Page 38 of Angelo’s Vengeance (The Commission #3)

THEODOSIA

I was elbow-deep in fabric swatches and doodles when I heard the front door click open downstairs.

I froze, pencil hovering midair, as the wonderland of colors, lines, and textures I’d been lost in for the past few hours flickered away like smoke.

For a beat, I sat there blinking at the cotton samples scattered around me, as if I’d been building a nest. Then, Angelo’s heavy, unmistakable tread echoed through the house, and my heart did that annoying fluttery thing it had started doing lately.

I flopped back onto the floor dramatically, tossing an arm over my face. "Pull it together, Anthakos," I muttered. "He's just a man. A very large, very broody, occasionally stabby man."

A clang from the kitchen indicated where he was headed, and I scrambled up, smoothing down the sailor top and shorts I had changed into earlier—something comfy yet still cute. You know, just in case someone broody and stabby happened to notice.

I padded down the hall, following the warm aromas of baked bread and roasted chicken, feeling like a strange hybrid of a nervous teenager and an old married woman. When I peeked into the kitchen, the sight that greeted me nearly short-circuited my brain.

Angelo Santelli, mafia kingpin extraordinaire, leaned against the counter, talking quietly to Norris, the housekeeper-slash-Alfred-the-Second.

He was dressed all in black tactical gear, including a black Henley, black cargo pants, and a holstered weapon at his hip.

His dark hair was mussed, his sleeves shoved up to his forearms, and he looked—how was this fair—completely edible.

Also, a little bit dangerous, like he could murder someone without breaking a sweat if you said the wrong thing .

Norris caught sight of me first and gave a pleased nod. "Ah, Miss Theo. Just in time."

Angelo’s head snapped up, and when his eyes landed on me, the hard lines of his face softened just a hair. Enough that it felt like he was hauling me right into his orbit with nothing but a look.

"You’re home early,” I said, stupidly, because duh, Captain Obvious.

“Hi, piccola .” His voice was rough, like gravel coated in smoke.

We just stared at each other for a second, the warm kitchen around us blurring at the edges. He looked wired. There was a buzz coming off him, like a live current. I wanted to reach out and smooth the crease between his brows and maybe climb him like a tree.

Instead, I hugged myself and leaned against the doorframe. "Long day?"

He huffed a low laugh. "You could say that."

Bless his soul, Norris broke the moment by bustling around to set the small kitchen table—just two plates, a bottle of wine breathing next to them, candles already flickering as if this were a thing . I flushed.

"Mr. Santelli called ahead," Norris said with a slight smirk. "Said he wanted something...simple and elegant. There is dessert on the counter. I’ll leave you to it.” He gave a slight bow and left us with a wink.

Simple. Right. Like anything about this man was ever simple.

I perched on one of the chairs while Angelo washed up, rolling my pencil nervously between my fingers. When he finally sat down across from me, a wall of heat, strength, and something distinctly dangerous radiated off him, and I found myself blurting out, “So, how was work?"

He gave me a look like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or flip the table. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, studying me with those almost hazel eyes. “Well, good news. We found Renzetti."

I blinked. “You did? Renzetti? As in, the guy who’s been setting fires and trying to murder everyone? The a-hole who almost sold me off? That’s great news.” They had been tearing apart every location they could, looking for where he might have scurried off to.

"That’s the one," he said grimly, reaching for the breadbasket and tearing off a hunk of crusty loaf. "Found him hiding in a Cardoni property on Long Island. The place was locked down tight. Private security. No digital footprint."

That meant they got him. The thought made something in me relax. The idea that he’d been squatting somewhere nearby and plotting hadn’t sat well. I leaned forward, utterly hooked. “But you got him. Was it bad?"

He shrugged one massive shoulder. "Could’ve been worse. He had some resistance—mercenaries, not real soldiers. Paid men. They scattered the second they realized we weren't screwing around."

I shivered at his casual ruthlessness, but not in fear. His tone was similar to how someone else might describe fixing a broken engine or taking out the trash: efficient and unapologetic.

"And Renzetti?"

Angelo's mouth twisted. "Dead. We tried to get him to talk, but he went down swinging. Kind of.”

"Good," I whispered, relieved. Dead was good.

He tore another piece of bread, his hands steady even as a storm brewed in his eyes. "Found signs Carlotta had been there too. Clothes in a guest room closet. Even a glass of wine, but otherwise nothing that could help lead us to her."

I set my chin on my hand, heart thudding. "She’s slippery."

"She’s worse than slippery, but I’ll find her eventually.” His voice darkened. "And Renzetti...he wasn’t the brains. He was a pawn. Carlotta’s pawn. Always was."

I swallowed. "What now?" I wondered what sort of limbo it left us in, with Carlotta still out there.

He gave me a small, grim smile. "We keep looking. And we tighten security—all of us. But we go on with our lives. I have a feeling that Carlotta will continue to do what she does. We’ll get her.” There was confidence in every line of his body when he spoke.

“I believe you.” I did, too. Angelo wouldn’t quit until he figured out her game. Now that he knew she had been in the shadows this whole time, he would focus on using every resource he could to find her.

He reached for his wineglass, swirling the deep red liquid thoughtfully. "Speaking of all of us … I was thinking."

"Uh-oh,” I teased, but my heart leapt a little.

After everything that had happened, I realized I was ready to move forward with Angelo.

Earlier, I had been sketching baby clothes, not only for Frankie but also for myself, potentially.

A wedding had been on my mind. Maybe he was going to bring it up?

That earned me the ghost of a genuine smile. “Maybe we could have a family dinner? Like your siblings. Frankie. Conall. Maybe Remo, too."

I straightened, excitement sparking through me even though that wasn’t the question I had truly hoped for.

“Really?” As a teenager, we always had big family dinners, the quintessential loud Greek family with everyone talking over everyone else.

My brothers were unbearably protective, but they were awesome.

He nodded. "It’s time. We need a real family dinner. Start acting like what we are."

My chest squeezed, a messy mixture of joy, nerves, and something I wasn’t ready to name. "I’d love that."

The corners of his mouth lifted slowly, dangerously, and breathtakingly. "Good. I’ll talk to Ilias about it and see what day is good. Perhaps you could call his cook? She’s pretty great. You want to do Greek?”

Evgenia was a fantastic cook, and she had been with our family for many years.

She’d make you cry over her food, and I loved her kataifi.

I wondered if I could convince her to make it for me.

The honeyed dessert was one of Polina’s and my favorites.

The thought of my sister brought a poignant pang. I missed her terribly.

After that, we ate in a warm bubble of almost normalcy, with the candlelight casting golden highlights in his hair and the kitchen feeling cozy around us. I told him about my day, how I’d spent the morning on a call with Vivienne.

“She thinks I should hire a New York assistant,” I said, waving my fork, but I watched him cautiously for his reaction.

“Someone to help me get set up here.” Mafia men had certain views about their wives working, and I knew that was where we were headed: the altar.

This was the make-or-break moment for Angelo—how he handled my work .

He nodded, approving. "Smart. What do you think about that?”

“I haven’t decided yet how to proceed. If I want to have the same sort of setup, or focus online? I could do a pop-up now and then. That would involve less commitment.”

“Whatever makes you happy, piccola . You’re very talented. I would never want you to stop doing what you love.” Taking a sip of wine, he paused briefly before adding, “You know that funding isn’t an issue. Whatever you need.”

His response was perfect. Open-ended and generous. “Thank you. I’ll think about it. And—" I hesitated, biting my lip.

He immediately picked up on it, setting down his fork and giving me his full attention. "And?"

"And I got a call from someone today. Veronica called.”

“Right.” His brows lifted. "Maxim’s cousin. She occasionally works for us. For me. I talked to her about the situation with your business. The suspicions that I had.”

"Yeah. She...uh, she said she works with you sometimes. On, you know, intelligence and hacking and super spy stuff. "

He chuckled, low and dark. "Sounds about right."

I toyed with the stem of my wineglass. "She looked into everything—my label...back in Florence. I thought I’d just failed, or maybe someone was badmouthing me. But it wasn’t that."

After the phone call, I reflected on what she’d said and the undeniable wave of relief that followed.

When I was little, I struggled with people’s perceptions of me—not just how I looked, but also how I acted.

Putting my designs into the world was an internal battle for my art.

As I grew older, I made a conscious effort to reclaim my power, navigating the world as if others’ opinions didn’t affect me.

I didn’t want to be someone who was impacted by someone else’s words.

What I thought mattered. However, when everything ground to a halt, it had become hard to maintain that inner calm. This felt like vindication.

His gaze sharpened. "What was it?"

I swallowed. "It was Carlotta. Like you thought.” He went utterly still. "She was pulling strings," I said softly. "Threatening clients. Blackmailing. Making sure no one wanted to work with me. It wasn’t about the business. It was about...moving me like a chess piece."

The silence stretched heavy and taut between us.

"I’m sorry," he said finally, his voice rough with anger. "You didn’t deserve that."

"No." I smiled, sad and small. "But it’s over now. And honestly? It just makes me more determined to succeed. Reminds me that I can’t let things like that slow me down, or change who I am.”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, those dark eyes burning into mine. "You will succeed, Theodosia. I’ll help you make damn sure of it."

I believed him in a way that transcended reason, logic, or common sense.

Maybe I was insane. Maybe I was falling for a mafia don with blood on his hands and a fortress around his heart.

But in that moment, with the candles flickering and his hand reaching across the table to close gently over mine, I didn’t care.

I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

With him.