Page 5 of As Angels Sin

That Crue tried to kill me.

And, like the tiny dot on my neck, my heart aches as I remember this. I think about the man, I gave everything to, and would’ve given so much more to had he not done what he did, and tried to kill me.

Uncomfortable heat rushes to my cheeks the more I think about it.

He warned me. He said that he was going to kill me, over and over again. He made it crystal-clear that I was not long for this world, but that he first needed to take me.To fuck me. No lovemaking, or any of the other beautiful stories I want to lie to myself about.

When it was all over, he did what he said he would. He acted on his promise. He might have been a man who was true to his word, but why did he have to do it? We were past the point of his wanting me dead. He even bought me a gift and made me feel special...

He tried to kill you. He took advantage of you while you were sleeping. He drugged you.

My mind fills in the space where I try to paint him as less of a monster. And it’s for the best, too. Otherwise, I could delude myself into believing he actually isn’t one.

“Fiametta?” a croaky voice says from the corner of the room. “Are you awake?”

My heart jumps into my throat at the sound. Where am I? I was so concerned about Crue and what he did to me that it never even dawned on me that I might not be alone.

Whose bed am I in? It’s not mine, because it has none of the hallmarks that make it mine. My soft white duvet is gone, and the gawdy red and gold mess draped over me isn’t exactly what I’d call ideal bedding. It’s a piece of showy material, boasting wealth without considering that someone might actually want to sleep under it.

And there’s a stranger in my room, as well. I hear them lean forward in a wooden chair that creaks when they shift their weight on it.

Before I have the chance to come up with a harebrained scheme to stop whoever this is from talking to me again, I realize that the fog in my brain is lifting. Just like that first time, when Crue dropped whatever poison he used into myMorning Aftercocktail, it takes time to settle back into reality. And with it comes the vaguely sweet, fruity scent that hits a nerve in my brain and triggers a feeling of familiarity.

It smells like warm summer afternoons after a long day at school. Like running through the house, and laughing as if I hadn’t a care in the world. It smells like...

Home.

“Father?” My voice matches his in its croakiness.

“Oh, thank God,” Father launches himself out of his chair and rushes to my bedside. “You had me worried sick.” There’s no tenderness in his voice at my safe return. It’s grim, harsh and laced with frustration.

I suppose I can’t blame him. Father has spent his entire life trying to keep me safe, and I nearly got myself killed, anyway. But it would’ve been nice to hear something cheerful come out of his mouth, instead of realizing the harsh reality of what’s coming.

“What happened? How did I get here?” I’d say I’m playing dumb, but my entire world turned black after the needle’s prick. Though, I remember Crue’s grim expression and the heartache in his words. I remember the sorrow he seemed to feel while compelled to finish his task. And he couldn’t do it. That says a lot, doesn’t it? He kept me alive, when it was all he could talk about doing, and...

I’m not the right person to decipher his fucked-up head, so I’ll stop myself from trying immediately.

“He was going to kill you outside the Sanctuary Club,” Father doesn’t bother with the details. “My men were alerted to his presence before he could do it. They chased him, but lost him.”

I can’t tell if I’m relieved or scared to hear that Crue’s still out there. The same goes for his murder attempt. Had Father’s men not found me in time, would he have gone through with it?

I’m finding it easier to reason away the last thought. Crue kills for a living. He killed two men right outside my heavily guarded apartment, just to get Tomas away from me. If Crue wanted me dead, I would have been.

Speaking of Tomas...

“Why didn’t Tomas help me? Did something happen to him?” I ask, trying to sound as scared as possible, so as to sell it as truth. I don’t know for certain why I’m covering Crue’s tracks, when I know Tomas was here for a meeting, but this might also be the catalyst that gets the Napoli Family consigliere off my back.

“That moron washere.” Father speaks through gritted teeth, “He was shit-faced and passed out on my sofa. Don’t concern yourself with him, Fiametta. I’ve given Tomas a talking to.”

“Okay, I won’t.” My brow furrows in confusion as I stare up at Father’s shadowed form.

He hasn’t even asked how I’m doing, yet. At this point, I have to assume he cares and maybe he is showing his concern through anger instead of any better-suited emotions. That doesn’t make it sting any less.

“Did you see his face?” His burly frame is cloaked in the thick curtained darkness, and he doesn’t move.

Of course. Straight to the point. All business, all the time.

His question presents me with a strange dilemma. Part of me wants to scream it was Crue, and to tell my father everything I can about what happened. I want to make the man who did this to me pay for it. But another part of me screams much more loudly, deafeningly. It is fighting tooth and nail to drown out my logical, sane mind.

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