Page 13 of Angelo’s Vengeance (The Commission #3)

THEODOSIA

Darkness pressed against the edges of my mind, thick and suffocating, a heavy fog that refused to lift.

My head pounded, a dull throb pulsing behind my temples, and my tongue felt like sandpaper in my mouth.

I inhaled sharply, expecting the familiar scent of expensive perfume and leather upholstery, but instead, the air was damp, thick with mildew, and something earthier—dirt.

My eyes flew open, panic surging through me like an electric current.

My pulse thundered in my ears as I tried to move, but my limbs were sluggish, my body refusing to cooperate.

I squeezed my eyes shut and forced myself to take a slow, measured breath.

Think, Theo. What was the last thing I remembered?

I had been at that restaurant meeting with Carlotta Santelli, and she had set me up.

The realization hit me like a gut punch, leaving a bitter taste in my mouth.

I had walked into that meeting with my usual bravado, decked out in a perfectly tailored jumpsuit and heels that cost more than most people’s rent, thinking I was meeting with Bassiano Torsiello.

Instead, I got Carlotta. Admittedly, I’d been cocky, believing I could handle whatever she threw at me.

I’d thought it was a public place. What was the worst that could happen?

I should have known better. After growing up the way I had, with the father I had?

I felt like an absolute idiot. Women weren’t ever safe. I knew that.

It felt like I’d been drugged. I tried to do a quick inventory. My clothes were intact, buttoned, and fastened. A giant plus. Okay. Things could be way worse. I tried to shake off the fog that permeated the edges of my consciousness, wrapping everything in cotton.

And then there was that name. Salvatore Renzetti.

The moment she mentioned him, something inside me tensed.

Carlotta had smiled—a cold, knowing smile—and told me he wanted me.

That wasn’t a good sign. New players in New York signaled someone seeking leverage, which didn’t bode well for me.

Women were chess pieces in the underbelly of the criminal world.

Alliances needed to be made and forged. My brother and his friends might like to think that they’d turned the Commission into something better, but I was still bitter about the part I had to play.

Angelo felt the same, and so I felt safe knowing that he hated the shackles of the blood oath as much as I did.

It was a commonality that we had — one of the few.

Men like Renzetti didn’t want women the way normal men did. If Renzetti was new to the New York scene, he was coming in empty-handed. He was desperate, which wasn’t good news. If this was his idea of wanting me, then it meant possession, control, and worse, if this cell was anything to go by.

I struggled to sit up, wincing as my palms pressed against the rough ground.

A cold, damp sensation spread through my fingers, and I recoiled, staring down at my hands in horror.

My manicured nails were caked with dirt.

My clothes—my gorgeous, custom-designed jumpsuit—was stained and wrinkled, the once-crisp fabric now tainted by grime.

A strangled noise escaped my throat, caught between a whimper and a growl.

“Of all the goddamn things,” I muttered, brushing frantically at the fabric as if that would somehow erase the filth. “Kidnap me, threaten me, whatever, but ruin my outfit? Unforgivable.”

The absurdity of my own words nearly made me laugh. Nearly. Because beneath the irritation, beneath the dramatic outrage, fear coiled tight in my stomach. It was easier to focus on the state of my clothes than on the fact that I had no idea where I was or what Renzetti had planned for me.

I forced myself to take in my surroundings, setting my fashion crisis aside for the moment.

The room was small, barely large enough for me to stretch fully.

The walls were rough, composed of crumbling concrete, streaked with moisture and patches of sediment.

The floor was uneven, made of packed dirt, and the scent of damp earth lingered in the air.

There were no windows, only a heavy metal door reinforced with iron bars, reminiscent of an old prison cell.

Italy was big on old architecture, so I could still be somewhere in Florence, but the dampness was throwing me off.

The Mediterranean was drier than this moldy dampness that filled my nose.

I exhaled slowly, willing my heartbeat to steady.

I pushed myself upright, brushing off more dirt from my outfit with a huff. “Absolutely unacceptable,” I muttered under my breath before turning my attention to the door. I staggered to my feet, my legs shaky, and took a step toward it. The moment I did, I caught movement on the other side.

A shadow shifted, then settled, as if whoever was there had been waiting for me to notice them.

My stomach twisted. I squared my shoulders, running a hand through my hair, even though I was sure it looked like a disaster. Presentation was everything, even in a damp prison cell — especially in a damp prison cell.

“Hey,” I called out, my voice only slightly shaky. “Not that I don’t appreciate the hospitality, but this room could really use a serious makeover. Have you ever heard of interior decorating? Maybe some throw pillows or a rug?” Silence. “No? Okay. Tough crowd.”

I stepped closer, peering through the bars. The dim lighting outside the cell barely illuminated my captor, but I could discern the broad shape of a man standing just beyond reach, arms crossed. I felt his gaze, even if I couldn’t see his face clearly.

“Well, this is awkward,” I said, shifting my weight onto one hip. “Usually, when a lady finds herself locked in a cell, her captor at least has the decency to introduce himself. Do you have a name, big guy?”

Nothing.

I huffed out a breath. “Silent type, huh? I bet you’re great at parties.”

The lack of response sent a fresh wave of unease through me.

Not that I would let him see it. I had spent years perfecting the art of deflection, masking my fear with humor and attitude.

It had always been my shield, my armor. I wasn’t about to abandon it now.

I had honed it around my father and learned it well.

The mafia world was, to me, a terrifying place to be avoided at all costs.

Not that I had a choice, of course. I’d tried hard to learn everything I could and adopt a devil-may-care attitude instead.

I learned some self-defense and kept my nightmares to myself.

I googled. Bestie needed a body disposal?

Sure. I could do that. I might have had nightmares, but I was capable. I was strong.

“Look, I don’t suppose you’d be willing to tell me why I’m here?

” I tried again, injecting just the right amount of casual boredom into my voice, as if being kidnapped were merely an inconvenience rather than a terrifying reality.

“Because if this is Salvatore Renzetti’s idea of courtship, he has a really twisted sense of romance. ”

Still no response.

“Not in an awesome dark romance way, either.” I pressed my forehead against the peeling metal bars, frustration bubbling to the surface. “Fine. Be mysterious. I’ll just sit here and talk to myself, then. It’s not like I need conversation to stay entertained.”

Silence.

I sighed, stepping away from the door, my fingers flexing at my sides.

If I stayed still too long, I would start thinking about everything that could go wrong, about all the ways this could end.

That wasn’t an option. I had things to look forward to, things I wanted to do in my life.

Frankie said she was going to get preggars.

My throat tightened. No way was I missing out on that.

Carlotta had made it clear—Salvatore Renzetti wanted me.

The question was, for what? A wife?

My stomach churned at the thought. If he had me now and had gone to the trouble of orchestrating my kidnapping, then he wasn’t going to let me go easily.

The good news was that I knew Ilias had men watching me the whole time I was in Italy.

They would have known I never made it out of the restaurant.

It was only a matter of time before my brothers came for me, and they’d bring backup.

I wasn’t sure where this little hole in the ground was, but they’d find me.

Somehow. It was just a matter of how long it’d take.

I clenched my jaw, shoving down the creeping tendrils of fear. No. I would not allow myself to slide down that slope. I would find a way out of this.

I turned back to the guard, placing my hands on my hips. “Alright, strong and silent, have it your way. But just so you know, if I don’t get out of here soon, you’re going to have to deal with one very cranky, very vengeful Greek woman. And trust me, that’s not something you want.”

I sighed dramatically and sank back onto the dirt floor, grimacing as the filth clung to my already-ruined clothes. “Hope you’re ready for a long night, buddy. I can talk for hours.”

The guard didn’t react, but I swore his shoulders stiffened just slightly.

Good. Let him underestimate me. Let them all think I was just some spoiled mafia princess who would sit here and wait to be rescued.

They had no idea who they were dealing with. There would inevitably come a time when they would enter this cell, and I’d be ready. I had … dirt and hairpins. Well, I could work with that. And stilettos.

Yeah, they were stupid. They should have taken the heels.