ANGIOLETTO Dark hair slicked back, perfectly tailored Armani suit hugging onto my body, icy blue eyes sunken. Dark. Monstrous. I look powerful, I feel powerful, I know I’m powerful, but why do I feel so incomplete? What’s this hollow I feel? Where has my courage gone? I step out of the car and the cold breeze that settles against my skin unsettles me. My heart skips its beat one too many times. Something of discomforting sensation crawls beneath my skin. I have no explanation for this feeling but I know it’s. . .something. Perhaps fear. Fear. Psychology would define fear as a basic, intense emotion aroused by the detection of imminent threat, involving an immediate alarm reaction that mobilizes the organism by triggering a set of physiological changes. It triggers your fight or flight hormone. But today, I fight. So amidst this grim feeling eating at my soul, I pray. My voice a hushed murmur, but I pray intently with my rosary wrapped tightly around my fist as I lay my s

OCEANE Heaving in short and fast breaths, I lean against a wall, my fingers digging into my chest. It hurts so bad. My head, my chest, my legs—every part of me is in dire pain. I think I lost him. Finally. I’ve been running for so long—too long that I feel like I’m about to pass out. I’ve been running for so long that even the night has caught up with me. “Just a little bit longer.” I encourage myself. Shutting my eyes tightly, I drag in a long breath, exhaling shakily. I spin on my heels to begin walking when I bump into something rigid. Something hard. Something with a heartbeat. Something with a pulse. Realization hit me. It’s not a something, but a someone. “Did you have a swell time?” He questions, his cold eyes trained intently on me, his lips stretched into a grin. My bones wobble. I almost scream out a series of curse words but force myself to silently take whatever life throws at me. I know it in the back of my mind how much I’ve tested this man’s patience, but here

ANGIOLETTO When I received a text from my father informing me of this meeting, I knew something was off. I knew it had something to do with my hostage, and now, I’ve confirmed my suspicions to be true. Thirty minutes have I been here, still, there've been no words spoken, just the continuous rise in the tension radiating off of each person in the room. Mio padre, his first son, Massimo, and his second son, Antonio. “How have you been?” My older brother—Massimo questions, his eyes, as dark as the midnight, burning holes through my skull, reminding me that his question, as sweet as it might sound, is far from him merely inquiring about my physical state. “Fine.” I simply answer, gaining a unified hum from all three of the men. “Haven’t you been getting enough sleep? Your eyes are really sunken.” Mio padre further asks. Completely aware that his question springs from a place of genuine concern, I answer in a soft voice. “Sto bene, padre.” He nods. “What about Dumont Augustin, has

ANGIOLETTO There are five stages of grief. Denial and Isolation. Anger. Bargaining. Desperation. And lastly, Acceptance. In the last seventy two hours, I’ve been roped into, and have suffered with great intensity each stage of grief respectively. While I was in denial, I couldn’t believe that my beautiful, little Oceane had left me without as much a goodbye note. She stole all my money, stole my car, and left, and I sat there in my room, watching all of it unfold before my own eyes. And then denial morphed into anger. I was aggravated, Infuriated, irritated. I lost my mind the minute she walked out my door. I was roped into intense anger that I didn’t realize when I had begun ruining everything until my penthouse was turned upside down. That was before I began to physically harm myself. I needed to feel something other than anger. Hurting myself physically was my last resolve. I blamed myself for allowing my brother’s words get to me. I am no logical thinker. I have never be

OCEANE It is the soft meow of a cat that has me grumbling and turning in bed. There are no pets in the penthouse, not even Angioletto’s infamous dog. So, when the continuous meowing of a cat doesn’t stop, I’m suddenly thinking that I might be having a vivid dream. “Angioletto speaking.” I hear that ever so familiar deep voice. I’m definitely having a dream. A good kind. “I just returned to Italy a few minutes ago and you’re already calling over an issue as little as this?” It’s an angry growl of his voice. I slowly pry my eyes open with a sigh, screeching as I stretch, toss and turn. My lips stretch into a smile when I look out my window, enjoying the feel of the morning sun against the glass. But I’m startled when I hear a deep rumble of a hum. A hum I’ve become accustomed to. Then the meowing resumes. I’m definitely not dreaming. Too apprehensive, I wait without looking to my right where I can certainly hear continuous hums. The hums are low, low enough not to hear him but d