Slowly getting to an end...

SIX WEEKS AFTER

I WAKE UP NEXT TO ANGEL, AND IT FEELS LIKE BEING HOME.

"Good morning, beautiful," she says, blinking sleepily, her hair mussed and tangled from last night's round of . . . well. You know what.

I could get used to this, I think. Waking up next to her every morning, staring into those hazel eyes. Watching her soft lips pull up into a slow smile.

After what happened that night, Angel didn't recover. Not for a long time. There were days when she couldn't get up, when all she could muster was going to the bathroom. But now, she's slowly getting there. Trying to heal. Trying to find a way to remember him and still move on.

After that night, it was almost a week until she finally asked me.

What made you forgive me?

Because it was obvious, of course, that I had.

Thinking of it, I'm brought back to the memory.

Angel's eyes are dark and hollow, her skin pale, her hair unwashed. I am struck by the familiarity of it. This is what the aftermath of grief looks like.

"What made you forgive me?" she asks.

For a moment, I pause. I'm not expecting this, but I knew it was coming.

"Do you remember," I say, "when you told me to trust you?"

She nods slowly, her eyes hazy and indistinguishable. In this moment, she is not the beautiful Angel I know, with the lush black hair and the glossy red mouth and the bright gold eyes. But she is real, realer than I have ever seen her.

"When Cassian asked me to marry him . . ."

"You said yes."

"Wait," I say. "I thought of our future. I thought of me growing old with him, of our children, of the power we would have. And all I could think was that I wouldn't be happy. I considered it, I really did . . . but in the end, when I imagined being an old lady, sitting on the porch and yelling at kids . . . it was you. It was with you that I saw it-everything, getting married, having children." My voice becomes softer. "It was always you, Angel."

"Then why . . ."

"I cared about Cassian," I explain. "In front of all those people, I couldn't hurt him like that. I needed to tell him in private, and in front of everyone, I couldn't. So I said yes and later that night, I broke it to him. He guessed that I had feelings for you and that was why he went to your house."

And then Angel tells me.

She tells me she never meant to give me up.

That there was a tracker in her arm.

That my grandfather, the Reaper, knew where we were.

We were supposed to run away that night-together.

I believe her. I know it's the truth as certainly as I know it's my own heart. "I'm sorry for assuming," I whisper, but she only hugs me close.

"Cassian," she begins.

"He'll get what's coming. But about my grandfather . . ."

"There's something about the Reaper I need to tell you," Angel says.

Pulled back to reality, I give Angel a wistful smile.

The horrible truth of my grandfather is enough to make me feel dizzy, but I hold myself together and reach for the desk. I tucked a piece of paper there last night, and now, as I pull it out and hand it to Angel, I wait with a nervous breath.

"It's beautiful," she says after a long silence.

Her eyes are misty when she looks up at me.

"I thought you might want something to remember him by," I say. "And I figured . . . the stars . . ."

Tears slip down her cheeks. "I want this tattooed on my shoulder," she says. "Thank you, Cade. I love it. I love you."

I try to hold back my own tears, but they come anyway.

The drawing is of a fine black geometric shape, with stars spilling out of it and clouds drifting lazily. It's a picture of the sky the night Dominic died-the very last thing he saw before his eyes closed.

We're still healing. Together. And our broken pieces, the shards of our rough edges, maybe they fit together. Maybe we fix each other.

Nevertheless, there is still the matter of the Reaper to deal with.

"YOU TOLD ME THE FALCONES KILLED my father," I say slowly, evenly. My voice is measured and calm.

My grandfather's blue eyes are bright and cold as he looks at me. He reminds me of a winter morning. He may be my blood . . . but I don't want any part of him.

"Who told you they didn't," he says, raising a single eyebrow.

We are at the Mazzoli mansion, and he and I stare at each from across the room. It is us alone here. Angel offered to be there with me, but I need to do this by myself.

"Answer the damn question."

"The Falcone girl is a liar."

"'The Falcone girl' is brave, and honest, and more than you'll ever be, you sad, lying, asshole."

The Reaper's face hardens to stone. "You are still my granddaughter, Cadenza."

"You had my father killed!"

"And don't think I won't do the same to you," he whispers. "Oh, it'll be a tragedy for sure. But I'm sure I could find a new heir."

"Yeah? How about Cassian Genovese? The coward who shot Dominic Falcone and ran away? I bet you know where he's hiding."

But he has confirmed it for me. All this time, when he told me our family and the Falcones were enemies . . . he was lying. Because he ordered my father killed. He was the monster who had men come to my house and shoot my father in the head.

"None of this nonsense, Cadenza," he says, waving a hand. I have stood up, my fists clenched. "Sit down and talk to your nonno."

"You said that my grandfather, Nonna, was also murdered by the Falcones," I grit out, sitting back down. "Was that true, too?"

His expression is bored. Uncaring. "So you've talked to anyone else. Perhaps you should have sooner. I taught you not trust anyone-especially me."

In terrified wonder I say, "You had your wife killed."

"She was a nagging bitch," he says coolly. "She served her purpose."

"I can't . . . I can't believe . . ."

But there is one more thing I need.

I try to gather the courage to say it, but I can't. All this time, for a year, I was so desperate for a father figure, for parental guidance, that I made myself blind. I wanted to be cared for and loved so badly by the father I had never had, that I let myself ignore all the warning signs. My eyes are open now, but it's still hard, when all I want is a sweet, unassuming grandfather who will hug me and kiss my cheek.

But I will not find that in the Reaper.

No, I will not find love in the Reaper. So I muster my bravery and I finally ask. "You told me that the girls there were rumors you raped and tortured . . . you told me those girls weren't real. That it was a part of your reputation," I spit. "But they are, aren't they? Those girls, they're not just rumors. They're real."

This time, he is silent. He seems to consider it. And he must realize this is my breaking point, because I will never trust him after this. I will never be on his side. So as casually as he has taken sips of wine, he pulls out a gun and admits, "Yes, they are real."

That is all I need to know. He seems to think so, too, because he points the gun.

"I'm sorry, Cadenza."

A gunshot rings out, and then he slumps to his knees, his head cracking against the glass table. At the back of his head, blood pools.

"No, I'm sorry, Nonno."

Angel comes out from behind the corner, her expression sympathetic. "Come here," she says, and I run into her arms. I don't cry, not for this man who has ruined everything, but I cry for the loss of what could have been. A kind grandfather, a piece of family.

"All I wanted," I whisper, "was someone to care."

Angel's voice is hesitant as she says, "Someone does."

I look at her, eyes wide.

And she tells me.

>>>

What do you think it is? Who, rather, do you think it is?

Let me know in the comments down below!

From the moon and back,
Sarai

PS. I was thinking of making a chapter solely dedicated to thanking my fans. If you would like your name on the list, keep commenting and voting! I'll notice you, I promise.