2.

Angelica

My lips tremble as I take in rushed breaths, trying to get as much air as I can in my tight throat.

Coming here was a mistake, but it’s not like I had a choice.

This was the part of the night Nicolas warned me about.

“Behave yourself tonight.” His words from earlier ring in my ears. It was short for ‘don’t embarrass me tonight.’ And I just did.

The psychiatrist called it Enochlophobia, something I acquired when I was eight. And because Nicolas is who he is, he denied me help when I needed it—until it got worse.

Then it became my problem.

It didn’t matter to him as long as people didn’t know about it, and as long as I behaved myself wherever I went.

Like I can control what happens to me.

I shut my eyes, trying to steady my breathing and think through what I’ve just done. I reek of spilled alcohol, but right now that’s the least of my concerns.

What have I done? I think to myself.

“You don’t ever run out of ideas to show yourself, do you?” a familiar voice hisses from behind me, sending shivers up and down my spine.

My breath hitches with the realization of who the voice belongs to, and despite my current state, I fight the urge to roll my eyes at her and instead turn around to face my sister.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Nadine says with a smile. “You know I’m right.”

Her smile is nothing like the perfect one she inherited from her father; this one is a mean smile filled with mockery and hate, reserved just for me.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.” My voice is quieter than normal. Shakier too.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to,” she repeats in an exaggerated imitation of my voice and giggles right after, folding her arms.

“Do you even know where we are?” She asks, but I don’t respond because I know she doesn’t expect me to. However, that doesn’t mean she appreciates my silence.

“This is why I hate talking to you, Angelica, it’s like talking to a brick wall, only that you’re more annoying and dumber,” she says, tilting her head to the side.

I don’t miss the emphasis on my name, and I know she did it on purpose because it is the fastest way to get to me, because I hate my name; Angelica.

Nicolas named me because he thought I looked like an angel the first time he held me when I was born.

What was supposed to be a cute little lore now makes my skin crawl. It’s like a prison I can’t escape from.

“Anyway, father says he doesn’t want to see you in the hall until the party is over,” she says and my eyes widen. “I don’t know why you have to be there for the after-party dinner, but he says you must,” she spits, then watches me like one would a trash can.

“You shouldn’t have done that tonight, you know?” With that, she exits the garden, and I’m left with my thoughts and a sickening feeling of dread.

Nicolas ordering me to sit out the rest of the party is not a good thing, even though I’m grateful that I don’t have to return. I just know I’ll pay for it dearly when we return home.

Suddenly, tears sting my eyes, and I look up to the starry sky, blinking away the tears that still roll down the side of my face despite my attempts.

Here I am, in the most beautiful and talked-about garden in Boston, but I can’t even focus on it because of what awaits me at home.

“When will this end?” I mutter under my breath without bothering to wipe my tears away.

After a few calming breaths, I decide to take a stroll through the huge garden, rubbing my palms against my shoulders as a chilly wind blows past.

And as I walk, I focus on the sky, at the twinkling stars, at how beautiful and untouchable they are.

I want to be like that too. Untouchable.

Further into the garden, I’m confident I’m alone here, so imagine my shock when I hear a deep, chilling masculine voice behind one of the tall shrubs yelling:

“You fucked up, so you better find that bastard or else I’m going to skin you alive!”

Curious, I walk slowly toward the voice to take a peep.

I expect to see two people, but there’s only one with a phone pressed against his ear.

His back is to me, shoulders tense as he speaks into his phone, his voice low—controlled, but edged with something dangerous, and as he speaks, his broad shoulders tighten and relax through his dress shirt tucked into his vest, his free hand gripping his jacket hard with every word.

He’s clearly having a private conversation, and I should leave, but I don’t for whatever reason.

“I don’t give a fuck. Find out who gave the intel and bring that bastard to me by morning,” he threatens then pauses for a beat before adding:

“It’s Marciano D’amato to you!”

His hand drops from the side of his face and I freeze.

I stare at his wide back, mentally begging my legs to move, especially because I know I shouldn’t be here.

Marciano D’amato.

I’ve never seen him face-to-face but I’ve heard rumors, mostly from Nadine of how disgusting he looks with an ugly scar on his face, and how dumb she thinks he is to live with the scar instead of running off to some plastic surgeon to get it fixed.

I’m pretty sure Nicolas said more and worse, but it’s hard to think while being a stone’s throw away from the man in question.

But here he is, the head of all the D’amato businesses, a man rumored to be feared even more than his father was, with his back to me.

I never cared about the rumors, but I want to see his face. So I take a step forward, only to step on a fallen branch.

It cracks and the sound echoes between us—clear and loud.

Alarms blare in my head like a siren and a gasp exits my lips as he whips his head around immediately meeting my eyes.

My stomach drops, and my lips dry as something cold and uncomfortable spreads through my chest.

Try as I might, I can’t control the way my eyes widen, or the way my eyebrows furrow, or my body, the way I take a forced step back as I assess his face in pure awe.

True to the rumors, the head of the D’amato family has a very big, bad scar on his left side that cuts from his forehead down to the curve of his lips—sharp, unforgiving and impossible to ignore.

How does he walk around like that…like it doesn’t matter?

Is the first question that pops into my head as I stare at the scar. I can’t imagine myself with something like that, because all my life I’ve been forced to live a certain way, look a certain way—like the angel I was born to be.

I was made to believe my relevance is tied to my face, that people will treat me either good or bad based on how I look.

But clearly not Marciano D’amato.

He walks around with a scar as big as two of my fingers on the side of his face, without a care in the world.

“I—”

The word dies in my throat under his gaze because not only did he catch me eavesdropping, but I was rudely staring at him. His gaze hardens and I brace myself for his outburst, ready for him to yell at me, to hit me even, but it never comes.

Instead, his eyes settle on me with recognition, and a dangerous glint beneath it.

Then it hits me.

He’s the person I bumped into earlier.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry,” I say, but my voice is hoarse and barely audible, so I repeat it.

Just as he parts his lips about to speak, a loud piercing sound echoes across the garden. Immediately, his jacket falls to the ground and in two strides he’s right in front of me, pushing me to the ground and covering my body with his.

His hand presses against the ground beside my head, the other braced near my waist.

He’s shielding me completely.

My heart stutters as his weight pins me down, stealing my breath, trapping me beneath him. Yet something softens inside—something unfamiliar.

I shove it down instantly.

“What’s happening?” I force out in a whisper.

The only response I get, however, is five more piercing sounds. Then eerie silence.

“Fuck!” Marciano spits, not even passing me a glance as he rises from my body to his knees, pulls out his gun from his waistband, and cocks it.

I blink up at his face, confused, just as screams and chaos reverberate throughout the mansion.

“Go find your family,” is all he says to me before he stands and disappears.

What the hell just happened?