Prologue

703K 4.9K 1.7K

by Atlantis94

by Atlantis94

WARNING: Scenes are of a violent & sexual nature

Westwood is filled with criminals and drug addicts. But Angela's not afraid of the danger that lurks outside, it's her brother Danny's best friend and convict, Harry, that makes her heart leap out of her chest and her mouth go dry.

Danny's other friends don't mind Angela and help Danny protect her after their father dies. But, it's Harry who takes it as a personal burden and always chaperone's her. If he hates her so much, why does he care about her safety? Is there a heart somewhere underneath Harry's leather armor? A heart that has Harry torn between loving Angela and maintaining Danny's trust?

Can Angela help Harry remove the leather armor he hides behind, or will Harry's track record— or Danny— catch up with them before they have a chance?

Cover art: @TheFloz

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When I wasn’t much taller than the bronze knob half way down our rickety door, and pronounced “please” like “peas,” my daddy sometimes read fairytales to me when he was home. If he was home.

It was just me, my older brother Danny, and daddy. My mom died so that I could be born. Her name was Angela, too. Daddy named me after her because he said I was his angel.

“God only gives a man one angel to love and cherish and protect,” he would explain softly. “God gave me two angels. But it wasn’t fair for everyone else, so your mommy had to fly back to Heaven,” he whispered and stroked my hair gently whenever I asked about her.

I believed him.

I believed that she was beautiful and good-hearted. I have a picture of her when she was seventeen and graduating high school, but I just wish I had seen her myself. Seen her and her long dark hair that looked as though the wind has whispered through it. Seen her innocent, doe-brown eyes and soft, ivory skin. And her wings. Her long, fluttering, pearly-white wings.

Daddy said I would look like her when I grew up. I have her quiet, doe brown eyes, but I have daddy’s golden hair. Even so, mommy was majestic. She was an angel. I was nothing more than a little kid who tripped over her own feet…

Danny said daddy changed a lot when mommy left. He said that daddy was really sad when I was born and mommy had to fly away.

I believed him.

I believed that I was the reason why she had died and I felt guilty, like the wrapper of a lollipop was permanently crackling near my heart, constantly reminding me of what I did. It felt awful.

Danny said that after she left, my daddy started spending a lot of his time exchanging green paper for white powder with men whose beer bellies were the size of Jupiter and whose brass rings were permanently stuck on their oily, sausage-like fingers.

They had a little code that they huffed to each other whenever they were in trouble or wanted to know if an outsider could be trusted: L’oro.

That was the key, trust, golden trust. Daddy believed in those men. He didn’t care if they were of pure Sicilian blood, but that they were all loyal to him and to each other. Daddy asked me and Danny to call the men “uncle,” since they were like brothers to him, “brothers,” in a business that only they could know about.

“You see, my brothers and I like to play games” he would wink, his hazel eyes shining like warm mud glinting of emeralds. “Fun games; you can only win by making your own rules – or, lose following someone else’s.”

I nodded and tried to think up my own rules, but ending up following Danny’s because he said his rules were right and since he’s the oldest, I should follow him.

But even with all the rules and the way daddy trusted the men, he didn’t fit in with those troll-like monsters he called “brothers.” He was smart. He knew what to say and how to say it.

My “uncles” were always impressed and yet suspicious and jealous of him, especially my uncle Carlo, whose idea of babysitting me and Danny was plopping his grubby boots on our coffee table and gurgling rotting yellowish juice that made him dizzier and crankier than usual.

Daddy was young and golden-haired and the green in his hazel eyes were more mesmerizing than the pieces of paper his “brothers” always gave him. My “uncles” used to call him JD since he looked and acted so much like James Dean.

And he was golden, adored by every passer-by. But he couldn’t stay. He couldn’t because if he had, he would have been calling Robert Frost a liar. Robert Frost said “nothing gold can stay.” My daddy was golden. So he couldn’t stay.

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NOTE: Many of you have noticed my references to the novel THE OUTSIDERS. I created these allusions on purpose because I was immensely inspired by Hinton's characters :] Also, this novel is a fictional representation of the boys of One Direction. In addition, it does not purposely make negative commentary about mob families, let alone condone stereotypes about the Sicilian mafia. Please do not take offense to any of the topics discussed in my book. They have been chosen solely for literary purposes. Thanks!

Also, this was the first book I ever completed, so it's a bit rough. I'm trying to find time to go back and edit, but nonetheless, I hope you like my book :]

-Mariam Xx

~~~>Follow me on Twitter! @Atlantis094