Angel's Mafia (gxg) ✓

XLII | Chains

Letting you guys know that there are only a few chapters left...

And there WILL be a sequel!

MY NAME IS CADENZA CONTI.

I'm twenty-two. I'm an art student at Santa Lucia university. I major in painting. I'm in love with a Mafia boss.

This is what I think, over and over, my eyes closed, as I come to consciousness. The fog of the chloroform invades my mind, making me feel blurry, and this is what keeps me tethered to reality. My name is Cadenza Conti. I'm twenty-two. I'm an art student . . .

I need to stay awake. I need to remain conscious.

Fear plunges through me, wrapping me in an icy grip. What does the Reaper want me for? I'm nobody. I'm nothing. How does he even know my name?

But either way, the stories I've heard . . . they're not good. They're nothing less than terrible.

Rape, torture . . . will I become a slave? Something used, discarded, broken?

And above all, the thought of Angel's betrayal is what hurts the most. Because she let this happen to me. She gave me up. She bargained me away, and she let the Reaper's men take me.

Now, I hear voices talking. Two men, whispering low. Their voices are gruff, and they speak in harsh Italian. I can barely follow.

All I know is that they're talking about the Falcones. Angel―it must be about her. They want to . . . shit. They want to backstab her.

That's all I can make out before a gravelly voice says, "Cadenza, you can stop pretending to be asleep."

Terror is cold in my stomach. I open my eyes.

I need to warn Angel.

No―she gave me up. I don't need to tell her anything.

Frustration wars within me. But I still care about Dominic and even Maria. If I know the Reaper is planning something against him . . .

The matter is settled when I think of the fact that Dominic saved my life.

But hopelessness drags me down. How do I warn them when I'm trapped here? I blink away a light gloss of tears, trying not cry. No weakness, I think.

My hands start to shake. I don't lift my head, so all I can see is the ceiling as I hear the man approach. His raspy voice grates the air, as though his throat is scarred and burned from within.

"Cadenza . . ."

I don't answer. Instead, I go rigid in the bed. I can't feel any part of my body but my face. Am I paralyzed? Don't panic, don't panic.

I can never forgive Angel.

"I'd like to speak with you."

I am still silent. I do not know how to reason with a monster. Anything I say will really just hurt my dignity. I am above begging; I am above pleading. He will never let me free, and the overwhelming inevitability of it crushes me like a weight.

Suddenly, the Reaper's face is above me, and it is not what I imagined.

I thought the Reaper would be a grisly, scarred old man, with lines gouged deep into his face, wrinkles pockmarking his skin. Instead, instead . . .