Angel's Mafia (gxg) ✓

VII | Don't Walk Away

If I know one thing, it's that she's not getting away this time.

I leave Dante mid-sentence and stumble through the crowd, trying to find her.

Red dress, dark, flowing hair―how hard could it be?

I manage to chase her out into an empty hallway of the museum. I can hear the click of marble heels echoing down a corner, and I rush towards her, gathering my skirt and pulling it down my hips so it doesn't slide up.

"Hey!" I cry out. "Hey, wait!"

I don't even have a name to call her. Does she even want to see me? No, it doesn't matter―even if I have to hunt her down, I don't care. I just want to see her once more, this woman I spent the night with, who gave me her helmet and drove me on the back of a motorcycle. Who has the infamous painting Desperate Dancer in her room.

Who claims that I planned a heist. And we stole it together.

I find myself in the middle of an empty gallery. The lights are closed, save for small spotlights, and it gives me the feeling of being alone in an abandoned work of art. There are paintings on the walls, beautiful pieces that I've never seen before.

Caught in a trance, I can't help but stare at the art. I could lose myself in this magic, this beauty. I could spent the whole day here, staring into the soul of some work done hundreds of years ago.

The artwork I'm looking at is a haunting portrayal of two naked bodies, tangled together. By the way it was done, it's impossible to tell what gender they are, but it's clear that they're engaged in something intimate.

Something sensual, raw.

I grow warm at the thought of those golden paint strokes, the tender depiction of skin and flesh and heat. Great―I'm turned on by a painting.

Before I can turn away, I feel a hand on my shoulder.

"Hello."

It's the woman. Her hair falls down her back in glossy, luscious curls. Her dress looks like it has come straight out of a movie centuries ago, an elegant gown of hundreds of scarlet folds, twisted around her like she's a princess, or a queen. It's so different from the sleek, sexy clothes everyone else is wearing that I gaze openmouthed for an amount of time that is unbearably awkward.

"What―" I try to collect myself. "What are you doing here?"

The woman grins, her red mouth curving into a slow, delicious smile. "I think the better question is why you followed me."

I step back. Tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. I feel undone, out of breath. "I just . . . wanted to see where you're going."

I wanted to see you again.

I don't say it. I can't say it.

Suddenly, I stammer out, "Thank you, by the way."

Her mouth quirks into a small smile. "You're welcome. But for what?"

I love that lush Italian accent. I don't think I could get enough of it.

"For driving me to university, that day," I say. "And lending me your helmet. That was . . . kind of you."

"Well, I am ever the gentleman."

I know how we must look: two girls, five feet apart in an empty gallery, the lights dimmed low. There is art all around us, and there's art in her―in the way she smiles, in the way she steps closer. Bridging that distance.