Book 3 in the 'Beautiful' trilogy.
Elena De Luca, the 26-year-old Mafia Princess. The daughter of the notorious Dominic De Luca, the Don of the Italian Mafia of New York. She has always been the light of her family, the life of the party, a free an...
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Angelo's POV
I turned over in the bed, meeting a chilled pillow that instantly alluded to her absence. My body reacted instantaneously, dashing up into a seated position while scanning the room. The room was dark and empty, causing my anxiety to rise and the flashes of her being dragged away from me into danger infiltrated my mind. I shook my head, dismissing the paranoid thoughts from my mind.
Did she leave? Would she leave? I wouldn't blame her if she did. I can sense her drawing the boundary between us so thick that the magnitude of that action toppled me with guilt.
I hopped out of bed, heading out of my room with a precision speed in search of her. Speaking at my mother's funeral yesterday, made me realize a lot of things. It made me see everything in a different light and it made me understand the mistake I made in letting her go. I shouldn't have let her go. I should have never let her go.
I peeked into the other room, noticing an empty and made-up bed. The only thing that brought me some sort of relief was seeing her luggage bag still upon the rectangular ottoman at the foot of the bed. I closed my eyes, thanking the power above for not taking her from me once more.
I pathed my way towards the staircase, perceiving her figure before beginning my descend. She stood in front of my ceiling to floor windows, staring out into the night sky with a thin blanket wrapped around her shoulders. The moonlight shone over her, radiating the perfection of her face and lighting up the floor before her, casting a silhouetted shadow behind her.
I plodded down the steps quietly, making my way into the lounge. I stopped a good distance away while staring over her for a moment and committing her to memory, afraid that I might not get such a chance again.
"Elena?" I sounded out as her breathing halted mid-inhale, her shoulders providing the evidence of such.
"What are you doing here at this hour?" I queried further.
"I couldn't sleep. You should rest, Angelo." She replied coldly, trying to place the distance between us like before.
"I only seem to rest with you by my side," I admitted sincerely.
To tell the truth, the past few hours of sleep I got with her beside me were the best in the last 6 weeks. When I returned from America, I couldn't be in this place. It is partially the reason why I fled to Mamma's house. I needed to get away from here.
The silence was suffocating. It was damaging and detrimental in every way. Each crevice of this hotel held a memory of her. Each bed sheet held her scent. Each corner held some form of remembrance of her beauty embedded in it. I couldn't take being here anymore. It felt like someone was physically removing my heart from my chest, piercing through it once extracted from my body. Then allowing it to pump the remaining blood within its vessels in the palm of their hand while I was forced to watch. Being without her was devastating.
