Page 23 of Angelo’s Vengeance (The Commission #3)

THEODOSIA

The Bronx smelled of heat and concrete, exhaust fumes and empty promises, and garlic knots if you walked past the right block.

I didn’t hate it—this city had a gritty charm and a relentless beat that didn’t wait for anyone.

It suited Angelo in that brooding, vengeful way of his.

It didn’t suit me. Not one bit. Or maybe I was lying to myself because it felt an awful lot like home being back here.

Which ticked me off… but it seemed to be my normal state these days.

When we landed, Angelo said he was bringing me back to his brownstone, loading me into a car with his capos.

My brothers kissed me and promised to see me soon, but they didn’t argue when Angelo steered me away from them.

I was surprised they allowed it, and against my better judgment, I didn’t protest. I thought Angelo and I shared a moment, and maybe it was time to face the reality of our situation.

Now he was closed off, his face implacable as he helped me into the house I’d known almost my entire life. It was comfortable here, although I typically had limited myself to sneaking around the garage since Frankie had moved out on her own.

I suppose the brownstone he shoved me into—okay, technically escorted me to—was beautiful.

A brownstone with high ceilings, polished floors, wrought-iron railings, and a street view that made me yearn for the noise of Vespas and the hum of the chaos I was accustomed to in Florence.

Right now, it was quiet. Too quiet in the late stillness of the evening.

Darkness had blanketed the house, and Angelo turned on the lights as we went.

“Let’s get you settled in,” he mumbled as he moved forward.

Exhausted, I followed him through the hallways and up the staircase where I had cried my heart out years ago. There was a guest suite directly across from his room that I had only peeked into once, but it had been empty.

Now, it was full of color and textures, with a canopy bed that reminded me of my bedroom in Italy.

It looked out onto the small gardens. “I thought you might like your own space while you heal.” He rubbed a hand down his slacks as I took it all in.

Some of my belongings were scattered around the room, including knick-knacks, books, and photos.

“Did you bring my stuff here?” I couldn’t tell if I was upset or relieved. I’d already spoken with Vivienne, so I knew he and my brothers had been all up in my business, but I hadn’t expected Angelo to have packed up my things.

“Yeah,” the words sounded both sheepish and wary at the same time.

“Thanks. Probably for the best.” I tried not to look at him as I walked around, thinking about him touching my things.

I meant it when I said that it was for the best. When Frankie told me she was going to have her IUD taken out and start trying for a baby, I was thrilled, and I totally meant that I’d come home.

Maybe I hadn’t envisioned it exactly like this.

Still, it was for the best because, in the end, this is exactly where I’d have to be according to the blood oath.

Peering around the corner, I almost moaned at the bathroom that waited for me. It looked glorious.

“I could help you with a bath,” he offered. “I know you said you wanted to get clean and wash your hair.” He looked at me hopefully.

The offer was too tempting to ignore, and even though it was dangerous in many ways— mostly to my heart— there was no way I could last another frickin’ day without washing my hair. I’d been making do at the hospital with sponge baths and wet wipes, and it wasn’t enough.

“That’d be great. I can’t even stand myself right now.” I admitted. No part of me was joking about that, and I wasn’t going to be a martyr and turn down his offer. It was too late to call Frankie to help me, and I didn’t want to lie down for another night without getting clean.

Thankfully, he didn’t provide any additional commentary before he set himself to the task of filling the tub.

After examining the closet space where my clothes hung in splendid rows of handmade glory, I watched him from my perch on the chair.

Tears even came to my eyes at the thought of things made by my own hands.

Angelo had earned himself a lot of grace with this gesture.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t even undress myself without unstrapping the entire contraption they’d forced me into.

My wound was throbbing now, and I didn’t want to complain, but I really could use a Tylenol or something.

“Come on then, piccola . Your bath is ready. Let’s get you in first.” He looked sinful beside the tub in his rumpled slacks and that five o’clock shadow. His shirt sleeves rolled up, revealing those corded arms of his that had always driven me crazy.

Methodically, he undressed me, unstrapping the harness that kept my shoulder still and concentrating on the buckles and straps as he went through each motion gingerly. “Tell me if I hurt you.”

I nodded, trying to ignore the butterflies that stirred as I breathed in his heat, the scent that was distinctly his—all male—and the awareness that his hands were on me.

I winced as the sling came off, and the weight of my arm was suddenly mine to bear again; somehow, it pulled on the muscles in my chest, intensifying the pain.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes. It’s fine. Keep going.” My eyes found his. There was hesitation on his face, and his mouth was pinched. “I need clean bandages, too,” I reminded him. He already had them laid out. “I could call Frankie,” I offered. Maybe I should have anyway.

“No, we’ve got this, piccola . We’re a team.” He winked at me, which just did me in.

His fingers slid over the buttons on the shirt I was wearing.

I’d borrowed one of Ilias’s dress shirts, tying it at the front, and as Angelo slipped it off, leaving me in my lounge pants and bra, each pass of his hands felt like a brand.

I suppose I could help, but I was supporting my other arm, trying to relieve the strain and ignore the throbbing that seemed to radiate from the wound like the heat of a thousand suns.

“Whose shirt is this?” his tone had darkened, but his head was bowed as he lowered my pajama pants until they pooled around my ankles.

“My brother’s. Thank you for bringing my things here. That was kind.” His fingers moved to my panties, and he hesitated. “I can’t take a bath with them on.” I’d shrug, but it would hurt too much. I wasn’t ashamed of my body—the thickness of my thighs or the softness of my belly.

“You’re beautiful, you know?” He eased them off and let me step out, starting on the bralette I was wearing. A nurse had kindly helped me with it, as my brothers weren’t an option. “I should have been faster,” he said, swallowing as he looked at the bandages.

“You came. That matters. I’m safe.” I wouldn’t touch the comments about my physique. Angelo blew hot and cold, and I still felt it was important to remember that he wasn’t here by choice. This was all a forced arrangement.

I slid into the warm water with a hiss of pain and pleasure, the ache in my shoulder a dull roar, yet the comfort of being submerged (at least my lower half) almost brought me to tears.

I wished I could fill it up, but the doctor had been firm about keeping the wound as dry as possible.

My breasts were bare except for my long hair that draped over them, but Angelo’s heated gaze told me he didn’t mind the free show.

My traitorous nipples were hard under his stare.

Maybe I should care that he could see, but I didn’t.

I leaned my head back against the curved porcelain, closing my eyes briefly and letting the scent of lavender and chamomile envelop me.

"Too hot?" he asked, his voice low.

"No. It's perfect," I breathed, then cracked one eye open to find him still watching me. His sleeves were rolled higher now, his forearms dusted with water droplets, veins pronounced, and skin glowing under the soft lights of the bathroom.

Angelo knelt beside the tub like some Roman statue come to life, a contradiction of violence and gentleness, a man whose hands were capable of ending lives and yet, somehow, were tender on my skin.

He was quiet, waiting.

I wanted to say something snarky, to cut the tension that had wrapped around us like thin but unbreakable silk thread. But the words got stuck somewhere between my lips and heart.

Instead, I dipped my good hand into the water and began washing what I could, stubbornly maintaining the illusion of independence. My hair was a whole other story—a tangled mess of curls and frustration. I poked at it with a sigh.

"You're going to let me help you with that, right?" he asked.

I hesitated. There were so many levels to that request. But that was what had gotten me in the tub, and I wouldn’t bow out now.

Letting Angelo Santelli touch my hair was far more intimate than the bath.

I opened my mouth to object, but he was already kneeling behind me, taking the pitcher in his hand and pouring warm water over my hair with agonizing care.

"I’ll be gentle," he said, sensing my hesitation.

"You’re not exactly known for that," I muttered, but there was no heat behind the words.

His chuckle was low and deep, trailing across my neck like a gentle caress. “Perhaps I’ll surprise you. Maybe I’ve grown up a little.”

His fingers moved through my curls, detangling with gentle patience. The pads of his thumbs grazed my scalp. I felt myself begin to unravel under his hands, strand by strand .

"You don’t have to do this," I whispered, unsure if I wanted him to stop.

"I want to." His voice was gruff. "After everything… I need to."

And that did it. The words twisted in my chest, splintering something that had been rigid since the plantation. Since the bullet. Since I’d felt like maybe I wouldn’t make it out at all.

I turned just enough to see him. His face was shadowed, but his eyes were sharp. Full of unspoken things.

"I hate you," I said, my voice barely rising above the splash of water. The words weren’t entirely a lie, but there is no more accurate saying than, ‘There’s a thin line between love and hate.’ That encapsulated my feelings towards Angelo over the last decade, constantly vacillating between the two.

His jaw flexed. “I know. I’ll fix it."

“I’m not sure you can.” It was as honest as I could be. Deep in my heart, bitterness had clouded over that childish love that I’d had for him, and it had turned into acid. It had colored everything I did through the years.

He paused for a moment. “I knew about the blood oath. It made me want to break something —the very idea of it. My father forced me to sign. He beat me right at the table and made me press my finger to that paper.” There was a hearty sigh. “I’ve just always had a lot of feelings about it.”

God, what were we doing?

I dipped my chin, eyes burning.

The water had stilled. Even the city noise outside seemed to have hushed in respect for whatever was unraveling between us. Angelo’s hand moved from my hair to my cheek, wet and trembling, and I leaned into it despite myself.

"You scare the hell out of me," I admitted. "Not because you’re violent. Not even because you’re the most dangerous man I’ve ever known. But because… because of this thing we have to do. Neither of us has a choice anymore.”

"No," he said, voice raw. “We don’t, but I’m not sure I’m mad about it anymore, piccola .” His thumb brushed across my cheekbone. “Are you?”

I closed my eyes. "I don’t know." My feelings felt too big and jumbled for me to be more specific.

He let out a breath that sounded like it’d been trapped in his chest for years. "That’s honest, at least."

I opened my eyes to find him closer, kneeling at the edge, still with that wretched restraint in his body, like he didn’t trust himself not to burn us both alive if he moved.

And maybe that was what I wanted. Maybe I wanted to feel something other than pain and fear and the suffocating weight of obligations I never asked for.

"Angelo," I said, and it came out like a plea.

He leaned in, lips a breath from mine, his eyes locked on me. "Say it again."

" Angelo ."

The kiss that followed was not gentle. It was reverent and ferocious, a claiming and a surrender, our mouths crashing together like we’d both been drowning and just found air.

His hands cupped my jaw, careful not to touch my shoulder, but everything else was wild.

His breath ragged against mine, the water lapping at the tub’s sides with every movement.

My fingers anchored the back of his neck to me as if I couldn’t get enough.

I gasped when he pulled away.

"This isn’t done yet," he said, voice thick .

I blinked. "What?"

He stood, clearing his throat. "When you’re better. When you’re whole, I want you to choose it. Me. Not because you were forced into it, but because you want it."

Damn him. And damn me… because at that moment, I wasn’t sure I had ever wanted anything more, even if it terrified me.

Even if it meant letting him in.

Later, when I was ensconced in the sheets and clean, with my hair dried, I let my eyes drift shut, thinking hard about the circumstances that had brought me here. Angelo didn’t realize it, but underneath everything, I did want to choose him—every time. I just needed him to choose me first.