Page 39 of Angelo's Vengeance

“The boys aren’t saying much, but I wonder …”

Her eyes searched mine before shenodded. “Me too. I think she’s always been involved. Maybe she’s found new people to help her, or she’s the mastermind. Which is gross.” She shuddered, then did a whole-body shake. “Hey, enough of that. My brother hasn’t let me in here for months.” I already knew that was likely false. Angelo allowed Frankie to do anything, and this was essentially her childhood home. “Let’s find snacks and see what he’s changed around here. I want to explore and see if my room is the same. Let’s not talk about Carlotta anymore. She’s depressing.”

Letting her help me up, we did as she wanted, and the rest of the day became a blur of exploring the brownstone, giggling at how impeccably clean Angelo maintained things (thanks to Norris), and eventually stumbling upon the studio.

Tucked in the back of the first floor, past the hallway that led to his precious garage that was very clearly “Angelo’s Don’t Even Think About It,” was the space he’d created for me. An actual studio. With real light and mood boards, bolts of my favorite silks stacked in neat rows, and my sewing machines gleaming in the sun. It looked like something from aVogue feature on “Chaotic Artist Quarters: Mafia Heiress Edition.”

He had sent for all my belongings: every sewing machine, every bolt of fabric, and every pair of tiny antique scissors I had collected from flea markets across Europe. The studio was perfect—white-walled, sunlit, and organized.

I hadn’t cried when I got shot. I hadn’t cried when I woke up in a hospital, but this little room full of silent, thoughtful care was too much.

“Wow.” I was speechless as I wandered around, touching each familiar piece and examining the new additions. Even my notebooks, computers, and business accounts were laid out on a table that looked so identical to my desk in Florence that someone must have taken a picture. “It’s like they just transposed the workspace.”

“I take it he didn’t mention this?”

I shook my head. “No. Not a word.”

She smiled. “Typical Angelo Santelli. Expresses love through violence and real estate.”

I tried to laugh, but my throat felt tight. “He brought my stuff from my apartment,too.” I didn’t mention the ‘L’ word she’d dropped. Love didn’t enter into the equation of our arrangement. “It was thoughtful of him, “ I said as I caressed a spool of gold thread as if it were made of magic.

Frankie hummed as she moved around a dummy with a partially finished project, before looking through a few completed pieces. “My brother is sometimes more empathetic than I expect. He’s always been angry, but beneath all that is someone searching for connection. I hope he finds that with you, Theo. I hope you find that with him.”

My throat felt tight. “Me too, bestie. Me too, for both of us.”

CHAPTER 24

THEODOSIA

Later that afternoon,I texted Angelo.

Me: Bring pizza. And something fun. I’m bored.

He didn’t answer immediately, but I figured he was still busy with his meeting. Not to mention, I didn’t want to come off as clingy.

Frankie had already gone home, and Norris had retired after preparing some absurdly huge sandwiches for us. I wandered through the brownstone again, barefoot and buzzing with nerves, like I was waiting for something to happen.

Something did. Memories.

The gunshot. The pain. The weightlessness of falling.

It came back fast, hitting me like a sucker punch to the ribs. I sat down in the studio where my favorite lavender silk draped over a chair like a shroud and pressed my face into my hands, breathing deeply.

It wasn’t until a knock came on the doorframe and Angelo stood there with a pizza box and a bottle of limoncello in one hand, like some deadly delivery boy from my fever dreams, that I pulled out of it. As always, he took my breath away—those thick thighs and beefy shoulders made me feel he was sturdy and reliable. Yet, it was always his hands that captivated me—the veins stood out in sharp relief, showing howalivehe was. And those eyes burned with all the emotion he felt abouteverything.

“Piccola.”He entered the room, eyes searching my face and taking everything in. I was sure he saw the signs of distress and tears.

“You brought limoncello?”

“You mentioned something fun, but I wanted to get back as soon as possible, so this will have to do. Maybe we can make our own fun.”

He stepped closer, eyes scanning me, and I knew he saw it all—the stiffness, the paleness, the leftover fear still clinging to me like shadow.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low.

I swallowed hard. “Not even a little.”

And when he came inside and sat beside me, brushing his hand against mine, I didn’t pull away. After setting the pizza box and the limoncello on one of the tables, he pulled me against him, running his fingers up into my scalp. “Lay your head on my shoulder,piccola. I’ll make it better.”

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