let it burn . volante/cage | blitz

I don't belong anywhere.

Not even here, in the dead of night at a party, the only place where no one asks any real questions. I'm not Volante di Angelo here — just Volante. And that's all I want to be, need to be. Nothing more.

I'm not a di Angelo, I'm not a girl in an arranged marriage. I blend in with everyone else at this damn party, wearing revealing clothing and sipping a glass of scotch at the bar like it's nobody's business. Because here, it's not.

Beside me, at the bar, there sits a girl — pretty, about my age. Taking another sip of my scotch, I turn to her. (I always talk to the pretty ones, always, no matter how wasted or sober I am.)

"You know this is a party, right?" I say to her. "You're not drinking anything," I tease, eyeing her empty hands.