𝐀𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥'𝐬 𝐆𝐢𝐫𝐥 ✓ [𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐓𝐖𝐎]

chapter eighteen ✕ stockholm solidarity

𝐬𝐨𝐡𝐨, 𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐲𝐨𝐫𝐤

𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐩𝐦

❀⊱┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄⊰❀
[unedited]

  "I'm sure I must sound like I give a fuck, but you'd be surprised to know that I don't." Angelo says into the phone.

  It took Angelo all but a few minutes to reconvene us with Armando, Santos and Andrea at her apartment, and even less time to tell his father that he's not going to bother heading to Amsterdam.

  He hangs up the phone with a visceral anger in his eyes.

  Armando holds the photograph, now a crumpled and creased mess, trying to discern any clues of the location.

"It has to be Delafonse." He says. "But, I can't make out anything incriminating."

  My hand covers my mouth to stifle a cry. I abruptly stand and walk to the stairs, down towards the shop below.

  My palms lean over the countertop and I rock on my heels. Taking shaky breaths, I try to collect myself. I have barely any time to do so when the sound of footsteps comes from behind me.

  "Nia?" Andrea's voice reaches me.

I look up at her in surprise, not expecting it to be her there.

  "Hi, Andrea." I say, my voice cracking midway through.

She steps cautiously up to me and places a gentle hand on my back.

"I'm so scared." I sob into her shoulder.

"I am too. To be honest, I'm not sure what's going to happen. But, by the looks of things, Angelo and Armando are already planning. I'm sure we'll be able to find your parents in no time." She assures.

"God, I hope your right." I whisper. I try to force the anguish out of me and replace the emotion with something that doesn't hurt as much.

  "Let's head back up." I say, breathing deeply and balling my fists just slightly, letting my nails dig into the skin of my palm.

Andrea nods and the two of us walk back up the stares.

  Angelo and Armando glance over me carefully and I sit down. I catch a glimpse of myself in a passing reflection. Red eyed, stone faced and not ready to take any bullshit.

   I lean over and take the photo from Armando scanning over it and flipping it over. On the white back of the crumbled photo, I notice an odd sheen. Without a word, I look around the room and spot a set of grow lights Andrea has glowing over a few potted plants.

  I walk over and hover the back of the photo just under them to confirm my suspicion. And in the blue tinted light, numbers become visible. Tilting the paper, I read them out loud.