Page 21 of Angelo's Vengeance

Nothing. No grunt, no twitch; he simply gestured.

I gave him my best exasperated sigh and rose from the velvet stool, taking as much time as possible without appearing obvious. After checking my reflection one last time, I offered him a sweet smile. “Got to look my best,” I quipped before smoothing a hand down my dress and moving toward the door. Microseconds could matter, and I’d make sure to extend each one.

The heels clicked ominously against the floor, resembling the countdown of a doomsday clock. The room smelled of lilies and costly decay, and I left a trail of anxiety and Delina in my wake as I walked.

Everything felt overly pristine. Too perfect. Too… curated. High ceilings with elaborate plaster molding loomed above us like the ghosts of bored aristocrats. Oil portraits lined the walls—glowering men and demure women who seemed as if they had all been forced into arranged marriages and afternoon tea. Dark wood paneling gleamed with age and polish, the kind of polish that made you wonder what had been scrubbed away beneath it.

I kept my steps slow and measured, as if I were unsure in my heels, grasping the bannistersas though I could fall at any moment. I could tell he wanted to suggest that I pick up the pace, but I managed to keep going just fast enough that he didn’t bother to say anything.

"So," I started, glancing at Mustache Man as we descended a curved staircase that could’ve easily doubled as a death trap for anyone in six-inch heels, "what do you think of all this? Pretty swanky for a hostage situation. Like Downton Abbey meets American Horror Story."

He didn’t even blink.

"You’ve got the strong, silent type thing going on," I mused. "Very brooding. Do you ever, like, talk about your feelings? Or maybe… grunt a little?"

Nada. This man was a black hole of personality. What a jerk. I mean, if he was just going to stand there while someone punched me, at least he could be funny.

The staircase led into a grand foyer, and that’s when I heard it—music. Classical, slow, and lilting. Strings and piano, the sort of stuff that played in the background of old movies just before something terrible occurred.

Beyond the double doors ahead, the sounds of laughter, clinking glasses, andwhispered conversations spilled out. I caught the scent of perfume and cologne, champagne, and an underlying aroma that made my skin crawl.

The doors opened, and I was guided into what could only be described as the ballroom from hell.

It was massive—vaulted ceilings and glittering chandeliers that seemed stolen from Versailles, along with a multitude of guests. Many of them were men in tuxedos and women in gowns that likely cost more than an average car. Everyone exuded a gorgeousness reminiscent of the Stepford Wives: artificial, too poised, and too still. The women all had that broken, empty look in their eyes.

A string quartet played in the corner, and servers moved through the crowd with trays of bubbling champagne and hors d’oeuvres that looked like they belonged in a museum.

It was all too perfect. Too smooth. Too shiny.

I was the smudge on the glass.

As soon as I entered, conversations faded. Heads turned. I sensed their gazes—hungry, curious, evaluating. I fought the impulse to pull the slit in my dress closed.

"Try to keep from drooling,” I muttered under my breath, my chin held high.

And then I saw Renzetti. He leaned against a marble pillar, as if he belonged on a movie poster for “Dictators of the Deep South.” Dressed in a black tuxedo, he held a crystal glass in one hand, while the same hollow toady smile was painted on his face.

He approached me with the grace of someone overly accustomed to getting what he wanted. There was nowhere for me to go. Mustache Man hovered near my elbow. Even if I took off at a sprint, it would do me no good. I had spotted armed guards at every entrance. Delay, delay, delay. My current motto.

"Theodosia," he said warmly, as if we were old friends meeting at a charity gala rather than a psychopath and his unwilling guest.

"Salvatore," I replied, my voice sweetened and tinged with venom. “You host a lovely party. Kidnapping chic is in this season. Thanks for the invite.” I flashed a sparkling smile.

He smiled wider. "I knew you’d appreciatethe effort." He offered me his arm. I didn’t take it.

"Do I get to know what this little soiree is about? Or is that a surprise for later?"

I was beginning to sense what was happening here, and I didn’t like it. The eerie music and the women with their downturned smiles and lack of eye contact made me uneasy.

He chuckled and gestured for me to follow. I complied, albeit reluctantly, catching snippets of conversation as we walked—French, Italian, Russian. As I suspected, these were all cannibal spiders nibbling at the edges of each other’s webs.

The crowd parted as we moved through, as if I were the centerpiece of a grotesque art installation. I caught a glimpse of a woman pointing at me as I passed, murmuring something to the man beside her.

We stopped at the edge of the ballroom, where a smaller sitting room was arranged like a VIP lounge. Leather chairs, cigar smoke curling in the air, and a large antique mirror hung on the wall. I saw my reflection — polished, composed, and disgusted.

Renzetti poured me a drink. Bourbon.

"No thanks," I said.

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