Page 8 of Angel of Light (Lords of The Commission: New York #5)

ALISON

I was restless in my apartment, moving through rooms like a ghost haunting her own life. Two months missing from my memory, and everything felt slightly off, as if furniture had been moved just inches from where it belonged.

My bedroom closet drew me in. I pushed aside hanging clothes, reaching toward the back corner where shadows worked perfectly to conceal something hard and flat.

A canvas. Large, and wrapped in an old bedsheet like a secret I’d buried.

My hands trembled as I unwrapped it, and when the sheet fell away, my breath caught in my chest.

Was this me?

A broken angel, sitting on the floor, hands clutching a bleeding heart split in two. Her wings lay severed and scattered like fallen snow stained in crimson.

Un fottuto angelo. The words whispered through my mind in a voice that wasn’t quite my own.

The painting pulsed with pain so vivid I could taste it. Every brushstroke screamed betrayal and heartbreak. This angel had loved someone. This angel had been destroyed by someone.

Who?

And suddenly, I was drowning in fragments of my past self. Blue eyes, expensive cologne, hands that knew exactly how to touch me, a voice calling me Angelo like it was sacred.

Max.

His name tore from my lips, and the dam burst. Three years of memories crashed over me like a tsunami. Every stolen moment, every heated glance, every time he’d made me come apart, only to leave me shattered.

“ Good luck wiping my name from your lips when anyone else makes you come. ”

The painting blurred as tears streamed down my cheeks. This broken angel was my truth. She was what Max had made of me, what I’d needed to paint before I could pretend to be strong enough to marry someone else.

But you can’t paint away love any more than you can hide it in the back of a closet.

Fighting was always a choice. One that I was too scared, or too tired, to make.

An arranged marriage.

A newly-discovered sister.

An unrequited love that felt a lot more like deflection than actual rejection.

Slowly, pieces of my life were falling back into their place, and that was the shit that I had waiting to greet me back to reality. But I still couldn’t remember what happened when I was six that took my speech away or even not being able to speak at all.

Some of these memories were triggered, others came as if they had never been gone, along with all the emotions they carried in them. Only this time, I wouldn’t allow them to stain me.

Silencing my memory was what gave me clarity.

Apparently my mind was the one setting me up to fail, planting these feelings of unworthiness and inadequacy in my path.

Not remembering turned out to be a blessing of sorts.

A way to recover and go back to who I really was and not this run-down version of myself that I’d become.

My head was a strange mess of ‘befores’ and ‘afters.’ A blend of knowing and feeling. That bomb should have broken me beyond repair. Yet somehow, it seemed to have done just the opposite. I was going from darkness to light.

In my gap-weeks of recollection, I had found liberty in the unknown. Not being able to rely on the past had me unbiased, as if a new, parallel reality was running alongside the old one.

I could see for the first time. Beyond the scars of my childhood. Beyond the wounds of rejection.

There was a new fire glowing beneath my skin, waiting for the right moment to rage into violent flames.

I felt more like myself than ever.

Fuck caution. Fuck consequences. Bring on the fight for life.

A new strength was breathed into me by the notion that my life had been nothing but a floaty, rocking in the rippling motions. I had faked lightness and carefreeness for the sake of others.

Not anymore.

Insipid and dull were not my colors. I was done ducking from who I was supposed to be. It took an overwhelming effort to be that person, and that ended with me diving into nothing but the boring grays of undefinition.

I am more than that. So much more than I have made myself to be.

If my new shade was crimson, so be it, as long as my life wouldn’t go by unlived.

Today, four weeks after that bomb, I was going to take that first step into making sure it wouldn’t.

Max had been successfully avoiding me. I knew he stood guard outside my apartment door every single night ever since I had returned home three weeks ago.

With each passing day, my anxiety to break this distance grew wilder.

The memory of what Max had done to me on the airplane had come disguised as a dream. As soon as I woke up from the electrifying jolt of pleasure, I knew there was truth beneath the touch I felt in it.

I yearned for more. Much, much more.

The anger in each of his strokes, in the words he whispered into my ear, in the way he had branded his name on my lips, were fuel added to my already uncontrolled fire.

The way he fucked me in Vincenzo’s bed… Now it was clear what that was.

He was claiming me. Branding me in a place he hoped to be caught in.

Exactly as I had pledged on what could have been my deathbed, I intended to take what I wanted. And I wanted him.

But I had to heal first.

So I waited. Three weeks. Three painfully long weeks. I’d had enough.

Every night, the dance was repeated. Jimmy would knock on my door, ask if I needed anything before he headed off, and then switch places with Max, who kept himself out of sight. Tonight was no different.

I held my breath a little longer after he did, counting Mississippily for my time to come. I had to be sure the coast was clear.

“Here goes everything,” I whispered to myself before opening the front door.

Max was sitting right in front of it, legs wide open, elbows resting on his thighs. He straightened as soon as he saw me, standing up to greet me.

Always a gentleman.

“Miss Battaglia,” He said with a curt nod, his eyes never leaving mine. My heart was immediately rammed by his piercing gaze.

Fuck he’s gorgeous.

I couldn’t help getting lost in those pools of ice, stuck staring as I realized just how much I had missed him.

“Jimmy’s gone for the night,” he interrupted my silent reverie.

“I know. I came to talk to you.”

“Sure. How can I help you?”

“Not here.” I held the door open, motioning for him to enter.

Max paused, considering his options, looking as if I was inviting him into a death trap. He wasn’t entirely wrong. Still, he obliged.

“Are you worried?” I teased as I closed the door behind him.

“Do I have any reason to be?”

“None at all.” I grinned, not hiding my amusement.

I took out a single tumbler from the cabinet together with a brand new bottle of Máximo, setting both of them on the kitchen island while Max took his suit jacket off.

Tom Ford. Another resemblance with my father that had not gone unnoticed before, just as it hadn’t now. It seemed there was a pattern in the men I sought love and approval from.

I had a flashing image of the wings under his crisp white shirt and tight holster, the magnificence of every stroke of ink on his perfectly toned muscles. In my mind, my fingers were already tracing them, just as I had imagined time and time again.

“One glass?” He asked with a slightly raised eyebrow. There was another question under there, one he didn’t word, in case I didn’t remember our little game.

“My Nonna always said that sharing a cup with someone was a way to uncover their secrets,” I repeated what I had told him that night back at the club.

There was disappointment in his eyes, maybe a hint of sadness mixed with pity.

“Why am I repeating myself? I thought I was the one with the bad memory here.” I chuckled, watching as his features lit up with the recognition that I remembered.

I was back. At least a version of me was. The stronger one.

That smile was charged with a lot more than just amusement. Happiness. Pride. My little victory brought a new sparkle to Max’s eyes.

“I see you’ve got your memory back.”

“Pieces. But this I remember.” I poured the drink, sliding the glass over the counter towards him.

“I thought you told me not to bother coming back.”

“I changed my mind. Staring death in the face can bring you a certain clarity. I’m sure you know that better than I do. Now, drink up. Secrets, Max. I want yours.”

He washed my words down with the whole glass of rum, maybe in preparation for what was to come.

Tension loaded the air we breathed, my lungs filling up with adrenaline and a new drive each time our eyes met. He was hesitant and on guard. I was ready to strike with all and any heavy machinery at my disposal.

“You can’t have them,” He finally replied, setting the glass back onto the counter.

“Why?”

“If you’ve got your memory back, you’ll know we’ve spoken about this.”

“No. You’ve talked me into circles of riddles. I searched every conversation I can recall of ours and you have yet to give me an honest and straightforward reply.”

Max poured some of the rich poison into the glass and pushed it over to my side with a small nod, indicating it was my turn. Deflecting again?

“Wait.” He snatched it back. “Your meds.”

“I’m off them already.” I took the drink from his hand, sipping and savoring my wet lips, knowing he was intently watching every swipe of my tongue. “You do care,” I teased, still staring at my reflection in the amber liquid.

“Never said I didn’t.” I smiled at his reply. He was still guarded, but he was sticking to his promise of honesty. I wasn’t one to pass on that opportunity. Especially tonight.

“How much?” I pried. I was determined to claw my way through his truths if that’s what it took.

“Enough to set you free.” His words struck my heart, but still, they were miles away from what I wanted to hear. I needed to pull him in, not cut him loose.

“Unless you’re the one sliding a cuff on my ring finger, last time I had a flash of memory, I’m still free for a few more months.”

“If that’s supposed to be relieving, you missed the mark.”