Page 15 of Angelo’s Vengeance (The Commission #3)

THEODOSIA

Theodosia

The walls were sweating.

Okay, maybe not literally, but that’s how it felt.

The dampness soaked through the fabric of my jumpsuit—the one I had carefully paired with black suede Santoni heels that morning.

A morning that now felt like it belonged to another life.

Back when I still had clean clothes, breathable air, and an intact sense of self-preservation.

Back before, Carlotta Santelli smiled sweetly over tea and handed me over like a party favor.

"God, I knew she was a nightmare,” I muttered to myself, pacing the six-by-eight cell like a caged animal in couture.

If you could even call it couture anymore.

My jumpsuit was streaked with dirt, my heels were stained beyond redemption, and I was pretty sure something had died in the far corner of the room.

It smelled like damp despair and rat droppings.

"Hey! Mustache!" I called out for the eighth time today. "You know, you could at least pretend I’m a person. Say hi. Offer me a drink. Maybe a snack? I’d murder someone for an espresso.” Neither was a lie. I was starving and thirsty.

Silence. As usual.

I flopped down onto the grimy cot with a groan, kicking off one shoe to inspect it—my poor baby.

Scuffed suede and some of the little rhinestones had come off.

Santino would weep. These were the Sibille pumps, and I loved them with their shiny little constellations of stones.

They made my feet sparkle. When I wore them, they brought me joy.

Of all the things I could focus on right now, I was furious about my clothes and shoes. It was easier to rage about fashion than to confront the dread curling in my stomach. The only thing I knew for sure? If this were Salvatore Renzetti’s version of wooing, I’d rather date a sewer rat.

He hadn’t revealed himself yet, but the air reeked of evil. Carlotta had spoken his name with the kind of smirk typically reserved for someone you didn’t particularly care for. She’d set me up—smiling all the while—and now I was the one trapped in some horror-movie version of a prison cell.

I put my ruined pump back on and stood, pacing once more. I had searched the room a hundred times, tracing every crack in the wall and checking every loose piece of wood or rusted metal. Nothing. No window, no tools, no leverage.

But I still had pins in my hair.

And I had grit, even if it was currently stuck in my bra.

The sound of boots on the wooden stairs outside made me tense. I froze mid-step, my eyes fixed on the cell door. Metal scraped as the barred door was opened.

"Time to clean up," a voice barked. Male. Gruff.

"Excuse me? I’m very clean, thank you." I wiped my hands on my pants and lifted my chin. “This took hours of work and an ingenuity you wouldn’t understand."

The door clanked open, and two guards entered, their faces unreadable. I backed up, pinning myself against the wall as I scuffed off a shoe and picked it up. I hated to ruin one of my heels like this, but some things were worth it.

"Don’t touch me.” I loathed that my voice came out shaky.

"Orders are orders," the first man said, showing no signs of remorse. “You could just walk out under your own power.” He shrugged as if he didn’t care either way.

He was muscular and scarred, with flat black eyes that hinted he wouldn’t hesitate to hurt me if needed. He might even take pleasure in it.

"Well,” I snapped, clenching the two hairpins I’d gathered from my hair in one hand like daggers. "I am not afraid to go full psycho."

It wasn’t much, but sharp, and I jabbed forward like a fencing champion on a sugar high. One caught my wrist, twisting hard until I screamed, while the other tried to grab my legs. I kicked and flailed, and the other one of my heels flew off like a rogue missile.

"You jerks ruined my outfit!"

My elbow connected with someone’s chin. I bit down on the first guard’s arm until I tasted blood, so I bore down, ignoring the awful feeling that it was flesh.

The man howled as I took a chunk out of his arm.

My hair flew wildly as I thrashed, pins scattering, curls everywhere like a whirling dervish.

I gripped the base of the heel tightly and slammed it with all my strength, aiming for an eyeball and hoping for that action movie moment where it sank in, making me look like a badass.

Sadly, it glanced off his cheekbone, leaving a reasonably wicked slice but failing to do nearly enough damage.

“You bitch! You bit me.”

He delivered a strong punch to my ribs, causing me to drop to my knees, my wrists pinned, feet dragging, dirt clinging to me like a second skin as they manhandled me into a hold.

“Enough. No marks.” It was the mustachioed guard who had watched my door. “Pick her up.”

They hauled me up a narrow flight of stairs into a wide hallway.

White columns, wooden floors, tall windows with gauzy curtains—a plantation home.

Antebellum and absurd. Frantically, I searched for someone to call out to, someone who might help me, even though I knew that was impossible.

I was in Southern Belle horror movie hell.

The opulence, combined with the fact that I was just below in a jail cell and having been punched in the ribs, made me feel ill.

They shoved me hard into a room the size of my old apartment, featuring a four-poster bed and an equally spacious bathroom.

Everything gleamed in white and gold: gilded mirrors, velvet seating, and marble floors.

It stood in stark contrast to my previous quarters, so I scrambled forward, trying to find my footing as I moved toward the door.

“Stop,” said the Mustache Man. “You won’t get anywhere. There is nowhere to go and no one to help you. Clean up. Now."

"Or what?" I sneered even as I tried to assess the options.

It was all bravado, but I summoned every ounce of it I had from the soles of my bare feet, ignoring the ache of my ribs. One guard cracked his knuckles while the other shot me a look that made my skin crawl.

“If that’s necessary, you’ll find that you’d prefer to tidy up by yourself.

There are dresses to choose from. Put one on.

If we must return to dress you, I’ll let him do it.

” He jerked his head towards the guard who had struck me.

“I won’t stop him this time. Maybe he can have a little sample,” he added suggestively.

Taking a look at the two guards, I could see that they were only restrained by the guard in charge. If he hadn’t been here, they would have all been over me. Dread coated my throat. So what was this? Some sort of business like my father’s?

"Right," I muttered. "Shower, it is."

They left, slamming the door behind them. I locked it, even though it probably wouldn’t hold.

The mirror showed a stranger: dirt-smudged cheeks, bruised wrists, and tangled hair. My eyeliner had turned traitor and fled down my cheeks.

There was an option to ignore orders and not get cleaned up, but that didn’t seem very smart.

That would only encourage the leechers in the hallway.

My job here was to delay. Having already engaged in the little scuffle downstairs, I knew when I was overpowered.

It didn’t serve me to refuse to clean up.

If I did as they asked, I’d be dirt-free and dressed again — and it wasted more time.

Please, please, please let my brothers be on their way.

I allowed myself one moment in the shower to lean against the tile for precisely two minutes to feel sorry for myself.

I scrubbed myself raw in the shower. Hot water, floral soap, plush towels—like I was supposed to forget I’d been treated like a stray animal. Like this was luxury. Not a cage in disguise. My ribs were bruised, but they weren’t broken.

Then I saw the clothes laid out on the bed like an offering. High-end designer, sure. Elie Saab, Dior, Versace. But none of it was mine. None of it was made by my hands, stitched with love and rebellion.

People never understood that wearing someone else’s design felt like wearing someone else’s skin.

I chose the least offensive option: a black silk dress with long sleeves and a thigh slit.

Classic. Elegant. Tactical. If I had to run, I’d be mobile.

The matching stilettos were offensively perfect.

Maybe I’d get luckier the next time and land that eyeball shot I’d been hoping for.

Squish it right in there and cause some damage.

They were nice ones, too. Red bottoms. Louboutins.

I sat at the vanity, brushing out my curls and applying the makeup left for me, as if I were preparing for a gala or a funeral.

My hair had always been its own animal—wild, unpredictable, and only vaguely aware that I was the one it was attached to.

It was long, naturally curly, and had a flair for the dramatic, as if it knew it was the first thing people noticed when I walked into a room.

At its best, it was a sleek, coiled panther draped over my shoulders, all glossy shine and effortless allure.

But most days? It was a feral creature with claws, frizzy and defiant, fighting every attempt I made to wrangle it into submission.

Brushes? Laughed at. Serums? Momentary peace treaties.

Silk pillowcases? A joke. I had stopped trying to tame it.

These days, I just worked with the beast—my curls and I, an uneasy alliance at best.

The door creaked open.

I looked into the mirror to see the image reflected back at me. And I knew .

Renzetti.

He resembled a toad, with a broad, heavy-jowled face, a stocky build, and dark hair slicked back.

He wore a three-piece suit by a tailor who was either inept or didn’t like him very much.

There was too much shoulder padding, and the buttons weren’t right.

He smiled at me, but his face felt all wrong.

It was cold in a way that turned my stomach—it felt like a mask worn for too long, almost like a Halloween costume that melted in the sun.

His eyes were wrong. Empty. Cold.

"You must be Theodosia," he said, his smile slow and cruel.

I stood, spine straight. "And you must be that delusional asshole Carlotta mentioned.”

His eyes glittered, but I could tell he didn’t like it. "You’re just as charming as she described. I suppose I’ll need to teach you some manners.”

"Sorry to disappoint."

Something I learned long ago was not to worry about the preconceived notions people had about me. My goal on Earth wasn’t to be what people expected — least of all, this prick .

He took a step closer. I didn’t flinch. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

"You’ve caused quite the stir," he murmured. "Fiery. Spirited. Angelo’s little doll.”

"I don’t belong to anybody.”

I was startled by his comment. Was that why I was here? Was it because he thought Angelo had some attachment to me? He had crept closer, but there was nowhere for me to go. A chilling, gut-wrenching fear gripped me, yet I forced myself to stand still.

"Oh, but you are." He reached out, brushing a strand of hair off my cheek.

I slapped his hand away, unable to help the instinct to keep his hands off me.

He laughed, low and pleased. “I enjoy a challenge."

I smiled sweetly. "Good. Because you’re going to lose."

Renzetti’s smile thinned. "We’ll see about that.

I expect you downstairs and on your best behavior in under five minutes.

You’ll be escorted down, of course.” He added the last part as if he were granting me a favor.

Then he turned and walked out, leaving behind the scent of expensive cologne and the stench of decay.

I stared at the closed door. My pulse was racing.

But my mind?

Raced faster.

I wasn’t going down like this. I’d memorize every hallway, every face, every weakness. If I had to burn this plantation to the ground in my Louboutins, so be it.