Page 47 of Angelo’s Vengeance (The Commission #3)
THEODOSIA
The sky was a soft peach blush when the call came through.
I was in the middle of sketching an elaborate embroidery concept for the wedding table runners (which sounds excessive, but hello, you don’t just marry the don of the Santelli mafia with a few white roses and a shrug).
The idea had hit me in the middle of the night like most of my good ones—bold, whimsical, and a little chaotic.
I’d already spilled two cups of tea, pricked my thumb, and ruined a perfectly good silk scarf I was using for the spilled tea.
Norris was humming something vaguely operatic in the kitchen downstairs. The scent of lemon and garlic floated up from the oven like an invitation to heaven.
Then my phone buzzed.
It was a message from Angelo.
Future Hubs: It’s done. She’s dead. I’m coming home.
I froze. My stylus hung in mid-air like my brain couldn’t quite catch up. Carlotta. Dead. The woman who had nearly orchestrated the unraveling of everything—gone.
I stood slowly, knees trembling like I’d run a mile in heels, and walked to the window. The brownstone street below was quiet, unbothered. The world hadn’t exploded, no bells rang, no celestial choir sang.
There had been whispers and smoke signals, the kind of silence that meant danger.
When he left for Romania, I knew what he meant to do, but the knowledge had curled inside me like a warm but unpredictable sleeping cat.
Part of me hadn’t believed she could be ended.
Part of me had been waiting for another chess move.
I stared at the message again, reread it five times, and then turned on my heel, the hem of my kaftan fluttering like a cape. The house was quiet except for Norris and the rhythmic tick of the antique clock in the foyer.
I descended the stairs barefoot, my mind spinning. Norris turned from the stove, face crinkling into a smile. "Miss Theodosia. You look like you’ve seen the archangel himself."
"Close," I murmured, and grabbed the back of a kitchen chair to steady myself. “I came to make myself some tea.”
Norris blinked. "Something happen?"
I looked him square in the eye. “Nothing bad. Something wonderful. Carlotta Santelli is dead."
He stilled. No questions. Just one solemn nod. “I’ll put the kettle on and get us some scones.” He gave me a wink. “I think there’s a fresh batch.”
Angelo didn’t walk through the front door that evening. He prowled.
The moment I heard his boots on the steps, something electric raced down my spine. I was curled up in the armchair, a blanket over my knees, my sketches tossed aside, watching a rom-com. I didn’t move until the door opened.
And there he was.
My dark prince. My war-torn king.
His coat was damp at the edges, and his eyes were shadowed but bright—the kind of brightness that came after blood. His hands were bare and clean, but I saw it in his posture. Something terrible had unraveled inside him and taken shape as something new.
"You’re home," I said. “I missed you.”
He didn’t speak at first. Just crossed the room, wrapped his arms around me, and buried his face in my hair. We stayed like that. No clock ticking. No words.
Just breathing each other in.
And then, he whispered, "It’s finally over.
" He pulled back enough to look at me. "I didn’t want you to hear it from anyone else.
I had to do it myself," he murmured. "She fell for the whole thing.
Thought Ilias turned on us. She wanted his ships so badly that she stepped right into the trap we had. "
"And you sprang it,” I answered. He’d told me about it, explained the whole thing the day before. It had been bold. Frankie and I had wondered whether Carlotta would buy it .
His mouth twitched. "We burned the whole goddamn thing." He looked older. Sharper. Like the edge of him had been honed in fire. “Blew that ship up to kingdom come afterwards. It was glorious.”
"Are you okay?" I asked gently.
He pulled me into his lap, arms around my waist. "I will be. Now."