Page 30 of Angel
Chapter Nine - Angelo
The BMW glided past the little Italian restaurant. I wistfully watched it disappear in the rear-view mirror, wishing for that day back.
Several times I almost opened my mouth and said something to Paige, almost dropped the bomb.
But I couldn’t do it. Not only could I not hurt her, but the repercussions of revealing what I knew might prove worse than imagined.
I didn’t lie when I said the young man in the photo was a family friend. That he was.
But he was also more than that.
He was Paige’s future husband.
Alfredo ‘The Pistol’ Moretti.
The reasons behind the murder of Paige’s parents had remained secret for years. Though I remembered them from growing up, just like I did the twins, I’d never spent too much time wondering just what had happened to them.
In the world I grew up in, sometimes things just ‘happened’. Asking questions wasn’t always the wisest choice.
“I hope it works out with your new position,” I found myself saying.
The words sounded ridiculous; talk about work pointless with so much else going on.
“Thanks,” came her just as hollow response.
I glanced over at Paige. Her head hung down, her eyes on her lap.
“If I marry this man,” she slowly said. “What kind of life is that?”
I opened my mouth then shut it, pain coursing through me.
“Will I be able to work or make any decisions for myself?” she asked, turning to look out the window at a time when I needed to see her face. “Am I even get to stay in New York, or will I even have a say in anything? This is just crazy. Does anyone have any answers?”
“I don’t know,” I rasped.
She vehemently shook her head. “I’m not doing this.”
She was preaching to the choir.
Paige’s nose wrinkled. “I just have to know. Did my parents make this arrangement? If not, did they know?” She sighed, not waiting for my answer. “I guess it doesn’t matter now. I’m not going to do it.”
“I don’t want you to, if that helps.”
She smiled sadly at me.
We were quiet until we hit Brooklyn. Paige’s phone beeped and she pulled it from her pocket to read a text.
“It’s Sophia. She says she just got a gig.” She read a moment more. “In Stockholm. She’ll be back in a couple weeks.”
“A gig, huh?”
I knew what that meant. This ‘job’ likely had nothing to do with DJ tasks. “You can’t stay by yourself at your apartment.”
“It’s fine.”
“I know you’re an independent young woman...”
She smiled cockily, the first real playful look I’d seen on her all day. “Yeah?”
