Angel's Mafia (gxg) ✓

XVIII | Heal Me

I HAVE NEVER BEEN ANYWHERE MORE BEAUTIFUL in my entire life.

And I don't even care.

As soon as a Mafia woman named Rosetta took Dante to the hospital, the rest of the house cleared. As soon as Angel was conscious enough to give orders, she told everyone to leave.

Except for me.

Angel is on her stomach, breathing softly. Her bandages have been clean for an hour. We've been here since midday, and now evening is falling. I sit at a rocking chair next to an window. This mansion―palace―castle―is incredible.

The orchard outside is ripe and filled with oranges. The grass is green and lush. The pink sky illuminates the garden of tulips and lilies below. But none of it is mesmerizing enough for me to tear my eyes away from Angel.

Her eyes are closed. Her feather-soft lashes brush her cheekbones, black as oil. Her raven-dark hair spills across the pillow, and her slender hands rest clasped beneath her cheek. She looks so beautiful, even sleeping.

I wrench my eyes away. I can't be attracted to her. Not to this cold, cruel woman, this leader of the Falcones . . . but can she really be so cold and cruel? She saved Dante's life. She jumped in front of a bullet for him.

The thought reminds me of my own arm. The bullet only grazed me, luckily, but it was enough to sting. I rush to the bathroom, noticing that blood is spotted against the bandage.

I unwrap the gauze. My gaze falls on myself in the mirror. I notice the circles under my eyes. So much happened today I don't know how to process it.

After I clean the wound, I try to reapply a new gauze, but it's hard to hold with only one arm. I curse quietly as the bandage falls to the ground, and when I stand up, Angel is right next to me.

Even after she was shot, she still looks beautiful.

"Do you need help?" she says. Wordlessly, I nod.

With soft, nimble fingers she wraps the bandage around my arm. Her breath is soft, warm against my neck. I try to breathe evenly, but I forget how.

"Thank you," I mumble when she finishes. I look into the mirror, and she meets my eyes through the glass.

She blushes.

Angel, the last Falcone alive, the leader of the Mafia, blushes at me.

I feel like jumping in the air. I feel like pumping my fist in the air.

I shouldn't feel anything.

I look down as she says, "Thanks for . . . saving my life."

"It was nothing." Hesitantly, I graze my fingertips against the bare skin of her shoulder. Just above the wound. Before I can start touching her, really touching her, I pull away and say, "You need to go rest. You lost a lot of blood."

The truth is, I'm still wondering why I'm the only person she wanted here. She ordered everyone else out. I understand that I took out the bullet, but . . . doesn't she want someone to cook? Or clean her bandage for her? It doesn't take someone with medical knowledge to do that.

But the thought fills me with warmth. She wanted me.

Angel chuckles and returns to the bedroom. "You know . . ." she says hesitantly. "You don't have to sit on the rocking chair. You look tired . . . there's room for two in this bed."