Page 41 of Angelo’s Vengeance (The Commission #3)

THEODOSIA

I was still floating from the night downstairs.

And maybe because Angelo’s hand had found the small of my back and remained there the entire walk up the stairs. Steady. Warm. Possessive.

I liked it far too much, this feeling of normalcy and home.

We’d had a wonderful evening with family and friends.

The only person missing was Polina, who was away at school.

I doubted that my brothers would allow her to come over for an evening like this with so many crime bosses, but I needed to start working on them.

They needed to start seeing that they couldn’t keep excluding her from everything.

This was our life, and it couldn’t stop just because they were worried for her.

For the first time, Angelo and I had entertained like a couple, and I couldn’t get enough. Then there was the proposal. It didn’t bother me that there hadn’t been flowers or something elaborate. He had waited for me to be ready, and boy, was I prepared to be Mrs. Santelli.

We barely reached the landing before he tugged me closer, his mouth finding that sensitive spot just below my ear, which made my toes curl.

I laughed, breathless, and leaned into him. "Someone’s in a mood," I teased, my voice slightly shaky. My mood matched his exactly, and I guessed he knew it.

"Someone's got plans," he murmured. “You told me that I had work to do.”

Before I could ask him what he meant, he grabbed my hand and led me to the bedroom. He turned to face me, his dark eyes steady in the dim light. He looked… nervous. Angelo Santelli : King of the Bronx, mafia don, slayer of enemies, wielder of terrifying silences — nervous.

I blinked. "What?" I said, a little wary. "Is there a body hidden under the bed?"

He huffed out a laugh. "Not tonight."

“Good. I just cleaned under there.”

He pulled a small velvet box from the nightstand drawer, thumbing it open with one big hand. Inside, nestled against black velvet, was the most beautiful and unique ring I had ever seen. It wasn’t traditional—no fluffy diamond halo or safe, boring solitaire.

Instead, it was bold—a rectangular step-cut black sapphire glittered in the center—stunning, like the clearest night sky.

Tiny baguette diamonds fanned out around it in sharp, clean lines, creating a sunburst pattern that screamed Art Deco in the most delicious, dramatic way.

The band was platinum, slim, and detailed with a delicate engraving of tiny repeating fans, like a whisper of old New York glamour.

It was stunning.

Elegant and eccentric at the same time.

Exactly the kind of ring that made people lean in and say, "Tell me the story behind that."

I pressed my hand over my heart. I could see it already.

The black sapphire would pop against a dramatic tulle gown — something draped , not stiff, with bias cuts that whispered instead of shouted.

Maybe a low back. Tiny pearl buttons. A faux fur stole thrown over my shoulders if it was chilly.

My bouquet would be dahlias, or perhaps black bat flowers, sprays of silver eucalyptus, and a few moody, deep-blue thistles tucked in for a touch of chaos.

No tiara. No glitter. Just a sweep of soft waves pinned to one side, and these art deco details glinting at my ears and wrists — tiny echoes of the ring that started it all.

The kind of wedding that didn't feel like a performance, but a story — a crazy, fierce, reckless, beautiful story only we could tell.

"I had it restored," Angelo said quietly, watching my face like a hawk. “It’s from the Depression, but it reminded me there is still light even when everything feels dark. It reminds me of you.”

My throat went tight, too full of words I couldn’t form. "It's perfect," I whispered. "Guess you’re stuck with me now, Santelli," I murmured against his mouth.

" You’re perfect," he said, voice rough. “I love you. ”

“I’ve always loved you.” It was the truth. I never stopped loving him, even in the dark. My love for him spanned years full of heartache, but that didn’t mean it had ended. It was a full-circle sort of love.

I stared at him — this complicated, brutal, beautiful man — holding the ring against my finger as if he didn’t already own every piece of my battered heart.

It looked… old.

Loved.

Story-soaked.

Just like something I would have designed myself if I had been given the brief: whimsical, stubborn, romantic, slightly mischievous, likely to prick her fingers with a sewing needle.

My throat closed up.

"Theo Anthakos," he said, voice low but steady. "Marry me." I nodded so hard I nearly fell over.

"Yes," I said, half-laughing, half-sobbing. "Of course, yes. A million times, yes."

His shoulders relaxed, and for a moment, the fierce mafia don disappeared, revealing just Angelo.

My Angelo .

He slid the ring onto my finger, his touch reverent.

It fit perfectly, like it had been waiting for me all along.

When I looked back at him, he was already standing, invading my space, his hands cradling my face, tilting it upward.

I barely had time to gasp before he kissed me. Not a polite, chaste kiss.

Like he was writing his name across my soul in invisible ink.

Pulling him closer, I wrapped my arms around his neck, feeling the tension rippling through his muscles. I realized he was holding back. Barely. I wasn’t interested in holding anything back.

I kissed him harder, lightly scraping my nails against his scalp, and he made a low, vicious sound that did terrible, wonderful things to my insides.

“ Piccola ,” he growled against my mouth. “ Amore mio .”

I pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. “Give me everything.”

He grinned then—that rare, dangerous flash of white teeth that always made my knees weak. "You asked for it," he said, voice dark with promise.

He came down over me, mouth hot and desperate, hands greedy as he stripped away my dress in one rough pull. The cool air hit my skin, and I gasped, but it was swallowed by his mouth. He kissed me like he wanted to memorize every sound I made.

I clawed at his shirt, frustrated by the buttons, and he chuckled against my throat, low and dirty, before yanking it off over his head. I let my hands roam — broad shoulders, scarred ribs, the sharp planes of his hips. My fingertips brushed the tattoo by his heart — the line of script.

This wasn’t tender lovemaking. This was desperate and rough.

Our teeth clashed as we struggled to kiss harder, my fingers scrabbling against him as he battered into me.

I was slick with want, but he wasn’t small.

Still, the stretch and pinch of his cock drove the orgasm through me so brilliantly that I screamed wordlessly into his shoulder as I came, my nails scraping along his skin as his hips drove into me.

“That’s it, piccola , give it to me. Again. Damnit. Again.” He ground out as he tweaked my nipples. “I want it all.”

“Don’t hold back. I want you to come.” I clamped around his cock, enjoying the ecstasy that took over his face as he pistoned in and out of my body, that feeling of him gliding in and out making my eyes roll back.

He narrowed his eyes at me, and pulled out his cock glistening. “Not yet. I want to savor it. Roll over, piccola . Lay flat.”

He stroked himself while I did as he said, and even as I laughed, he adjusted a pillow under my hips.

“You look so pretty like this. That ass of yours wants me to do naughty things to it.” Calloused fingers caressed my skin before they dipped down to slide into my pussy.

He leaned over me, his lips nipping at the skin on my spine, sucking the tender flesh into his mouth while his fingers continued to thrust and and tease.

“I love your skin. Have I told you that?”

I squirmed, trying to thrust against his fingers, only to whine when they disappeared. “Wait,” I protested.

“Don’t you worry, baby.” The velvety tip of his cock notched to my slit. “I’m going to take care of you right now. Take care of both of us. I’m going to come in this pretty pussy of yours, and then I’m going to start all over again. You’re going to stay just like this.”

“I will?”

“Yes. I’m going to fill you up.” He gave me a light slap on the thigh as he shoved into me.

His fingers moved to my clit. The sheets on my nipples and the sting against my skin made sensations bloom through my body.

“That’s it, piccola . Do you like that? You seem extra wet.

” He pulled back out and then rammed in again. “Are you my naughty girl?”

My voice was muffled against the sheets, but I managed to whimper out a barely audible. “God. Please.” He gave me another slap, harder this time, enhancing everything, and I wanted to rub myself against the sheet to give even more friction.

“Not God. Angelo . Say it.” He gave my ass cheek another small slap and I came apart on a cry, desperate and needy just before he jerked and came hard, pumping into me, gripping my hips hard as liquid heat spread into me.

Collapsing in a messy heap, he pressed one hand over my belly as he rolled me over before he kissed my temple. “Give me a minute of recovery.”

“That’s right, you’re getting old,” I teased.

Later, tangled together under the soft, rumpled sheets, Angelo brushed his thumb over the ring on my finger.

"You sure you want this?" he murmured, voice rough with exhaustion and something heavier underneath.

I twisted to face him completely, my heart overflowing. "You’re an overprotective, infuriating, brooding mafia boss who ruins my plans and steals all the covers," I said solemnly. "And I love you more than anyone or anything. Yes, I want it all.”

He blinked. Then, slowly, a genuine smile blossomed across his face. "You’re trouble," he said, brushing my hair back. “I’m so glad you’re mine.”

"Always," I whispered.

He kissed me again, slow and deep, like a vow.

And somewhere deep inside, I made my own vow back .

No matter what came next — wars, betrayals, ghosts from the past — we were a team now.

And God help anyone who tried to get between us.