L'Angelo della Morte | A Mafia Romance

♛12 ⥄ ❝ Plans, rage, & mafia men ❞

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Soldier keep on marchin' on, head down 'til the work is done.

~ Fleurie

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Days – three to be exact – had gone by before I got the news that Vittorio was awake. I had rushed from the small bar to our floor, but as soon as I stepped foot outside the elevator, I stopped in my tracks.

Frustration and anguish could not begin to describe the shout that pierced the walls. I rushed to his door and without a second thought – or even a first – I pushed it open.

"Vittorio?" I kept my voice soft – eyes darting around the dark room in search of him. I stepped inside cautiously and pushed the door shut behind me. "Vi –"

"Leave."

My eyes snapped in the direction of the bed and in the shadows, I could make out his figure. He was sitting on the far edge of the bed, his back turned towards me and his head bowed.

"You're awa –"

"I said –" He inhaled deeply before speaking in a more even tone. "Leave."

"But I just wanted to check on –"

"Leave!"

I flinched back and hit the door with a yelp at the exact moment a glass bottle shattered against the wall just a few feet beside me.

He was up and facing me but in the dark, I couldn't make out his face. I only noticed the fast heaving of his chest. His balled-up hands.

"What happened to you?" I couldn't keep the hurt out of my voice, nor the tremor.

He stormed at me in fast, long strides, pinning me between him and the door; his hands slapped against the hard surface just inches from my face. "What happened to me?" He almost spat the words with more venom than I'd ever heard from him.

My heart was assaulting my ribcage and my knees were nearly buckling beneath me.

He slapped again right next to the door and the lights flickered on, causing me to squint at the sudden attack on my eyes.

I blinked a few times and as my eyes adjusted, I realized just how close he was; his face mere inches from mine. My lips fell apart at the sight in front of me.

A scarring cut curved across the bridge of his nose, trailing its way to the inner corner of his left eye, only to pick up again at the outer and lick its way out on his temple. But that wasn't what trapped my breath in my throat; it was the thin, silvery line crossing his iris and pupil almost perfectly in the center.

I lifted my hand but he pushed off the door, once more creating distance between us. "I can barely fucking see, Carlissa. My eye is useless," he snapped.

I bit my lip and lowered my gaze to the floor. I didn't know what to say. Of course, he'd be upset. Half of a main sense was lost.

He was pacing, walking in circles in his room, fingers curled into tight fists. A vein in his forehead was bulging, along with practically every vein in his arms. Another curse – Italian – left his mouth at a deafening volume as he kicked over the chair by his desk.

I flinched, my back pressing against the door hard. "I'm sorry," I whispered.

He stopped in his tracks and for a second, I contemplated running. I was sure he could hear my heartbeat as loud as I could. I inhaled deeply and hesitantly took a step forward.