedo, his hair combed back in that way that made my knees weak. But it was his eyes that undid me. Those piercing blue depths filled with love, wonder, and absolute certainty.

The cathedral was filled with familiar faces. Matt and Francesca, Jamie and Liam, my parents, beaming with pride. Even Adrianne was there, tears of joy streaming down her face.

This was my real wedding. The one my heart had always dreamed of.

As I reached the altar, Max stepped forward, his hands reaching for mine. When our fingers touched, I felt that electric current that had always existed between us, that connection that no amount of duty or honor could ever sever.

“ Angelo ,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re so beautiful.”

The priest began speaking, but I couldn’t hear the words over the rushing of my pulse. All I could see was Max, and all I could feel was the rightness of this moment.

“Do you, Gabriel, take Alison to be your wife?”

“I do,” he said with conviction. The words were a promise, a vow, a declaration of war against anyone who would try to separate us.

“Do you, Alison, take Gabriel to be your husband?”

“I do,” I breathed, and I meant it with every fiber of my being.

Max’s hands cupped my face as he leaned in to kiss me, and in that moment, everything was perfect. Everything was as it should be.

Until I woke up to the sound of my own sobs.

The dream felt so real, so vivid, that waking up to his empty apartment was like dying all over again. I lay there for a moment, in utter silence, mourning the life I would never have.

Soon enough, anger began to replace the sadness. A fierce, burning rage, emerging from my hopelessness.

I sat up, wiping my face with the back of my hand. In my purse, I still had one of the wedding invitations. That stupid, elegant, cream card with gold embossing that announced my upcoming marriage to Vincenzo Massimo.

I pulled it out, staring at the formal script that spelled out my doom. I walked to Max’s home office like a woman on a mission. A stupid and futile one. I rummaged through his drawers and quickly found a pen to finally, even if only in this idyllic way, write my own version of fate.

With deliberate, angry strokes, I crossed out Vincenzo’s name. The red ink was bold, almost violent against the pristine invitation. In its place, I wrote “Gabriel” in my messy, heartfelt handwriting.

It looked so damn right there. As if the invitation had always been meant to read that way.

I held up the modified invitation, studying my handiwork. The red ink looked ominous against the gold, like blood against silk. Like a warning. Like a promise I desperately wanted to keep.

As if it were the most fragile thing in this place, I carefully placed the invitation onto Max’s pillow before gathering my things and leaving just as empty as I’d arrived.