#ooh suspenseful cliffhanger ending ooooh~~

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Giardino Segreto ch. 2

[Read on AO3] | [First Chapter] | [Next Chapter] Rating: T Chapter summary: After yet another fight with his father, Angel goes out on the town with a friend, looking to drown his feelings in drinks and drugs. Alastor follows along, concerned that Angel might run into trouble--and run into trouble, he does. So much for keeping a low profile.

— — –

It took a further few days of hemming and hawing before Alastor finally managed to take action. After all, he had to decide on an approach, how to introduce himself, how honest he should be—there was plenty to consider. Plenty to waste time overanalyzing.

Maybe two weeks after his initial coughing fit, he was hovering around the Dellarosa house again, looking for an opportunity to speak to Angel—but even when he arrived home at around 10 p.m., his father met him at the door and dragged him into his office. Unable to resist observing the interaction, Alastor slipped into the room alongside them.

“What the hell is your problem?” Angel snapped, trying and failing to wrench his arm from his father’s grip. “Get off me!”

“Where’ve you been?” The Dellarosa family’s patriarch, Enrico, was a large and physically imposing man, whose voice always seemed to hold a certain quiet anger. Especially when he was addressing Angel. “And what are you wearing?”

Angel drew into himself slightly, crossing his arms and grasping at his sleeves. His outfit consisted of a dress shirt, slacks, and oxfords, all of which were a bit too big for his slight frame. “Clothes?” he answered defensively. “I borrowed ‘em from Criss.” That would be his older brother, Cristiano, who was next in line for the position of boss.

“Right. You ask him about that first or did you just take ‘em?”

“He gave them to me,” Angel growled, bristling. “They’re just clothes. What do you care?”

“I care that my daughter is running around town looking like a damn crossdresser,” Enrico snarled right back, and the boy stiffened at that word. ‘Daughter.’

“Who, Molly?” he asked coolly. “Last I checked, her closet was still full of skirts, so I don’t think you have to worry about that.”

“Don’t play stupid—”

“Well, you only have one daughter,” the boy insisted, his voice rising along with his frustration, “so I dunno who else you could be talkin’ about.”

His father took a deep breath, as if forcing himself to stay calm. “I’m losing my patience with this whole I’m-a-boy phase.”

“Losing? Like you ever had any to start with?” Angel’s shoulders were tense, his hands still clenched, his voice coming out through gritted teeth. “And I told you already, it ain’t a phase. No matter how many times you argue with me, no matter how many dresses you force me to wear, no matter how many times Ma tries to tell me about my ‘place’ in the business—this is who I am.”

“Please. ‘Who you are’ changes like the fucking weather. This? This is just your latest bid for attention, and you’re hangin’ onto it because it’s working.” Enrico’s voice was icy, utterly devoid of compassion. Despite his body’s rigidity, Angel’s hands trembled slightly.

“Molly believes me.”

“Molly goes along with your theatrics because she loves you. I don’t have time for it.”

Time for loving your child? Granted, Alastor had never been a parent himself and therefore couldn’t know how it felt, but that particular brand of love, he’d heard, was meant to be unconditional. Enrico’s seemed to come with a great many particular if-then addenda.

“Why would I lie about this?” Angel’s shaking was getting worse. “When you make every single part of it so fuckin’ hard—”

“Watch your mouth.”

“Why would I bother fighting with you if this wasn’t real?” the boy demanded, furious and glaring even as his voice broke. After a moment, his father took a step closer and reached up to swipe a tear off Angel’s face with his thumb.

“Boys don’t cry, sweetheart,” he said without a hint of sympathy, his tone dripping disdain. “Now you listen to me and listen good. I don’t want to hear any more of this. Not one more word. You’re making a fool out of yourself, going out looking like that, and you’re making a fool of me too. The pants, the short hair, you trying to get involved in the business—that shit’s about to end, and if you keep tryin’ to fight me, I’m gonna make sure you regret it. You hear me?” Silence for a moment, and Angel’s eyes stayed trained on the floor. Unsatisfied, his father took a step closer and growled, “I said, do you hear me, Antonia?”

Drawing in a deep breath, the boy straightened his spine and raised his head to answer clearly, “My name is Angel.” Without a second’s hesitation, Enrico pulled a hand back and slapped him across the face, hard enough that the sound voided the room of air and Angel stumbled to the floor.

Beyond Alastor’s control, a high, ear-splitting screech of static pealed through the room, and both mortals cringed. It took every ounce of his willpower not to end Enrico’s life then and there. He knew this wasn’t the first time Angel’s father had raised a hand to him, of course, but he had never been present to witness it in the past. The static quickly faded from the room as he struggled to calm himself, and the two humans stayed still as they tried to determine its source.

Not now, Alastor told himself. Patience, just a little longer. I won’t let him be in this position again.

Still distracted, Enrico muttered, “Get the hell upstairs and put on something that fits you.” Angel forced himself to his feet, and under his father’s withering glare, he left the room. He kept his head high as he walked, but there were visible streaks of tears down his face. Alastor followed quickly up the stairs to his room, trying to remember the introduction he had planned for himself earlier past the blinding fury he felt from seeing Angel be struck. When the boy locked his bedroom door and wandered toward his closet, starting to unbutton his shirt with shaking hands, Alastor realized he was edging dangerously toward peeping Tom status. After a split-second of panic, he bolted out onto the balcony to try to center his thoughts.

All his careful planning had been thrown off within just the past ten minutes; he’d hoped to catch Angel in a good mood when he returned home and to introduce himself in a lighthearted atmosphere. Judging by the rage and pain now radiating from the boy, that was no longer an option—not for this night, at least. Better to wait for another opportunity, then?

At the sound of the balcony door behind him, he spun on his heel—and found himself face to face with Angel. The Radio Demon sucked in a breath and held it, frozen even though he was well aware no mortal would perceive him, even this close. Angel’s dark eyes gazed right through him and out at the city, his expression patently dissatisfied, his cheekbone already starting to bruise from Enrico’s slap. He ran a hand through his pale bangs, tilting his head back, and Alastor realized he hadn’t actually taken his shirt off; it was just unbuttoned. Further, his modesty wasn’t in question, as he was wearing a tight bandeau underneath to bind his chest. He was, as always, singularly beautiful, and Alastor couldn’t bring himself to look away until Angel finally took a step back himself and retreated inside with a sigh.

The tension slowly melted out of his posture, and he fought back another coughing fit from the excitement of having been so painfully close to the object of his affections. The sooner he explained himself, the sooner Angel knew of him and could possibly return his feelings, the less he would suffer over time. Yet still he hesitated to accept the vulnerability that came with admitting to being in love. Some foolish part of him almost insisted it would be better to die than to suffer that indignity.

While he was standing outside fighting with himself, Angel turned out the lights in his room—but he didn’t go to bed. Instead, he switched on a lamp and seated himself at the vanity against the wall. As Alastor peered inside curiously, Angel was putting on eyeshadow and liner, winking and smiling at himself in the mirror. Cute. But why wear makeup to bed? He must have been planning on going out again, which wasn’t entirely out of character.

Alastor got his answer in the form of a huffing, grunting young woman clambering her way over the balcony’s railing to crouch atop it and rake strawberry blond hair out of her eyes. “Hey!” she hissed in a sort of stage whisper, a conspiratorial grin curling her lips. “You ready to go, bitch? We ain’t got all night.”

“Fuck you,” Angel called back with a laugh while Alastor took a step back on the balcony to observe the new arrival. Her hair was messily pulled back into a high ponytail, her pleated skirt shorter than average, her blouse partially unbuttoned on top and bottom. Frankly, she looked like a hellion. Mischievous.

Stranger still: she was a demon. A relatively low-level demon, it seemed, as she didn’t seem to notice Alastor’s presence, but he could still read it on her, as he could any demon in a human guise. Did Angel know about this? Surely not. Yet even if he was unaware of it, it did seem to be a fact that he was friends with a demoness. Another interesting surprise.

When he came out to meet her, he had changed from his brother’s borrowed trousers into a pair of shorts he and Molly had fashioned from a loose skirt. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, the lower part of his shirt unbuttoned and tied at his waist. “Took ya long enough,” his friend teased. When her eyes fell on his marked cheek, she winced slightly but quickly replaced her smile. “We getting’ outta here or what?”

“God, please,” he groaned. “I am beyond ready.” Seemingly (factually) from nowhere, the girl produced a very simple rope ladder, which she tied to the balcony’s railing and quickly descended. Angel laughed as he followed her, “Where the hell were you keepin’ that?”

“Girl’s gotta have her secrets.”

Alastor peered over the edge of the railing as they crept away from the house, nervous for reasons he didn’t quite understand. Angel was, by all accounts, an adult. Being the child of a mafia boss, surely he’d been taught how to defend himself. Yet something about the idea of him being out who knew where in New York City in the middle of the night made Alastor’s skin crawl. After a moment more of debating with himself, he rushed through the harsh shadows cast by the moon and followed the pair. Even if this wasn’t the time for his confession, he could still be sure that Angel was safe.

As they walked and he listened, he learned the girl’s name was Cherri. “You’re mopier than usual,” she said, nudging Angel’s arm. “Old man caught you comin’ home?”

“Of course he did,” he grumbled in response. “And he pulled the whole ‘I’m putting my foot down’ shit again. We’re just gonna keep havin’ that same conversation over and over until he gets it through his thick skull, and I’m so tired of it.”

“Don’t worry about it right now, babe.” The girl threw her arm around his shoulders and nudged her head against his while they continued to walk. Alastor felt an unfamiliar pang at seeing how close they were. “This club where I’m takin’ you is the best place in town to get your mind of all the bullshit at home, trust me.”

“Yeah, well, you would know,” Angel chuckled. They continued downtown to a somewhat rundown part of the city, passing by what appeared to be an abandoned hotel and traveling down an alley at its side. Already, Alastor was uncomfortable with the setting. If he were the sort of person to say he had a ‘bad feeling’ about a place, he certainly would have at this moment. All the more reason to continue following.

At the end of the alley, there was a bare metal door in the solid brick wall on their right, and Cherri pounded her fist against it in a particular rhythm. After a moment, the door cracked, then swung open fully to reveal a musclebound, dark-haired man, one who looked perhaps twice the age of Angel or Cherri.

“Been a while, doll,” he said in a voice that betrayed years of tobacco abuse, his eyes roaming licentiously over Cherri’s body. Unpleasant. When he turned that same gaze on Angel, Alastor’s body grew tense. Unacceptable. “And who are you, sweet thing?”

“His name’s Angel, and he’s with me,” Cherri said, protectively pulling the boy closer to her side and giving the older man a withering glare. “So keep your fuckin’ eyes to yourself, Jazz. You lettin’ us in or not?”

Despite her hostility, he shrugged and took a step back to let them enter without any further protest. Alastor followed along, giving ‘Jazz’ one last reproachful glance before heading downstairs into a basement that had apparently been converted into a bar. The room was lit here and there by lamps on the tables spotting the floor. The place wasn’t terribly full, and no one looked up when the newcomers entered.

“Dio santo, I’m gonna lose my damn mind if I don’t get a drink,” Angel groaned, “now.”

“All right already, calm down,” Cherri laughed. “Come on, my guy at the bar’ll take care of us.”

Alastor remained for the next few hours, standing by at the table the duo occupied against the wall and listening to them chat. After the past several months, this was a pastime he’d grown used to with Angel, and he was happen to listen—though the conversation this evening wasn’t the most positive sort.

Angel had quite a lot to say about his mistreatment at home, how his father refused to even attempt to use the correct name or pronouns. Enrico had even gone as far as snapping at the others when they addressed Angel correctly. The tone of his voice—particularly as he grew more intoxicated—made his pain clear through his anger, no matter how tightly he tried to cling to the latter.

In addition to several shots and various cocktails, Cherri also obtained a pouch of crystalline white powder and a handful of small, colorful tablets. She popped one into her mouth and offered one to Angel, who accepted it and squinted at it curiously. “Wassat?” he asked, already beyond tipsy and firmly in the realm of drunk. He didn’t wait for an answer before impulsively bringing it up to his mouth to lick it.

“You’ll like it, trust me,” Cherri told him as she was stirring the white powder into their drinks.

Alastor stood by, nervous, starting to fidget a bit as he wondered how all those chemicals would interact. Granted, this subject wasn’t his area of expertise; the drugs he had dabbled in in life had been of a very different sort. But if Angel had never tried this combination before, might he be in danger of having an adverse reaction? He was a bit reckless, Alastor had noticed already, and with his judgment already skewed by alcohol, he was that much more likely to make rash decisions. Briefly, Alastor had the thought to try to stop him, but that wouldn’t be the best first impression. And besides, there were too many people around for him to comfortably come forward.

Once the two had downed their pills and drinks, they seemed to grow much more talkative, more energetic, more cheerful—but it all seemed forced, artificial somehow. And Alastor’s concern continued to mount, particularly when a pair of men, visibly larger and stronger than the two of them, came to join them at their table.

“You girls look like you’re havin’ a good time over here.” One of the intruders was recognizable as the same Jazz who had let them into the establishment. The two made themselves comfortable in the surrounding chairs while Angel and Cherri seemed rather confused by their presence. “Mind if we join you?”

“Yeah, kinda,” Cherri said flatly, sending Angel into a fit of giggles. “If you ain’t here to get us another drink, piss off.”

“Hey, we can do that. Dan.” Jazz nodded to his companion, a tattoo-covered ruffian who left immediately for the bar. As Alastor watched, he ordered a pair of colorful cocktails, then discreetly added…something else to the glasses before bringing them over and setting them in front of Cherri and Angel. Angel was clearly in a more agreeable mood, as he readily reached for the glass in front of him—but his friend caught his hand to stop him.

“Look, Jazz, I dunno what you think you’re playing at,” she growled, growing tenser and more hostile with each passing moment, “but it ain’t happenin’.”

“You sure? Your friend seems like she’s havin’ fun,” the tattoo-covered Dan pointed out, nodding at Angel, who was still a bit giggly. He tilted Angel’s head upward, trying to pour the offered drink down his throat—and unfortunately, the boy was too addled to argue, opening his mouth and leaning into the predator’s touch. “Look at you, all eager.”

“Hey, get your fucking hands off him!” Cherri snapped, lunging at Dan, only to be caught by Jazz, who held her back and dragged her into his lap. This was all happening very quickly, the situation escalating in mere moments while Alastor warred with himself. Yes, it would be an issue to blow his cover, but letting Angel come to harm would be far worse.

“What’s the problem, doll?” Jazz snickered, his hands starting to creep under the edge of Cherri’s shirt while she struggled. “Everybody’s feelin’ good right now. Why don’t you take another drink and enjoy it with us?”

“No! Get off me! Angel!”

Angel, who was in the middle of being fed his drugged drink, apparently heard his name and lifted his head, spilling cold liquor down the front of his shirt and taking in a shocked gasp. “Cherri?” he slurred, trying and failing to blink the haze from his eyes. “Babe? What—”

“Don’t worry about her, honey,” Dan said, moving in closer to turn Angel away from his friend. “She’s in good hands. And so are you.”

Alastor had seen quite enough. As hard as he’d tried not to involve himself in Angel’s affairs, as much as he disliked the idea of revealing his nature in such a public setting, he absolutely refused to stand by and see the boy he—damn it—loved be abused like this. With a snap of the demon’s fingers, the shadows in the room (and there were plenty) bent to his power and rushed forward to separate the two predatory mortals from their quarry. Angel and Cherri were replaced back in their seats, while the would-be molesters were shoved some few feet away as Alastor manifested in front of them.

“What the hell?” Dan muttered, reflexively reaching for a pocketknife tucked into his waistband. Oh, please. “Where did you come from?”

“Gentlemen, I’m going to assume you’ve both had quite a lot to drink this evening,” Alastor said, his calm demeanor belied by the steadily-building radio static in the room. The other patrons noticed it as well, and some inched closer to the ruckus. Not ideal, but the most important thing was Angel’s safety. Whatever Alastor had to do in order to defend that, he would. “With that in mind, I’m willing to ignore your deplorable behavior on the condition that it cease immediately and you leave these two”—he nodded toward Angel and Cherri, who were still somewhat in shock—“alone. Please don’t make me tell you again.”

“Fuck you,” Jazz snapped predictably, taking a step forward as if he thought his height and bulk might intimidate Alastor. No such luck. “Look, we were here first, so scram and find your own girl.”

A buzzer sounded from somewhere unseen. “Ooh, I’m sorry, that’s not the answer we were looking for,” Alastor said sympathetically, twirling his staff in one hand before stamping it down against the floor. Every light in the room went out, sending its occupants into a panicked uproar.

Alastor, on the other hand, had no difficulty seeing in the dark. He had his shadows seize the two delinquents and knock their empty skulls together, not sure of how much damage it might do and not particularly caring. In the same instant, he scooped Angel up into his arms and instructed the shadows to bring Cherri along as well. The three swept up the stairs, down the alley, and into the ruined hotel next door. An absent wave of Alastor’s hand lit the dust-covered sconces on the wall, providing just enough light to see by.

Now that they were out of harm’s way, he carefully rested Angel on the threadbare rug to check on him, and his blood ran cold as he realized the boy was still, silent, unresponsive. Not breathing.