Page 19 of Angelo's Vengeance

And I had grit, even if it was currently stuck in my bra.

The sound of boots on the wooden stairs outside made me tense. I froze mid-step, my eyes fixed on the cell door. Metal scraped as the barred door was opened.

"Time to clean up," a voice barked. Male. Gruff.

"Excuse me? I’m very clean, thank you." I wiped my hands on my pants and lifted mychin. “This took hours of work and an ingenuity you wouldn’t understand."

The door clanked open, and two guards entered, their faces unreadable. I backed up, pinning myself against the wall as I scuffed off a shoe and picked it up. I hated to ruin one of my heels like this, but some things were worth it.

"Don’t touch me.” I loathed that my voice came out shaky.

"Orders are orders," the first man said, showing no signs of remorse. “You could just walk out under your own power.” He shrugged as if he didn’t care either way.

He was muscular and scarred, with flat black eyes that hinted he wouldn’t hesitate to hurt me if needed. He might even take pleasure in it.

"Well,” I snapped, clenching the two hairpins I’d gathered from my hair in one hand like daggers. "I am not afraid to go full psycho."

It wasn’t much, but sharp, and I jabbed forward like a fencing champion on a sugar high. One caught my wrist, twisting hard until I screamed, while the other tried to grab mylegs. I kicked and flailed, and the other one of my heels flew off like a rogue missile.

"You jerks ruined my outfit!"

My elbow connected with someone’s chin. I bit down on the first guard’s arm until I tasted blood, so I bore down, ignoring the awful feeling that it was flesh. The man howled as I took a chunk out of his arm. My hair flew wildly as I thrashed, pins scattering, curls everywhere like a whirling dervish. I gripped the base of the heel tightly and slammed it with all my strength, aiming for an eyeball and hoping for that action movie moment where it sank in, making me look like a badass. Sadly, it glanced off his cheekbone, leaving a reasonably wicked slice but failing to do nearly enough damage.

“You bitch! You bit me.”

He delivered a strong punch to my ribs, causing me to drop to my knees, my wrists pinned, feet dragging, dirt clinging to me like a second skin as they manhandled me into a hold.

“Enough. No marks.” It was the mustachioed guard who had watched my door. “Pick her up.”

They hauled me up a narrow flight ofstairs into a wide hallway. White columns, wooden floors, tall windows with gauzy curtains—a plantation home. Antebellum and absurd. Frantically, I searched for someone to call out to, someone who might help me, even though I knew that was impossible. I was in Southern Belle horror movie hell.

The opulence, combined with the fact that I was just below in a jail cell and having been punched in the ribs, made me feel ill.

They shoved me hard into a room the size of my old apartment, featuring a four-poster bed and an equally spacious bathroom. Everything gleamed in white and gold: gilded mirrors, velvet seating, and marble floors. It stood in stark contrast to my previous quarters, so I scrambled forward, trying to find my footing as I moved toward the door.

“Stop,” said the Mustache Man. “You won’t get anywhere. There is nowhere to go and no one to help you. Clean up. Now."

"Or what?" I sneered even as I tried to assess the options.

It was all bravado, but I summoned every ounce of it I had from the soles of my bare feet, ignoring the ache of my ribs. One guardcracked his knuckles while the other shot me a look that made my skin crawl.

“If that’s necessary, you’ll find that you’d prefer to tidy up by yourself. There are dresses to choose from. Put one on. If we must return to dress you, I’ll lethimdo it.” He jerked his head towards the guard who had struck me. “I won’t stop him this time. Maybe he can have a little sample,” he added suggestively.

Taking a look at the two guards, I could see that they were only restrained by the guard in charge. If he hadn’t been here, they would have all been over me. Dread coated my throat. So what was this? Some sort of business like my father’s?

"Right," I muttered. "Shower, it is."

They left, slamming the door behind them. I locked it, even though it probably wouldn’t hold.

The mirror showed a stranger: dirt-smudged cheeks, bruised wrists, and tangled hair. My eyeliner had turned traitor and fled down my cheeks.

There was an option to ignore orders and not get cleaned up, but that didn’t seem very smart. That would only encourage the leechers in the hallway. My job here was to delay.Having already engaged in the little scuffle downstairs, I knew when I was overpowered. It didn’t serve me to refuse to clean up. If I did as they asked, I’d be dirt-free and dressed again — and it wasted more time. Please, please, please let my brothers be on their way. I allowed myself one moment in the shower to lean against the tile for precisely two minutes to feel sorry for myself.

I scrubbed myself raw in the shower. Hot water, floral soap, plush towels—like I was supposed to forget I’d been treated like a stray animal. Like this was luxury. Not a cage in disguise. My ribs were bruised, but they weren’t broken.

Then I saw the clothes laid out on the bed like an offering. High-end designer, sure. Elie Saab, Dior, Versace. But none of it was mine. None of it was made by my hands, stitched with love and rebellion.

People never understood that wearing someone else’s design felt like wearing someone else’s skin.

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