The Angel Chapter 1

A mess that I’d allowed myself to get into.

That infuriated me more than anything.

If my family, relatively low on the rungs of the mob hierarchy, had enemies, then Stan sure as hell did.

In my defense, I hadn’t expected to go to his home and—

No.

There was no defense.

No excuses.

Like a fool, I’d let that rat bastard overwhelm me. I’d been too busy studying the blood on Stan’s shirt and I’d barely had a chance to react to the slap to the face from the man I’d seen in Stan’s house earlier. 

The attack had come from out of nowhere, shocking me silly, dialing down the scream I’d released into a whimper. 

It was bad luck that had seen me staggering backward from the sheer force of it, colliding with the dresser before I’d slumped to the floor. Head cracking against the sharp edge, adding to my dazed state. 

Throw in the chloroform that fucker had held over my nose and mouth, I hadn’t gotten the chance to do more than moan Stan’s name and slap at the bastard weakly.

But I was awake now. I was breathing. And my claws were out. 

I’d never relied on anyone to get me out of my messes before, not wholly—Raisin didn’t count—and I wasn’t about to start now.

Falling for a man like Stan did not erase me.

So, I took the slaps, the gropes, the threats.

And I filled my cup with them.

I let them fuel me, building, surging, trouncing the pain my captor dealt out.

I bore the ignominy of the animal tearing at my dress, exposing my breasts to his gluttonous gaze. I watched him watch me, knew what’d come if I didn’t act.

I always acted.

Then, when my cell rang, he accelerated things. 

Having spied my loathing, he grinned, disgusting teeth barely gleaming in the overhead light. “Pose for lover boy.”

He took a picture—I heard the click, though I never raised my head.

For Stan.

He’d see me like this. Weak. Another burden for him to bear.

And my nerves howled like a Valkyrie unleashed.

I.

Was.

Not.

A.

Fucking.

Burden.

The second my captor cackled, I knew he’d sent the picture and that a metaphorical timer had begun ticking.

Especially when it appeared to kick-start a conversation between them.

Stan was so near, at that moment, yet so far.

I had no idea as to our location because I’d woken up in a moving trunk, but we were in the city—born and raised in New York, I knew the song my hometown sang. Crazy traffic, endless red lights, and rattling as we drove over steaming manhole covers, the faint vibrations from the subway equaled home.

Which was proof, of course, that I’d led a sheltered life. 

Nothing about this dump they’d smuggled me into spoke of home. 

Chloroform still dulled my senses, though hours must have passed since the bastards had tied me to a chair squashed between the wall and a bed with a tiny nightstand and a light. A small window scant inches from the ceiling exposing the grody streets beyond told me this room was subterranean and night had fallen while I’d been unconscious. 

Sobs and weak moans echoed throughout the building, leaving me wondering if they’d brought me to a brothel. Which meant I was on my own. Nobody would save me when they couldn’t help themselves.

So far, this piece of shit with terrible teeth had only used his fists on me—I considered that to be a blessing. 

Blessing or not, my face had to be a mass of bruises. My lips were torn from being backhanded because of a ring he wore on his index finger. A scrape on my cheek stung from the scratch of the diamond embedded into it. 

I ached—fuck, I ached in so many places from how he’d bound me—wrists tied in front, two thick ropes trussing me below my breasts and at my hips, ankles strapped to each leg of the chair he’d stuck me in.

None of it would stop me.

They clearly didn’t know I’d been raised in an Irish family with five other kids.

We used to tie each other up like this for shits and giggles! 

Instead of empowering me, the thought made me want to cry.

You’ll see them again. 

You’ll see them again. 

You’ll see them again. 

Chant ongoing, my eyes flicked to the door when someone knocked.

I didn’t speak Italian, but I knew enough to register it. It was like Sicilian but not. 

The same singsong Romance tones, but not.

I tilted my head slightly, enough to see the man looming in the doorway. My swollen eyes only allowed me to form a general impression of a shitty suit. 

I’d been caught up in enough conversations between my brothers to know that Italians worked for Stan’s family now—but as far as I could tell, there was no greater sin than being Italian to him.

The Famiglia had come to blows with the Famigghia and the Valentinis had won, but power was fractious, fickle. 

Was this a grab for power?

With Mr. Cavity distracted by Cheap Suit, I scanned the room for something I could attack him with. The only useful thing I sourced was the lamp on the nightstand beside me—complete with a crooked lampshade.

It looked as bad as I felt. I got the feeling it had ‘decorated’ this room for at least twenty years, so maybe it was heavy? If nothing else, it’d withstood the test of time. My eyesight wasn’t as sharp as I’d like, but I gained the impression of it being metal and it appeared to have a heavy base… Heavy enough to cave in his skull? 

Fingers crossed.

That was when I heard a word that needed little translation—assassinare. 

Assassinate.

Someone was losing their life tonight and it wasn’t going to be me.

“Basta!” Cheap Suit hollered before growling at Mr. Cavity, who’d been given the task of hosting me, and stomping off.

A slurry of Slavic-sounding words came next as Mr. Cavity slammed the door shut, giving me the impression that the Italian was in charge here. 

He turned to face me, his temper twisting into sadistic glee that sent a rush of fear singing through my blood.

I didn’t need Ma’s Sight to know that this was my now or never. 

But I refused to die a pawn. 

The only way I’d go out was in style.