12 | Angel
FIORELLA
“I should really get going.” I put down my cup, watching the last ribbon of steam curl up and disappear. The chamomile was meant to soothe me, but somehow the nostalgic scent only worsened the aching inside my chest.
“You just got here.” Mamma reaches out a hand, sliding it over mine. Her fingers are thin, flour still caught in the edges of her nails from the pastries cooling on the counter. “I feel like you’ve barely been around lately.”
I look at her for a long moment, my throat tight. There are new lines around her eyes, making her look older and warmer at the same time. I brush my palms over my knees and try for a smile. “I know—I’ve been busy, Mammina.”
She tips her head to the side, gray eyes narrowing with that mother’s sixth sense that always cuts too close. “Are you okay? Does this have anything to do with Luca? I know you feel responsible for him, but—”
“Nothing’s wrong, Mamma.” I force a breath through my throat, light and practiced. “I just—I’ve been seeing someone.”
Her eyes flare, worry melting away like snow in the sun. “Really? Tell me about him!”
I push to my feet before she can see my hesitation. “I will. Promise. I just have an appointment in half an hour and can’t be late.”
The lie tastes bitter, but staying here and not being able to tell her what’s going on is even worse.
I walk to the door, but pause in the doorway. “Do you still have those sapphire-and-pearl earrings?”
Mamma’s brows knit. “Of course.”
“Could I maybe borrow them this weekend?”
She bites her lip. “I don’t know, piccolina. I was saving them for your wedding day.”
The words hit me square in the chest. I swallow hard, blinking against the sting behind my eyes. “It’s just—I have this… shoot this weekend, and I’d really love to have a part of you with me there.”
She studies me for a long second, her expression softening. “Ella, if you need anything, you know you can always come to us, right? Like I told Luca—we have some money saved. It’s not much, but if you’re in trouble—”
“Just those earrings, Mammina,” I interrupt gently. “It would mean a lot. I promise I’ll take good care of them.”
Mamma hesitates, then turns and walks to her bedroom.
The sound of her footsteps fades down the hall, leaving me alone with the ticking of the kitchen clock.
It’s too loud. I rub at my arms and glance around the house I was raised in—the lace curtains, the family photos, the old crucifix still hanging above the door.
Guilt curls deep in my stomach. I should feel at home, but somehow, I don’t anymore.
It’s like the girl who grew up here is gone.
When Mamma comes back, she’s holding a tiny velvet jewelry box. “Can you sit down for a second?”
I walk back to the couch and slowly sink into it.
Mamma gathers my hair, brushing her fingers through in soft, rhythmic strokes that make my throat tighten.
She twists it up and fastens it with the clip she pulls from her own hair.
“I always imagined myself putting these on you for the first time,” she murmurs, voice thin. “Would you mind if I—”
“Please.” The word breaks on my tongue. “I’d love that, Mamma.”
Her hands tremble slightly as she removes my earrings, then replaces them with the vintage ones—cool against my warm skin.
When she’s done, I turn to look up at her. Her eyes are glistening, and instantly, mine go blurry too.
“Mamma…”
“It’s silly,” she says, waving me off and dabbing her eyes. “I just always imagined you wearing these with a wedding dress. Maybe one day, no? With your new man?”
A soft, humorless laugh escapes me. “Yeah. Maybe.”
She brushes a hand through my hair, lingering like she’s afraid to let go. “Look at us, talking about weddings. When did you get so big?”
I sigh and wrap my arms around her waist, pressing my face to her sweater as a lump swells painfully in my throat. “I don’t know, Mamma.”
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The sound of a door closing snaps me out of my daze. I slick back my hair, the cool pool water trickling down the sides of my neck as I turn.
My breath hitches in my throat.
Santo is there, dressed in nothing but a pair of black swim trunks, immaculate, tattooed body in full display.
I don’t even pretend not to stare—I straight up ogle him.
He doesn’t say a word. Just meets my gaze, face blank, before diving cleanly into the water. The sound is sharp, the splash small. Then he’s beneath the surface—gone—until a shadow moves past me, smooth and fast.
He surfaces a few feet away, dark hair slicked back, droplets rolling down his neck and over the muscles of his shoulders. My jaw drops when my eyes catch on his back.
The tattoo covers every inch of him, from the base of his neck to the small of his back, dark lines twisting and overlapping in impossible detail.
Wings upon wings, eyes upon eyes. Hundreds of them—watching, following, seeing everything.
The water distorts the shapes, makes the feathers ripple like they’re moving—like they’re alive.
At first, I don’t know what I’m looking at. It’s too much—too intricate, too haunting. Then it clicks.
It’s an angel.
But not the soft, comforting kind. This one looks like it crawled straight out of scripture—holy and terrible, something you should fall to your knees for, but not to pray.
My pulse stutters. There are scars hidden among the wings, a pale silver against the black ink.
Santo shakes his hair out of his eyes, water running down the tattoo in rivulets. My throat goes dry. “It’s beautiful,” I hear myself say, though that’s not the right word. It’s terrifying. Sacred.
It’s him.
He glances over his shoulder, half a smirk curving his mouth. “That’s not what most people call it.”
“I bet most people don’t look long enough.”
A quiet hum leaves him, deep and approving. “Careful, fiore. You stare at angels too long—people start calling it worship.”
My voice comes out smaller than I intend. “I can’t look away.”
His smile sharpens. “Then don’t. But understand what you’re looking at.”
“And what is that?”
He turns fully then, the water sloshing between us, voice low and sure. “A reminder. You have to have eyes on your back. Danger sneaks up on you.”
He steps closer, his chiseled body cutting through the water smoothly, and I back away until my back hits the edge of the pool.
Santo braces his hands on either side of me, caging me in. I go completely still.
His eyes flick down to my mouth, then back to mine. “You want to pray to the angel, bella?”
I shake my head slowly, my chest tightening.
He studies me for a long, unbearable moment. Then he leans in, voice quiet enough to make my skin prickle.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Prayers are wasted on things that don’t forgive.”
“I’ve done nothing I need forgiveness for.”
“You may think so. But angels aren’t just here to guard us, dolcezza—they watch. They witness.” The words slither through the air between us, heavy with heat. “So go on,” he says, turning his back. “Look at it. Let it see you back.”
The dozens of eyes on his skin seem to stare right through me. And for a breathless second, I can’t tell which feels more blasphemous—the thing inked into his flesh, or the sinner himself.
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Oooh. Cool or creepy (or both)? ??