L'Angelo della Morte | A Mafia Romance

♛02 ⥄ ❝ L'ankle-oh? ❞

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Please use discretion when you're messing with the message man

~ Twenty One Pilots

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I groaned and brought both of my hands to cover my face. The ache in my ankle and head was evident. Hell, it was agonizing. I turned onto my right side and winced. Some NEWS channel played on a TV in the distance. I moved my hands down my face and turned my head in the direction of the sounds. I gasped at how stiff and sore my neck felt.

"Cazzo!"

I jolted up from my uncomfortable position. My eyes snapped open and skimmed my surroundings. I was on a couch in some cheap motel room. A plush blanket was draped over me. The TV hadn't been as distant as I thought. It was right across from the couch. The lights were off, leaving the room to be lit up by the screen of the small television.

"No, don't give me that bullshit," a voice hissed from the bathroom. The Italian accent was unmistakable.

I got off the couch, chewing the inside of my cheek at the pain in my entire body. I was limping pathetically as I neared the slightly open bathroom door. I peeked through the crack. He was standing in front of the mirror with a towel hanging low around his hips. I had been right to assume he was muscular. His upper body was in amazing shape, every muscle defined, and the abs of his six-pack almost looked like they'd been carved to perfection. He had a tattoo of an angel wing on his left pec, curving up his shoulder. It was beautifully shaded. The artist had clearly paid attention to detail. His tan caramel skin was glistening with water drops and he was holding a phone to his ear. Leaning on the sink with one hand, he looked at himself in the dirty mirror.

But what caught my attention most was his hair and eyes. His hair was no longer a blondish brown. It had a rich, dark mocha color. His once blue eyes were a deep chocolate brown and full of fury. His jaw was set, and his lips pressed together.

"You know I don't do that anymore. I haven't done that for years," he muttered, clearly trying to be quiet. "I don't give a f – Vince? Can't he have someone else do it?"

I exhaled slowly and shut my eyes. Italian. He was Italian. Everything made sense. Our meeting hadn't been a coincidence. He had sent him. I backed away from the door silently and turned around. He had finally caught up to me. I had expected at least another year. Maybe two.

My heart leaped into my throat at the sound of footsteps. I jumped onto the couch and yanked the blanket over me. The bathroom door creaked, and I could feel his eyes on me. I kept my breathing steady, although it sounded raspy.

"Tell Vince I'm busy," he muttered. The volume of the TV increased. The NEWS host went on about a robbery only a few streets from my apartment. "Yeah, I've got her. Tell him that his debt is repaid by Monday."

Monday. I still had a few days before my life would become Hell. Well, Hell... er?

"You know I don't need help. Ci vediamo." I winced when the phone smacked onto the coffee table. "I know you're awake, cara mia."

I pressed my lips together and opened my eyes. He stood with his back to the television and looked down at me. He was now wearing a pair of black, fitted pants and his dark hair was damp and messy from having been dried with a towel. I could barely see his face for the shadows that danced across it. He took a step forward. His right hand was behind his back and I now trained all my attention on the movements of that arm. I pressed myself back against the couch as he approached like a lion closing in on a gazelle.