Page 67 of Angel
Chapter Twenty - Paige
I twisted my bracelet around and around. Oak trees and houses, each one bigger than the last, passed by the car.
“How much longer?”
“Just a few minutes,” Angelo replied. “We’re almost there.”
He smiled at me reassuringly. I forced a smile back.
The scene in the jet had been a serious catastrophe. Okay, so I hadn’t told Angelo about the itching feeling constantly at the back of my neck. The one that told me danger was just around the corner, that there were foes and terror to be found everywhere. I hadn’t told him about the nightmares, terrible dreams where I came home from work to find both him and Sophia shot dead.
The worst thing about feeling anxious is that it’s hard to tell whether the things causing your feelings are inside of you or outside of you.
An example?
You know you’re afraid to get on the interstate because you might get in a car accident and die. But you don’t know if you’re feeling this way because the interstate is legitimately a dangerous place to be or if you’re just projecting your constant fear onto whatever circumstance is right in front of you.
Fear warps reality. It makes you question everything.
Like Christmas.
Yep, it can even make you dread what’s, for most people, the most joyful time of the year.
Unless that dread is attached to fear of something totally legit. Something you can’t remember.
What if Christmas brought up an awful memory for me? What if I couldn’t handle being around Angelo’s family because it reminded me too much of the one I lost?
My ears buzzed. I stuttered something unintelligible, realized I’d skipped a breath.
Hands shaking a bit, they dove into my purse for my inhaler. Angelo and Sophia’s eyes rested on me, pressing against my skin, questioning why I was close to an asthma attack, but I ignored them.
Taking a hit, I looked out the window. The suburbs of Chicago were just as snow-less as New York. The decorative reindeer and blow up snowmen in front yards looked like they were sitting in the middle of a Halloween scene.
“Here it is,” Angelo announced.
The driver turned the car left and stopped at the gate. A female voice came on the intercom to ask who it was.
Angelo leaned forward from his seat to shout at the device. “It’s me, Mariel!”
The woman made something close to a squeal. The gate opened and the driver took the car through.
“The housekeeper,” Angelo explained to me and Sophia. “She’s been with us since I was little.”
“Ah.”
There were a lot of things different about Angelo’s world. Sometimes I could forget he was from a rich Mafia family, but then he said something vague about ‘over sea assets’ or mentioned his family’s full time housekeeper (for just one of their homes, at that) and I remembered just where he was from.
“Wow,” Sophia breathed.
The car slowed slightly as the driveway took us up a slight incline then in a circle and around a water fountain.
The house… Well, mansion, actually, in front of us stood monolithic against the sky, giving the Salvatore home in Atlantic Beach a real run for its money. Around the tall, brown shuttered windows, its walls boasted a light cream color. With its brown roof and wrought iron banisters at the balconies it mimicked many of the houses I saw on my trip to Italy. There was even a front patio with a surrounding wall extending out from the house.
The car stopped at the walkway to the front door. We piled out, Angelo and the driver grabbing our suitcases from the trunk.
I took hold of the one rolling bag I brought and stared at the house. Though beautiful, the sight of it filled me with dread.
“Ready?” Angelo asked. Not waiting for a response, he whisked by me. Sophia followed, dragging her full Louis Vuitton travel set behind her.
