Page 58 of Angelo's Vengeance

“Whatever makes you happy,piccola. You’re very talented. I would never want you to stop doing what you love.” Taking a sip of wine, he paused briefly before adding, “You know that funding isn’t an issue. Whatever you need.”

His response was perfect. Open-ended and generous. “Thank you. I’ll think about it. And—" I hesitated, biting my lip.

He immediately picked up on it, setting down his fork and giving me his full attention. "And?"

"And I got a call from someone today. Veronica called.”

“Right.” His brows lifted. "Maxim’s cousin. She occasionally works for us. For me. I talked to her about the situation with your business. The suspicions that I had.”

"Yeah. She...uh, she said she works with you sometimes. On, you know, intelligence and hacking and super spy stuff."

He chuckled, low and dark. "Sounds about right."

I toyed with the stem of my wineglass. "She looked into everything—my label...back in Florence. I thought I’d just failed, or maybe someone was badmouthing me. But it wasn’t that."

After the phone call, I reflected on what she’d said and the undeniable wave of relief that followed. When I was little, I struggled with people’s perceptions of me—not just how I looked, but also how I acted. Putting my designs into the world was an internal battle for my art. As I grew older, I made a conscious effort to reclaim my power, navigating the world as if others’ opinions didn’t affect me. I didn’t want to be someone who was impacted by someone else’s words. What I thought mattered. However, when everything ground to a halt, it had become hard to maintain that inner calm. This felt like vindication.

His gaze sharpened. "What was it?"

I swallowed. "It was Carlotta. Like you thought.” He went utterly still. "She was pulling strings," I said softly. "Threatening clients. Blackmailing. Making sure no one wanted to work with me. It wasn’t about thebusiness. It was about...moving me like a chess piece."

The silence stretched heavy and taut between us.

"I’m sorry," he said finally, his voice rough with anger. "You didn’t deserve that."

"No." I smiled, sad and small. "But it’s over now. And honestly? It just makes me more determined to succeed. Reminds me that I can’t let things like that slow me down, or change who I am.”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, those dark eyes burning into mine. "Youwillsucceed, Theodosia. I’ll help you make damn sure of it."

I believed him in a way that transcended reason, logic, or common sense. Maybe I was insane. Maybe I was falling for a mafia don with blood on his hands and a fortress around his heart. But in that moment, with the candles flickering and his hand reaching across the table to close gently over mine, I didn’t care.

I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

With him.

CHAPTER 34

ANGELO

It startedwith lamb roasting in the kitchen.

And the scent of oregano, garlic, and lemon was so thick in the air that it practically dragged you by the nose. I stepped into the brownstone and nearly got tackled by the wall of heat and noise. Someone had cracked open the windows to let the scent spill onto the street, and if the entire block didn’t show up at our door in the next hour demanding a plate, I’d be shocked.

Norris looked frazzled but determined, manning the stove like a general. He wasn’t alone either. Standing beside him, barking orders in rapid-fire Greek, was Evgenia — the Anthakos’ family cook. A terrifying five-foot-nothing woman built like a fireplug and capable of feeding an entire army without breaking a sweat.

When I entered the kitchen, she gave me a once-over, as if she were assessing a side of beef. "You’re too thin," she declared in heavily accented English. "Sit! Eat! Before you waste away!"

I blinked. Norris smothered a grin behind his apron.

"You let her take over?" I asked him dryly. Norris typically managed our house as if he owned it himself, so I was surprised. He didn’t like anyone else in his kitchen.

"I’m not suicidal, sir," Norris muttered under his breath.

Fair enough.

The counters were buried under platters—slow-roasted lamb, crisp-skinned lemon potatoes, grilled vegetables, bowls of tzatziki and hummus, and fresh pita piled high. The centerpiece was a massive moussaka, with layers of eggplant, beef, and golden, bubbling béchamel. There was a cucumber, tomato, and feta salad, as well as olive dishes and fresh shrimp platters with their shells on. I’d eaten at the Anthakos household a few times, and itwas exactly what I expected, just on a bigger scale. If push came to shove, I’d even have to admit that Greek food was the absolute bomb. The flavors were out of this world.

Spanakopita big enough to feed an army, wine flowing like we had stock in the vineyard. Norris had even lit a few extra candles and dug out real linen napkins, like we were hosting the Pope and not a bunch of bloodthirsty criminals and the women who loved them.

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