Angelo walked into the kitchen later that evening after a much needed nap. He had a night shift today at the docks, anyway, so he didn't mind the he was able to take a nap. Perfect timing to get arrested, it seemed, for a guy that had never been arrested before.
As he came into the kitchen, nobody was out and about yet. It was an hour before dinner was to be cooked, so he should have been alone – emphasis on should. Instead, he found Jose sitting at one of the break tables sipping at his coffee and tapping on his old school flip phone. As Angelo walked in, he glanced at him, but there were no words yet.
Angelo passed by him to the coffee pot without a second glance, starting it up. As he waited for the brew to do its job, he moved off to grab a cup. He hesitated at the fridge, wondering if he should grab some milk or half & half, but another glance at Jose made him change his mind. Back to black coffee it was.
"Ya look like shit," Jose mused, without even looking at him.
Angelo didn't grace him with a response, just picking up the pot after it was done and pouring himself a cup. After he placed it back, he let the coffee pot turn off on its timed schedule, refilling the back with water before grabbing his cup and moving to leave. However, before he could get very far, a chair was pushed out in front of him by Jose's foot.
"Sit."
The command was easy and simple, but Angelo debated denying the order and just going back to his room. Did he really wanna know what Jose wanted to talk about? Not really, so retreat was the best option. However, he knew that Jose wouldn't give up, so he huffed a sigh and sat down.
"You wanna talk about it or just pretend it's a new hobby?" Jose mused.
Angelo squinted at him, then signed, I didn't kill him. Like you wanted.
Jose huffed as he was taking a drink from his coffee, making it swish about before he said, "I ain't talkin' about that. I'm talkin' about the damn mark on your cheek."
Angelo stiffened – was it really that obvious? Was the mark red, splotchy? Had his brain dwindled down how serious it looked, and it was actually already bruising? He hated the thought that he had a stupid hand-shaped red print on his face.
"She's turnin' you into somethin' quiet and dangerous. Not the danger that can kill a man, either – the kind that can kill himself." He set down his coffee and sat forward. "Men don't come back from that."
Angelo signed before he even finished. I don't care, sir. I'm fine.
Angelo slapped his hand down, shaking the table with an angry growl. "You're not fine!"
As he snapped, Angelo shrunk back, lowering his hands quickly. Jose seemed to notice how he wasn't looking at him now, hiding the look on his face under his long bangs, so he sighed and leaned away. He rubbed the bridge between his eyes with two fingers, obviously struggling to stay calm. He started to sign, so Angelo looked at his hands – barely noticing that his own shoulders were shaking. He didn't like making people angry, as much as he was angry himself, and with Jazelle's fresh slap on his face…
You might not care, Angelo, Jose signed. But I do. I care more than you think.
Angelo didn't answer, so Jose went on. You're not a shadow, and you're not Blaze. You're who your mother wanted you to be.
Finding himself gritting his teeth at that, Angelo signed quickly. And what about who I want to be?
Jose stopped suddenly, his eyes softening as if he realised he made a mistake. Angelo hated it – the way he felt guilt, unlike so many people in this place. He didn't want Jose to feel bad for him, to feel something other than hate and anger. That was who he was used to, from everyone, so he'd rather it just stay the same.
It's always about my parents. Angelo signed, no longer angry. Isn't it, sir?
Angelo pushed himself from the table and up to his feet, grabbing his coffee. He didn't look at Jose, didn't turn when he said his name, just walked away. Then he closed the kitchen door behind him; not hard, but enough to bite. He wasn't mad – just disappointed.
(¯`·.¸¸.·´¯`·.¸¸.-> 🖋 <-.¸¸.·´¯`·.¸¸.·´¯)
Angelo was walking down the street moments before dusk. He was thinking – much too hard, much too much. There wasn't really time to think about your choices in the mafia, but this quiet evening, the soft bustle of the streets of night shift getting to work, it made him think.
Was it right to take Jazelle to that man and kill him? Was it his fault that it happened in the first place? All this time, he thought he didn't have a choice. What if he did? What if all these missions, all these runarounds, he just stopped one day? What if he kept walking today, and he didn't turn back?
The answer was simple. His father would find him, or he would find another woman. He would torture her just like he did Angelo's mother, just like he did with every woman that came his way that he grew a liking to. The cycle would repeat, and Angelo was forever going to be part of it.
He passed by a coffee shop, and a familiar face interrupted his thoughts. A tall individual, ebony skin, braids in his hair. Dante Winters, the detective that had interrogated him. There were so many that had come and gone in that room, and yet, Angelo remembered him because he deduced that he wouldn't talk – but he would write. He offered him a ride after the release, to take him anywhere; didn't have to be home. Maybe he should have asked him to drive him to Nebraska, or Illinois. Across the border to Mexico, or the other side – Canada. Anywhere would be better than here.
Dante was getting coffee with his mentor, Detective Hale. They were talking, laughing… Angelo couldn't remember the last time he laughed. Probably with his mother, before she died. Before she was murdered in cold blood outside his closet door.
The man saw him – there was a slight glint in his eye from the setting sun, but then he returned to his conversation. Angelo went unrecognised, and he wasn't sure if he was okay with that… but who cared? He was just a guy, and Angelo was just a different guy. Two sides of the world, never to collide. A different edge of the canvas, different colours, different tales. Angelo didn't even know him. What did he care, that he was getting coffee with his friend, and laughing?
However, he still found himself pulling out his phone. Still found himself taking a picture of the scene, writing down the shop name, and Dante Winters. The time, and the date. After that though, he was just another guy walking down the street, living a life unknown to everyone else.