Page 45 of Angelo's Vengeance

“It’s after midnight, Norris. That was yesterday.” I winked at him unapologetically.

“I’ll heat something up,” Angelo said, turning to the fridge.

I watched him for a second, something squeezing in my chest. Was this who he really was? The kind of man who did things like this? Meals? Small talk? Cookie jars?

“Hey,” I said softly. He looked up. “I know things are… messy right now. Thank you. For this. The studio. The food. Loretta.”

Angelo’s gaze held mine for a second too long. Then he looked away. “You’re welcome.”

Norris nodded as if he were about to cry, but he rallied. “I’ll let you young people get on with your evening. Let me just get Loretta settled with the others.” He scooped up hisprize and gave us each a pointed look before ambling off into the darkness toward his quarters, where he apparently had a treasure trove of cookie jars.

A beat of silence stretched between us. He slid a plate into the oven, and I picked at the corner of a napkin, nerves making my fingers twitch.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I asked finally.

He stilled. “About what?”

I gave him a look. “Don’t play dumb. You’re spinning. I can see it.” Clearing my throat, I tried again. “Look, if we’re going to do this, then I want us to communicate, you know?”

He leaned back against the counter, arms crossed—that classic mafia don stance—all quiet power and dangerous restraint.

“I’m trying to protect what’s mine,” he said simply. “That takes work. Especially now.”

His voice was clipped, like he didn’t want to let too much slip.

“Carlotta,” I said. The name was bitter in my mouth, but Frankie and I had been trying to process together the involvement of thewoman who had given birth to the Santelli clan and the way she had used her children to manipulate the criminal underworld. “Frankie and I have talked about her role in all of this.”

His jaw tightened, his hands clenched against the granite edge of the counter. “I talked to Valentino Cardoni today. She was seeing old Don Cardoni, too, back in the day.”

There was no mistaking the anger on his face. “We think she’s always been the one pulling the strings,” I offered instead. “That Renzetti is just another mark.”

A sharp nod. “Yeah, that’s what I think. What we all think.”

I watched him carefully. “You think they’re connected?”

“Renzetti is the one who is trying to bleed my territory, but I think Carlotta is behind it all.”

I sat with that—the idea of someone picking apart Angelo’s empire piece by piece, watching him bleed out. No wonder he was exhausted. No wonder he was holding the whole world at arm’s length—even me. I agreed with him, though this was all connected. “I hate feeling useless,” I said quietly.

His eyes softened. “You’re not.”

“You’re out hunting a ghost who put a bullet in my shoulder, and I’m stuck here. That feels a lot like useless.” Now, I realized I was complaining, which was even worse.

He pushed off the counter, crossed to me, and braced his hands on either side of the island where I sat. His face was inches from mine.

“Don’t ever say that again.”

“Angelo—”

“You are healing. That takes strength, too. You were shot because ofme. Targeted. You almost died, and you’re still here. We’re still here. Becomingsomething. That is not nothing.”

There was an offer in that I realized, looking up at him. My breath caught in my throat. “You can’t fix this with a flamingo and a piece of lasagna.”

“I’m not trying to fix it,” he growled. “I’m trying to be here. With you.”

That did me in. Because that was the thing, I didn’t want him to fix anything. I didn’t want vengeance, apologies, or heroics. Maybe there was life after being a teenager. Perhaps I’d held on long enough.

I just wantedhim.

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