The Angel of Death.

Aurora’s POV

From the corner of my eye, through the glare of the headlights, he emerged.

The man at the restaurant.

He stepped into the light slowly, like he owned the world and had already set it on fire. His grey eyes, light like a storm, cold like winter, met mine, and something inside me cracked. I knew that face. I had met him before, smiled at him across a restaurant table, shared stupid small talk. But this man? This wasn’t the man I met.

I remembered him walking toward me, flashing that boyish smile that made his eyes crinkle at the sides. That smile was lacking.

He was different now. Hardened. Those mesmerizing eyes looked haunted.

His dark hair was messy, falling into his eyes. His face, once sharp and clean, now looked hollowed, sleepless. Like he’d aged years in hours. He wore a black suit with a white shirt and a tie, like he was dressed for dinner. Tall, lean, broad-shouldered, he looked every inch the executioner.

Still, even as fear burned through me, I admired him. And hated myself for it.

He didn’t say a word. Just walked briskly toward us.

He moved too fast for me to process. He kicked the gun out of my father’s hand, just like that, before someone stepped forward and stomped down on it, crushing his wrist with a sickening crack. My father screamed.

I lunged toward my father, shielding him with my body, crying, shaking, begging. “Please! Please, I beg you, please!” I wrapped my arms around my father, holding onto him like I could physically protect him from what was coming.

Then I saw him call someone over without speaking, a slight glance.

A man stepped forward from the shadows. His eyes narrowed at me, a cruel grin on his lips.

“Get me the sword, Nico,” he said quietly. His eyes bored into mine.

My eyes widened in shock.

Nico smiled, almost giddy. “With pleasure, boss.”

My father bowed until his head touched the concrete floor. “Please spare my daughter. She hasn’t done anything.”

Two men grabbed his hands from behind, restraining him.

Father was no longer begging for his life but for mine.

“No!” I shrieked, and lurched forward, grabbing his feet as he turned. “Please, take me instead! What do you want from me? What should I do? I’ll do anything, just don’t kill him!”

Behind me, my father groaned. “Aurora, stop… it’s my fight. This has nothing to do with you. I brought this upon us.”

Nico returned, presenting the weapon like a gift. A long, polished blade that shimmered under the headlights. I went completely still.

This wasn’t a threat.

It was an execution.

“No! No, no, no, please!” I screamed, clutching his pant leg as others tried to pull me off. “Please, don’t do this!”

He looked up at me, and for a moment, I thought I saw a flicker of hesitation, but it was gone before I could be certain.

“Please, I beg you,” I pleaded. “Don’t hurt my father. He’s all I have. I’ll do anything you ask of me.” I was still holding on to his legs, waiting, and then he kicked me hard, causing me to stumble backward.

I was stunned for words.

Beside him, a man snickered. He was a much older man, hiding in the shadows, but now that I was closer, I could see his features. Silver hair, grey eyes, sharp jawline. He was an older version of the man I had met at the restaurant—the man whose mercy I was under. He was probably his father, I thought to myself.

Another man near him stepped forward, “Angelo…” he said gently. He didn’t say anything else, but that was enough. He was pleading for me. I looked up at the new man. He had kind eyes, unlike the other man who had brought the sword.

But he didn’t even blink.

They had to pin me down.

Two men grabbed me by the arms as I screamed and kicked, hysterical. My knees scraped against the pavement. I watched in horror as Angelo approached my father, sword in hand, slow and calm.

And then, without hesitation, he swung. The blade sliced clean through. There was a sickening crack, and then silence.

I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe.

My father’s body slumped forward. His head rolled, blood pooling thick and fast across the cement. His eyes—his beautiful, kind, terrified eyes—were closed. Like he was sleeping.

My body went limp. I fell forward and crawled.

I crawled to his head, my hands shaking as I cradled it, whispering, “Papá, wake up, please wake up…”

The world blurred. My vision doubled. The cold didn’t exist. Time didn’t exist. Nothing else save for the man whose head I now held in my hands. The man I had gone on my first date with. The man who had sung lullabies to me at night. The man who had taught me to ride a bike. My first love. My father.

“I want you to avenge your brother,” his father spoke up. “Kill this bitch just like you killed her father.”

I didn’t even look at him.

I just kept holding what was left of the man I loved most in the world.

He still didn’t budge.

“You have to kill her too, son. They killed your brother, remember? You promised you would take everything he loves from him.” The father continued, and then he let out a big sigh. “If you don’t want to kill her, you have to sell her to Don Savio. She’ll be a perfect fit in his trafficking ring…”

I didn’t even flinch.

“You could make good money out of her, and that will be a worse existence for her. Her father will roll in his grave when he sees what will become of his daughter and how much they would use her…”

Then I felt someone crouch beside me.

The man at the restaurant.

I flung myself at him, screaming, beating his chest with every ounce of strength I had left. He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. I spat in his face, and he just wiped it with the back of his hand. Two men rushed toward me and grabbed my hands.

“What’s your name?” he asked me calmly.

I looked up, furious, sobbing, shaking. “Go to hell,” I hissed. “I’m going to kill you. One day, I swear to God, I’m going to kill you.”

He only smiled.

A slow, maniacal curl of his lips.

He turned to his father. “I’m not going to kill her. I have an even worse fate planned for her.”

The Don narrowed his eyes. “What could be worse than selling her into a trafficking ring? Those men would ravage her whole.”

But he only looked at me.

He leaned in close, and I felt his minty breath on my face as he whispered, “Nothing those men would do to you could compare to what I will do to you.”

And then he stood.

“My name is Angelo Armani,” he said. His voice was a deep baritone.

“I’m the angel of death.”

He looked at me like I was already buried.

“And you will be my slave.”