Chapter 69: Chapter 69

I prefer loyalty to love. Because love really doesn't mean much to most people. You see, love is just a feeling, an emotion. You can love someone and still stab them in the back, like Elliot did with Angelic, or like Margot did with Elliot.

It doesn't take much to love, does it? You can love someone just because you're attracted or because you think you won't get more than you already have.

But loyalty...

Loyalty is an action, an instinct that you either have or you don't have. You can love me or hate me, but you will always take care of me. Not for how you feel, but for who you are.

Angelic is loyal, and not necessarily because he loves his family. She's just like that, and it can't be any different. Loyalty is a trait that, when you have it, is immutable. Love doesn't work the same way.

- So - I clear my throat - Your late wife left an inheritance to her daughter, and your goal is to get rid of the daughter.

"Yes," he said, without remorse.

- Have you calculated the variables? - question - What if only she had access to it? What if the inheritance does not exist? What if the lawyer had already got his hands on it?

- Well, I... - I cut him off.

- No, you didn't. You saw the money and you were blind to the rest. My voice rises without me noticing, so I control myself. None of my business - This is probably your dumbest decision.

- So what do you suggest? The girl is still alive.

- What do I propose? - I'm smiling - I'm not your consultant, Elliot.

- What does that mean? - I stop listening when the line advances, then it's my turn to enter the car wash - Bruce? - Elliot is calling - Can you still hear me? Don't pretend not to!

I pull the phone away from my ear, even though he's still talking. It's none of my business. That does not bother me. I will know the result of this soap opera in the newspapers in a month. I end the call, already opening the dialer to make a new one.

I dial my pilot's number and put it on the dial. I made the mistake of getting close to my work, knowing its flavor and quirks, recording its details and taking the risk of dreaming about it, but that's it. Angelic Donneli has become a no-go zone.

- Taiga Greyhound - he answers.

- Taiga?

- Yes sir.

- Prepare the jet. We take off this morning - I say.

This isn't the first time I've dropped a service. When it gets too personal or too risky, I walk away. If necessary, I will return the payment made. Taking risks is never an option, not even with beautiful women. It's never an easy decision, because I hate the feeling of unfulfilled duty, but it's necessary.

- Understood sir. In Italy? - Taiga asks.

- Yeah.

When I end the call, I realize there is a missed call from Elliot. And since this cycle is already over, I turn off the cell phone, roll down the window and throw it out the window. I close the window, leaving me alone with the last memory I have of this service, and not for long; The perfume of Angelique.

THE WHITE...

Accommodation.

The name that can mean a lot. For a child, the place where his mother cooks the best food in the world. For the adult, the place to go after work. For the elderly, the place where he spent his whole life.

Accommodation.

I never really had a home. I was born in America, lived in the Bronx long enough to be considered a devil, and then adopted into a British family. Things didn't go as planned and sooner than expected I found myself in a home for children and adolescents. In all these places, I never saw a house. Maybe the building was, but the people weren't.

And in the meantime, I grew up and became myself. Not the best person, and probably not the worst. I did what it took to survive.

The caretaker of the orphanage never returned home, if he had one. He was always there, watching over the children and forbidding us to touch terror. I have heard many stories about him; that he was a vampire, that he had no family, that he had children in the orphanage, that his family was dead. I never knew the truth.

But the fact is that I lived a long time with this man. He wasn't an asshole like most people. I grew up and he got old. I made a fortune while he was struggling because he couldn't work anymore. And when I was able to return to Italy, I brought him to live with me.

I don't like it, but I'm just. People get what they deserve from me, and that was true for him. Manfred is his name.

He acts like we're friends even though he's sure we're not old enough. Our relationship is one of closeness, but not of intimacy. And the reason I put up with him for so many years is because he's not trying to be my father, or a counselor. He sees me doing what I want with my life and he doesn't care.

The house in Italy is on an island near Venice. It's not even on the map. You need a boat to get to the island and a car to get from the beach to the property. And even though it's the most remote place in Italy, and where Manfred lives, he rarely leaves the island. I do not think so. I myself spent two years here without feeling the slightest need to visit the ordinary world.

The sun is setting on the horizon as I cross the garden of the house, towards the door. It doesn't surprise me that Manfred is kneeling in front of the rose bed. That's why he never leaves here: the garden. The grass is always well trimmed and green. The trees produce well. The flowers bloom all year round.

- Hi - greeting.

He turns to me, but he doesn't let go of the shears he's holding in his hand and doesn't move to get up. I suspect that if I don't come home, Manfred won't miss me.

“You took your time,” he observes.

Manfred cuts a yellowed leaf from the rose bush, which stands out from all the other green ones. It's the only thing he likes in his whole life. The old man had a family forty years ago, but I don't know what happened, and I never asked. I know they are all dead, the rest is none of my business.

Manfred starts cutting the imperfect branches again. It's been two months since I've been here, and the old man doesn't even seem to have noticed. He lives in his own world.

- Work - I answer.

He looks at me over his shoulder, his face wrinkled and his eyes wise. Judge me. Manfred knows what I'm doing. Of course, it would be impossible to hide the arsenal of weapons in the basement. However, he never bothered to question me or rummage through my belongings for answers. Manfred is content with what he knows and has.

- I didn't make dinner - he whispers - But I picked mangoes.

He doesn't care about me. He did, at one time, but not anymore. However, it's just like you to be helpful, like the kind of person who helps children cross the street.

- Mango? - I'm asking. It's always fun to come home and have that kind of dialogue. A parallel world.

- Yeah. I planted mango trees last year. These accursed modify the plants to the point of producing in months, do you believe it?

- Yes I think.

I enter the house. After four hours of flight, thirty minutes by boat and ten by car, I'm tired of moving. Agitation is what motivates me to isolate myself.

I bought this house when I started doing what I do. I hated the neighbors so I realized I was not a social being. Every time I leave the island and enter the normal world, I feel suffocated. Half the people act like animals, the other half like robots.

The interior of the house is impeccably clean. The chandeliers shine, the marble on the stairs is polished, the carpets pale, and there is no dust on the furniture. Manfred took care of the cleaning, apparently. I don't have any employees, because I don't want to disturb my peace by putting someone else here. Manfred continues because it's discreet. He does not let his presence be noticed.

I climb the stairs to the second floor, then head to the master bedroom. Right at the entrance, there is a painting of Medusa. This is an oil painting on canvas mounted on wood, by Michel Angelo Merisi da Caravaggio.

Two versions were painted, the first in 1596 and the other presumably in 1597. The first was stolen from the Louvre thirty years ago and disappeared from the map. When something happens on the black market, you usually don't hear about it. The second remains in the museum. Interestingly, the first painting is at the entrance to my room.

I take off my jacket and leave it on the bed.

Since my arrival, something has been bothering me. I still haven't achieved the peace I feel when I'm here. Maybe it's because I didn't finish the job in the States, and that still makes me angry with myself. It was supposed to be a fucking plan, but it got too complicated. Too personal. I failed.

However, being an intelligent man requires more than perfection. Analyzing the situation and knowing that it would not be advantageous to continue is also part of the process. Besides, I have no desire to be arrested again.

I open the curtains and look out the window at the garden that surrounds the whole house. Manfred always cuts his roses. His clothes are soiled, but he doesn't care. These are trading bones; Commit to perfect service.

It must be a matter of time. Soon I will feel that it is my peace again, then I will leave for my next work.

I take off my belt and my shoes, leaving everything neatly on the floor. I lie down on the bed and look at the painting of Medusa. The surprised face of a woman with snakeskin hair. The goddess of strategy and war. It was inspiring when I bought it, now it looks like bullshit. The bravest woman I have ever known was not painted even though she deserved it. She is alive, and very much alive, in fact. She pointed a gun at me, cocked it and was probably going to shoot. I know it. I hope.

Angelique Donnelli.

A little devil. She never cares about the consequences of what she does. She is curious and sassy. Just when you think she can do something, she's done it twice already.

Just the thought that someone with Vicenzo Mares thinks they can have him makes me smile. No he can't. He's so much more than he can handle. What would Mares do when Angelic pointed a gun at him?

And when I close my eyes to rest, I look at Medusa, but I actually see Angelica.

I'm between her legs and she looks at me like I should never have been anywhere else. His blue eyes are pools, and I'm sure I'd drown if I jumped in them.

My hand is on her neck, feeling her soft skin. I feel everything. Heavy breathing, now panting. Beating heart. The skin becomes clammy as the heat rises between us. The thin pajama fabric that barely covers your body.

His head is slightly tilted back. She looks at me from below, but she knows that she is above.

"You want me," she says, whispering because she's sassy.

- Nope.

"Yeah, you know." She slides her tongue over her bottom lip, because she's sure I'm watching. Her pink lips invite me, even though all my principles point in the opposite direction - You never wanted a woman as much as you want me now.

I look at her and I can see all the characteristics of Medusa. Manipulation, seduction, lust. It has never gone unnoticed to me how sweet she seems to be, but she's actually a devil.

Angelique points between us, and I watch. I'm practically glued to her, her legs wrapped around my waist and her soft breasts pressed against my chest.

She slides a finger over my bottom lip, looking at my mouth. I remember that same look at Margot's birthday party at her house. I was kneeling in front of her, tying the strap on her heel.

Tighter… was what she said.

Angelique makes me break the rules when she looks at me, begging me not to be nice when I touch her.

Damn yes. I want you.

- You want me ? - she repeats the question.

We are the same, and now I realize it. Both struggle to hide who we really are and what we really want to do. Teasing is our favorite game.

I remove my hand from his neck and see the reddish mark in place. Vicenzo will hate me for touching his little girl. I put both hands next to her on the table. I lift the wood to make sure it will hold. Now we are even closer. His lips are inches from mine, and I know they taste sweet.

She rushes forward, brushing against me. The sweet, sweet smell makes me close my eyes for a second. Angelic is so hot, and even more so to find out. To know what you're doing to me. Her waist is slim and her stomach is flat. Your breasts and buttocks are rounded. Her legs are smooth and defined, soft against me.

"Take off your clothes," I said.

She parted her lips, ready to say something. But this is not the case. There's something about his expression that goes beyond teasing. She is excited. Would she say "no" to me? Would she refuse any challenge? No, this girl is not like that. She knows how to handle everything!

Angelique puts her hand on the hem of her pajama shirt and pulls it up. I feel like a teenager staring at her, eagerly awaiting the moment her skin will show under the fabric.

First your navel, then your flat stomach. She continues to pull up her shirt as I say, then I realize that our reactions mirror each other. She's excited, and I'm twice as excited.

I wake up with a jolt. I look around the darkened room, desperately searching for something familiar. The sweet scent, the soft skin, the provocative voice. Anything.

I press two fingers to my neck, feeling my heart race. What was that? I knead the sheet between my hands, feeling reality slowly sink in. It was a dream.

The only light in the room comes from the moon. Forgot the open curtains.

I grope on the table next to the bed for the pitcher and the glass of water that are still there. I pour out the water and drink it all in two sips, forcing my body to control itself.

Shit, I dreamed about her. I broke my own rule and the consequences came from day one. That's why I don't approach my services so I don't wake up in the middle of the night with their faces in my fucking head.

I take a deep breath, feeling my heartbeat now under control. Gradually, I remember the dream, and it worries me even more. It wasn't a nightmare. I did not dream of bullets and blood. I was between her legs, like the last time I saw her. My mind has reproduced everything that happened in that hangar, down to the smallest detail.

I get up and head for the bathroom. I need a cold shower to forget the heat of this body. No, I won't think about fucking Angelic.