Page 18 of Angelo’s Vengeance (The Commission #3)

THEODOSIA

Okay, no one told me that the afterlife came with a heart monitor’s soothing, repetitive lullaby. Or maybe heaven was facing a technical issue.

My eyelids felt like they were made of velvet-covered cement. When I finally cracked one open, everything blended into a pastel smear—ivory walls, pale blue sheets, and a beige curtain with absolutely no sense of aesthetic ambition. Ew.

A sharp ache pulsed in my side, and my brain—a complete traitor—linked it to a memory. There had been sharp, blinding pain.

The auction. Renzetti. The dress I didn’t design. The smell of bourbon and blood. The sound of Angelo shouting. And then? —

Gunfire.

My chest rose too quickly, and my breath hitched as the machines beeped faster in response.

I tried to move as I attempted to sit up, but my body had other plans.

My ribs screamed, and my side throbbed. My limbs felt like they belonged to a crash-test dummy.

A groan escaped me—elegant, like a dying goat, probably—and that was when I noticed him.

Slumped in a chair beside me, head bowed, one hand hanging between his knees, the other still wrapped around the grip of a gun tucked into the holster under his jacket, was Angelo.

A dangerous angel in wrinkled black, his shirt stained with something dark that I didn’t want to think about too hard.

His hair was unkempt, his jaw shadowed by stubble, and his expression was slack with exhaustion.

And I’d never seen anything more heartbreakingly beautiful. (Aside from a pair of vintage Ferragamo trousers I once saw in Paris, but this was a close second.)

I wondered where my brothers were. My mind replayed the events of the past day.

Had it only been a day? Relief had flooded me when I heard the gunfire and commotion from the upper floors.

There had been no doubt in my mind that my brothers would come for me.

A small part of me prayed that Angelo would be there, too.

It made sense that he would be, but I suppressed the giddy girl and needy bitch who reveled in the idea of a white knight riding to her rescue. This wasn’t the fucking movies.

"Hey," I croaked or tried to. It came out more like a rasp.

Still, his head jerked up, and his eyes found mine—burning, wild. For a second, I thought I imagined things there, that he had envisioned terrible things while I was gone. His eyes were dark and haunted, but then I reminded myself that he didn’t care about me; I was merely an obligation.

"Theodosia," he breathed.

He was out of the chair before I could blink again, one hand cradling my face and the other brushing hair from my forehead as if I might break if he touched me too hard.

I was startled, flinching in surprise at the intensity and the feelings that surged within me— old, tired, and beaten down from long ago.

I knew better than to harbor them for a man like him.

“Stop yourself, Theo,” I told myself sternly.

"You’re awake. Jesus, you’re awake."

I blinked up at him, trying to focus through the fog. "Hi," I whispered.

"Hi? That’s what you’re going with right now?" His laugh was low and rough and didn’t sound entirely sane. “You got shot.”

“Um … yeah. That’s what I’m going with. I was also nearly sold off like a cursed vintage handbag," I muttered. "But yes, the bullet thing seems more immediate." The aim was joking, but he didn’t seem to appreciate it.

He gave me a look. Half horror, half utter disbelief. "You’re impossible."

"Flattering," I said weakly. “You always know what to say to make me feel special.”

His hand trembled where it cupped my cheek. "I thought I was too late. When I saw you fall... Theo, I—" His voice broke, and I watched him shut his eyes like he could cage the pain behind his lashes.

I wanted to tell him it was okay, that I was here, and that I didn’t blame him, but I couldn’t speak through the lump rising in my throat.

Instead, in a moment of weakness, I reached for his hand, my fingers ghosting over the back of it, and he latched on like I was his anchor in the storm. Silence settled, thick and heavy.

Then, because I was me and couldn’t help myself, I said, "I need a mirror."

It was the last thing I wanted. My hair was probably a mess, and my makeup was definitely running as if a raccoon had eaten my lashes. But I needed him to stop looking at me with this tenderness that was stirring all these feelings .

He blinked. "What?"

"I’ve been unconscious, there are tubes in my arm, I haven’t done skincare in—God, how long have I been out? And what did they do with that godawful dress? I want it burned."

He stared at me for a long beat. Then he laughed. Head back, throat exposed, like he hadn’t laughed in years and didn’t quite remember how.

It made me love him a bit more. Oh God, I groaned. I really was hopeless. The realization that I still had feelings for him made me feel nauseous. He was going to grind me up and leave me in the dust, which was both infuriating and inevitable .

“You’ll be happy to know they cut it to ribbons while treating you.” He leaned down and kissed my forehead like I was Frankie, though perhaps I could pretend his lips lingered a little longer than necessary. “You’re going to be fine,” he said as if he were reassuring himself.

"I better be. I still haven’t released my fall collection."

He pulled the chair closer, never letting go of my hand. “Your fall collection can wait. Right now, you’re getting treated for a gunshot wound. You’ve been out for two days. We’re still in New Orleans."

Two days. The number didn’t register. I was still too busy focusing on his face, memorizing every line, every tired crease that told me he hadn’t left this room once. I hadn’t seen him in a year, and I was drinking him in.

“You had to go into surgery,” he continued. “Do you want me to explain what the doctor said?”

“No. Did they fix everything?” The last thing I wanted to hear was the ins and outs of a medical procedure. Those sorts of things gave me the ick. All I wanted to know was if it was fixed. I left everything else to the professionals.

Medical stuff went in one ear and out the other with me.

The last thing I wanted to hear was all the complicated terminology.

Thinking about all the tubes entering and exiting my body, along with the idea that I was under anesthesia for surgery, made me feel a bit sick.

Certainly, having it done wasn’t a choice, but just imagining my body limp and pale on the table while they performed surgery made me want to poke my eyes out.

I’d never had surgery before, and the thought of being put to sleep like that always secretly freaked me out.

I suppose these were the potential hazards that came with being shot, which was part of the mafia life.

My hand fluttered up to the dressing on my chest. I was going to have a scar. Just great.

“Yes. They fixed everything,” he said solemnly. “You’ll need to keep your arm immobile for a while, but the surgeon said everything will be fine.” His throat bobbed for a minute.

I slid my eyes away. “Did you get him?" I asked.

A part of me didn’t feel safe with the idea of Salvatore Renzetti roaming the world. I hoped he had been killed in the skirmish, but as soon as Angelo stiffened, I knew he hadn’t.

A muscle ticked in his jaw. "No. Not yet. He ran when the shooting started. Used you getting hit as cover to escape."

Disgust curled in my belly at the memory of his smarmy smile and vile, possessive gaze.

There had been moments when I worried that Renzetti would get his way, and I’d end up sold off.

I hadn’t even let myself think about what that would have meant.

I needed to have a conversation with Angelo about how I ended up there with Salvatore.

"Coward," I whispered.

"Dead man," Angelo corrected.

A silence stretched between us again, heavier now, thicker. Like it knew there were things we weren’t saying.

I broke it first. "You came for me."

He looked startled. "Of course I did." He swallowed. "You’re mine ."

The way he said it—fierce and broken and utterly certain—hit me somewhere beneath the bandage near my heart, making it hurt even more because he didn’t mean it the way I wanted him to .

"I’m not some pretty doll you can keep in a glass case, Angelo," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

"I know," he said. "I know. You’re fire and thunder and glitter and chaos. No glass case could ever hold you .”

The last was said ruefully, yet it still broke my heart a little. I wanted him to want to keep me, and that made me stupid. I closed my eyes and let the tears fall.

For everything I’d lost.

For everything I still had.

And for the boy with the devil’s smile who had come for me.

“I’m sorry it hurts. Get some rest. I’ll be here. Your brothers are here too.” He pushed the button for morphine, and I let it carry me away, not bothering to tell him the reason for the waterworks.