Page 5 of Unhinged Little Angel

“Ew,” I yowl. “You bled on me, you fucking prick.” He’s already stumbling back, but I give him a hand by whirling around to face him and shoving him in the chest.

“You broke my nose, you psychopath,” he mumbles, his hands over his mouth and nose, crimson blood spilling down his chin and staining the front of his formerly crisp white shirt. “I’m going to get you fired. No, fuck that, I’m going to have you charged with assault.”

I refuse to flinch, but the second threat hits its mark. Typically, a simple assault like breaking someone’s nose is a misdemeanor if that, but when you’ve already done prison time for aggravated assault? Yeah, I’d rather not find out how that would impact the court’s opinion of the situation. And, fuck, it would be a pain in the ass to lose this job too. No way am I going to apologize though. I glare at him, tempted to knee him in the balls too for daring to threaten me. You know what? Fuck it, he fucking deserves it. I snarl again and take another step forward, preparing to strike and make this asshole wish he’d never set foot inside Wild.

“I wouldn’t do that.” A smooth voice cuts in before I can find out if lodging this prick’s balls permanently inside his body with my knee will help the situation or make it worse. “You’re drunk and we all saw you trip and break your nose on the edge of the table. No need to cause trouble for anyone else over your own clumsiness, is there?”

He looks over his shoulder with a glare, and his face goes pale so quickly I’m surprised he doesn’t faint from the combined terror and blood loss. Salvatore stands behind him with a dangerous glint in his eye, his suit jacket unbuttoned so the handle of his pistol is just barely visible, the threat clear as day.

The man bobbles his head like he can’t decide if he’s saying yes or no before he mumbles an apology. His large frame trembles like he’s dying to make a run for it, but he’s afraid that if he moves, it’ll trigger Salvatore to chase. And Salvatore clearly enjoys toying with him for a moment, holding his gaze with the simmering menace dancing in his dark eyes.

“Go,” he barks, and the man flees, still clutching his bleeding nose.

The blood on the back of my arm is starting to dry, crusting and sticky on my skin, making bile rise in my throat. Salvatore steps into the space left empty by the grabby creep, his gaze sweeping over my face like he’s looking for any sign of distress or injury. I stare right back at him, my jaw still set firmly and my heart still racing with the unspent adrenaline.

“This is the part where you say, ‘thank you,’ Angioletto.”

“Thank you?” I scoff, grinding my teeth, my brain still operating on its animal level instead of a logical one, drawing me into his space, shoving at his chest the way I did to the other asshole. Salvatore doesn’t stumble though. He doesn’t budge, which means I’m just up in his face, breathing heavily, full of anger that just keeps building inside my chest. “In case you missed it, I already had him handled,” I growl.

“I saw that.” His tone is still perfectly even, in spite of my snarling.

“Exactly.” I shove him again, and he still doesn’t budge, but I swear a grin flickers at the corners of his lips. “Don’t ever mistake me for someone who can’t take care of himself.”

“Never, Angioletto,” he purrs, still so fucking agreeable, heat simmering in his eyes that should make me feel disgusted and violated, just like everyone else does.

I want to rage and scream at him more, I want to see what it would take to get him to respond, to make him show me theviolence I know is lurking inside of him. Luckily, enough self-preservation kicks in to stop me.

“Fuck you,” I growl, turning on my heel.

If he responds, I can’t hear it over the music as I stomp towards the bathroom to clean myself up and pull myself back together.

Chapter 3

DANTE

It’s two in the morning when I step into my dark, silent apartment, still keyed up from getting grabbed by that asshole earlier and on edge from that fucking letter. I press my back against the door without turning on the light. I already know there’s only one way to even out the frenzy of chaos simmering just under the surface, threatening to choke me. I tried using sex as an alternative, finding a pretty sub—man or woman, it doesn’t matter to me—to dominate and control for a couple of hours, chasing a release that should exhaust me if nothing else. But for some reason all it ever did was make me feel even less satisfied. Frustration tightens in my throat, making its way down into my chest until it feels like I can’t drag in a proper breath.

I don’t even bother trying to rationalize what I’m about to do. I’m way past that; I have been for years. My harsh breathing and the distant hum of traffic from outside are the only sounds I can hear as I push off the door and stride through my apartment to my bedroom, still not bothering with any lights. There’s more than enough light coming in through my windows from thesurrounding buildings, even in the middle of the night, for me to see as well as I need to. Even if it was too dark for me to see, I wouldn’t have any trouble finding the bottom drawer of my dresser and reaching straight to the back where I keep what I need.

I trade my skintight clothes for excessively baggy ones that make me look even smaller than I am, and slide the cool metal of my favorite brass knuckles down my fingers and into place. I flex to make sure they’re positioned comfortably, then shove my feet into a ratty pair of sneakers I pulled from under the dresser. There are a couple of dark splotches on the toe. I lick my thumb and use my spit to wipe them off before straightening back up. With my oversized hood pulled up and my brass knuckles hidden inside my pocket, I’m already feeling calmer, more settled. My heart beats out a steady rhythm as I stuff my keys into my other pocket and slip out of my apartment again as quietly as I can.

The streetlights illuminate the sidewalk and the occasional car or truck drives by, but I’m the only one out… at least around here. In a nice neighborhood like this one, everyone is safely tucked into bed so they can wake up fresh in a few hours, put on a suit that wasn’t expensive but has a label that’s high-end enough to impress the people they’re trying to intimidate, and go to their office jobs where they’ll spend all day thinking about going up to the roof and jumping off. I might have been impressed by them once, envied their lives, but I know a fancy job and a nice suit is often just a mask to hide the monster underneath that they don’t want you to see.

I round the corner, walking a little faster but keeping my head down and my shoulders hunched. The difference a few blocks makes is almost enough to make you laugh, if it doesn’t make you sick to your stomach. There are still streetlamps, but half of them are burned out, graffiti and litter marring thesidewalks and the sides of the buildings. I pass a couple of bars that are still open, brazenly flouting the law because they know the Morettis have half the police force on their payroll anyway.

I shrink into myself a little more and slow my steps, still moving quickly like I’m nervously trying to make it home, but stumbling every so often to give off an air of vulnerability, a stink ofpreyto any predators who might be lurking in the shadows. A few drunks amble by on unsteady legs, not paying me any attention, and somewhere in the distance, a car backfires. The smell of cigarettes, exhaust, and garbage lingers in the air in a way it doesn’t in the neighborhood I was able to buy my way into by shaking my ass on stage every night. Where I live now is a lot more like the neighborhood I grew up in, but for some reason, this one feels more like home. Or maybe this one feels more like where I belong, where everyone knows how fucked up they are, and they don’t bother trying to hide it.

“Hey, kid,” a low voice croons, and the first genuine smile I’ve had all night spreads across my lips.

I make myself flinch away from the voice and purposefully pick up my pace, ducking my head lower and curling in on myself as much as I can. It only takes a second before I hear the echo of footsteps right behind me.

“Kid,” he says again, trying to sound friendly but unable to keep the growl completely out of his voice. “This isn’t the kind of neighborhood you should be walking through all alone. Let me give you a ride.”

I slow and put a tremble into my shoulders. The footsteps get closer until they’re right behind me, his breathing fast and loud like a dog panting for a bone, the sour stench of body odor coming off of him in waves.

“I’m close to home,” I say, making my voice higher and softer like I really am the vulnerable young boy he thinks I am, wandering the mean city streets, all alone before dawn.

His hand closes roughly around my bicep.

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