Page 32 of Angel

I’m convinced I met the real Angel the other night at my beach house. He had a certainty about him that none of the others possessed. His touch, his kiss, his attention were addictive and I am desperate for more, but how, when he sends others in his name?

The weeks pass in a blur; they always do, but there is still no word from The Wild Angels. I hate every minute of that.

I crave their messages. The intrigue. The secrecy. The challenges they set. But it’s as if they have gone off the radar, leaving me wondering if I will ever hear from them again.

I resist sending another text. The ball is now in their court, as the saying goes, and I am too proud to ask a third time.

Giovanni’s death has dropped off the front pages and slipped down in the news stories. It’s as if his moment in the spotlight has dimmed. It comes to us all, I suppose.

I took Angel’s advice. I retreated to my mansion in Bel Air. Rosita’s sister, Maria, is my housekeeper and, like her sibling, she is a source of constant comfort to me. Aside from the gardeners and the maintenance team, I keep a very small staff. It’s all I need. People around me I can trust, and being locked away from society is sending me stir-crazy.

Like every night, I shower before bed and take a nightcap staring from my window. It’s a moment of pure silence, without the chaos my days bring. Just me, the night, and peaceful contemplation. Perfect.

The glass drains; I resist filling it. One is enough. I never drink to excess.

As I head to the table and place my empty glass on it, a sudden breeze catching my nightdress causes my heart to thump.

“Sophie.”

His voice is husky, low, a different tone from before.

My skin prickles as I turn, his silhouette framing the open door leading to my balcony.

“Angel?”

I whisper, wondering if it’s yet another one. I peer at him a little closer, hoping for a clue; his eyes the perfect giveaway.

My heart falls when I see brown. Dark eyes, not vivid and full of life, sparkle even.

He says nothing, merely advances slowly, and yet something in his manner feels a little off to me.

“Stay where you are.”

My tone is curt, abrupt, and unwelcoming.

He shakes his head, his eyes narrowed to slits, the vibe menacing.

“You have my attention, Sophie.”

I move backwards.

“Why are you here?”

“For you, of course.”

“Tell me what you need to say, but don’t move any closer.”

He laughs, a dull sound that causes my soul to shiver.

“What’s the matter, Sophie? I know you like leather, masks, and mystery.”

I falter, my mind racing.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I want you to leave.”

“No, you don’t.”

I crash against the table, the glass falls to the soft white carpet, and he lunges forward, grabbing my wrists in one move, swinging me against his chest, his hand covering my mouth.