The Under Boss's Ballerina [18+]

13

NOTE: I'll put the translation to the Italian words or conversation in brackets bellow the paragraph or the sentence. <3

I woke up early next morning, probably triggered by anger or the fact that I couldn't sleep soundly last night.

Angelo wasn't beside me. As usual.

I was cuddling the obscenely yellow dolly.

The color oddly hurts my poor eyes but it's soft and it provided me the silent affection I wanted.

Sitting up, I brushed my hair out of my face, feeling the morning air rush inside from the crack of the windows.

Slinging my feet off the bed, I found my new house slippers lined with fur and journeyed down to the kitchen in search of something to wet my throat.

"Spero di volare presto in Russia." I hear Angelo's voice as I step down the last stair leading me to the first floor.

(I hope to fly to Russia soon.)

"No, no, starò bene, ci sono state abbastanza complicazioni così com'è, non vorrei ritardare il nostro accordo con loro." He adds.

(No, no, I'll be fine, there has been enough complications as it is, I wouldn't want to delay our deal with them.)

I see him moving around the kitchen, shirtless, a pair of maroon silk pajama hangs low from his hips.

There was something different about the man. I think, crossing my arms over my chest.

His hair was longer slightly, out of place. Dark brown strands going further down his neck the usual.

I could tell something had changed.

I couldn't just place what.

His movements seemed as if he were tired.

"Ho detto, non c'era motivo di ritardare la firma dell'accordo solo perché uno stronzo mi ha sparato addosso, Roman." He sighed.

(I said, there was no reason delaying the deal signing just because some asshole got their shot at me, Roman.)

"Look  I've been through worse, brother, you and I, we can do this- no, no, I don't need a weak off, Roman-" He sighs.

Disenchanted, he drops his phone on the kitchen counter and grabs the edge of the marble counter shoulder slumping.

"Angelo?" I ask pushing myself away from the adjoint doorway, my arms still crossed over my chest.

"Ehi, girino." He pushes himself off the position, impassive and turns to put the turkey slices on the hot skillet.

(Hey, tadpole.)

I turn the burner off, making him turn to me.

"Buongiorno." I wish pushing myself closer to him, my hair was pulled over on shoulder, pink curls resting just a bit above my breasts.