Sinners Anonymous (Sinners Anonymous, #1)

by Somme Sketcher

In the short time I’ve been engaged to the head of the Cosa Nostra, I’ve done this dance countless times. Different men, same suits. Kisses on the back of my hand, a frozen smile on my lips. But this time, it feels different.

It feels like I can’t breathe. Why? Because for some inexplicable reason, I’d rather throw myself off the cliff in Devil’s Dip than do this dance with Angelo Visconti. Vicious Visconti.

A weight pushes down on my chest as I meet his heavy gaze. Oh, holy crow, he’s handsome. Maybe it’s because he’s no longer standing dangerously close to the edge of a cliff, or perhaps it’s the way he reclines in that armchair, an irritated sneer on his face, but I can’t believe I never realized he was a Visconti.

Green eyes glitter against his tanned skin, and black hair that looks like silk gleams under the spotlights built into the low ceiling. That jaw and those cheekbones; they are as sharp as I remember them, and they still have the effect of snatching the air from my lungs.

Smash

He’s beautiful in the most untouchable of ways. Not that I’d want to touch him.

“Angelo, meet my fiancee Aurora, and Aurora, meet Angelo. He’s my favorite nephew. Of course,” he adds with a chuckle, “don’t tell Raphael or Gabriel I told you that.”

“Fiancee,” he drawls, settling back in his armchair. His eyes bore into mine and I can’t help but notice he’s the only man that Alberto has formally introduced me to that hasn’t immediately turned his attention to my chest or legs. I also can’t help but notice that for some unknown reason, this makes me despise him even more. “I’m losing count of how many wives you’ve had, Uncle Al.”

It was named that because of the jagged cliff faces and steep drops; it looks like the Devil himself took a bite out of the land. At the top, Devil’s Cove sparkles like the Crown Jewels. The bright lights from the hotels and the casinos twinkle up and down the perimeter of the sandy semi-circle. Below it is Devil’s Hollow, the landscape so black that it’s almost navy. All of the excitement of Hollow is buried deep below ground, in majestic caves where the Viscontis age their whiskey in barrels and host illicit parties for the rich and depraved.

Devil’s Coast Academy, which is practically Hogwarts for the super-elite.

And then there’s Devil’s Dip. Home. It sits on the small curve of land right at the bottom of the coast. My heart aches looking at the bird’s eye view of the small port and the cobbled, narrow streets, both set against the backdrop of the sprawling, forested Devil’s Preserve. It’s crazy that I’m ...

The diamond is huge. It weighs down my ring finger like an anchor and Amelia once joked that the clarity is so high, it doesn’t just catch the light, but the darkness, too. Every man Alberto has forced me to show it off to has gushed over it, and yet… Angelo couldn’t give two swans about the million-dollar rock on my finger.

We’re alone and the heat is suffocating. His gaze burns up at me. I force myself to stare back down at him. His eyes flicker with something I can’t give a name to as he rubs his fingers over his lips. “Aurora Visconti,” he murmurs from behind them.

My chest hitches. I’ve heard that name aloud before, even just hours ago at the dinner table, from Amelia. But the way it rolls off his tongue and into the silence between us sounds…inappropriate. And yet, my ears crave to hear it again.

He stands, uncurling himself from the chair and stretching to his full height. Despite wearing these stupid heels, my eyes are level with the thick trunk of his throat. I’m transfixed by the sight of...

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Aurora.”

“Alright, here’s the rundown on Angelo. His father, Alonso, was the capo of the Devil’s Dip outfit. He ran imports and exports out of the port. Super lucrative business—what he was raking in over in Dip makes Cove look like a shanty town.”

Suddenly, goosebumps spread across my arms like a nasty rash, and heat prickles my left cheek. It’s instinctive to turn, and that’s when I find myself staring into the eyes of Angelo Visconti. He’s leaning against the bar, holding a whiskey glass so loosely that it looks like he’s about to drop it. Dante is in his ear, talking animatedly while he remains still and silent. The contrast between them is like fire and ice.

Our eyes lock and his stare is cold enough to give me frostbite.

When somebody is caught staring, they usually avert their gaze—if not out of embarrassment, then at least to be polite. But he’s regarding me like he has every right to, like I’m a pain...

“Guess that’s what Dante meant about him not being a made man anymore. Before his parents’ deaths, he was running a very successful loan shark business in England, waiting it out until his father retired and he’d take over. But after? He didn’t come back. Instead, he chose to stay in England and turned the whole business legit. Rumor has it he doesn’t even carry a gun anymore.”

When I turn to look at Angelo again, it’s with a slightly brighter light. I watch as he cocks his head and slowly swirls the liquid around his glass with a lazy roll of his wrist. A flicker of sympathy ignites in my stomach, and guilt settles on my skin like dust.

“No, no. Rafe owns most of Vegas’s skyline. You’d have seen him about—he often comes to Cove to play poker with Tor and the Hollow brothers. But Gabe?” He laughs. “You won’t have seen him.”

As I turn the corner, I collide with something large and stone-like. At first, I think I’ve turned too early, crashing into one of the gaudy statues that lurk in the alcoves. But then a hand shoots out and grabs my forearm, stopping me from tumbling backward. Angelo Visconti.

Jesus, was he this tall and broad on the cliff?

But when he hangs up without a word, slides his phone in his pocket and takes a step forward, I take a step back.

He might not be much of a made man, but it feels like I’m face to face with a predator.

I glance down and my blood freezes. Before I can protest, his thumb and forefinger grip onto the lone pearl poking out of the neckline, and he pulls. Pearl by pearl, Vittoria’s necklace unfurls from my bra and into his hand. Despite the panic starting to seep through my veins, I can’t ignore how each cold bead grazes past my nipple as he slowly pulls. I can’t ignore the flame flickering between my legs, or the way my breathing shallows under his touch.

His silhouette looms over me like a storm cloud, and I have this strange, conflicting feeling swirling around my body. I don’t know whether I want to turn on my heel and run for shelter, or tilt my head back, close my eyes and embrace the rain.

“Stealing is a sin, Aurora.” I wince at how he wraps his lips around the vowels in my name.

Back then, we didn’t look like we had an ounce of Sicilian blood running through our veins, but as we grew upward and outward, our hair turned black and our skin more tanned, despite living in a town that saw about thirty minutes of sunshine a year.

Kid. I could tell him in not a fucking kid anymore. I’m a thirty-six-year old man, founder and CEO of a multi-billion-dollar investment firm. I could also tell him my father was not a great man.

You either loved or hated my father, and in the rare event you were impartial, you still sure as hell knew who he was. He and his two brothers were the first generation of the Sicilian Cosa Nostra to cross the Atlantic.

We glare at each other, and I can feel that familiar darkness swirling in the pit of my stomach. The adrenaline buzzing around the edges of my brain. I lick my lips, ignoring the rattling sound of Vicious Visconti trying to escape his cage. Since going straight, I’ve tried to chase the high with fast cars and whores that don’t have the word “no” in their vocabulary, but nothing comes close to the feeling of being a cruel fucker.

I swapped this life for a penthouse office and boardrooms and fucking spreadsheets. But it hasn’t been easy. At least I get to indulge in my dark side once a month.

I knew those eyes instantly. They are the color of warm whiskey.

I stuff my hands into my coat pockets, bracing my back against the howling wind. Fair play to the old bastard—she’s a smoke show for sure. That fucking red dress she’d poured herself into; Jesus, any man with a pulse would get a hard-on at that visual.

I chew on this nugget of information for a moment. Interesting. Sure, she has all the same components as the others that came before her—blond hair, big tits, and legs as long as a Monday—but she’s definitely different. A smarter mouth. A smirk prickles my lips as I remember pulling Vivi’s pearl necklace out of her ample cleavage. And a dirty little thief.

It’s that kid, the lackey. Max, or whatever his name is; he must be her escort. My knuckles whiten over the steering wheel and annoyance prickles my skin. He’s holding her close, really fucking close, and by the way he’s gazing at her under the streetlights, I can tell it’s not just because he’s trying to keep her dry.

I’m not a patient man, never have been. And as the owner of the largest supercar collection in Europe, I’m not used to driving at this speed. Nor am I used to following young women down empty roads without their knowledge. Not really my bag.

He gets out, plants a kiss on her neck, and guides her back to the car. As they drive off, I realize I’m grinding my jaw. There’s something bitter on my tongue, a taste I don’t recognize. Steeling my spine, I start my car and spin my wheel into full lock to head in the direction I just came, all stealthiness out the window.

The dress Greta is trying to squeeze me into is two sizes too small, but she’s not the type of woman to back down from a challenge.

Whether or not I believe in fate, I don’t know, but I do know it was more than just a coincidence that I found this card on the darkest day of my life. I remember it like it was yesterday.

When you called the number, it took you straight to an automated voicemail service, which prompted you to confess whatever sin or secret was weighing on your mind. It was so mysterious, and the excitement of it all rippled down the coast for a while, until the hype settled down like dust, and eventually, Sinners Anonymous just became entwined into the fabric of the area.

By the time Greta steps back and claps her hands, I’m the girl Alberto wants me to be again. Smokey eye makeup, blood-red lipstick, and a dress that clings to my curves like second skin.

“Snooping is a sin, Aurora.” The voice melts out of the shadows like butter on a warm day, gluing me to the spot.

“Lurking in dark corners isn’t a sin, but it’s still weird as hell.” His eyes flash with dark amusement.

“Aurora, these are my two other nephews, Raphael and Gabriel,” Alberto says without looking up at me.

I recognize Raphael because he hangs around with Tor and the Hollow brothers. He has the same glittering, green eyes and silky, black hair as his brother, but he looks like he’s been put under immense pressure and came out the other side a shiny, diamond version of Angelo. Smooth, tanned skin, and when he flashes me a dazzling smile, dimples crease his cheeks, giving him a mischievous charm. He looks younger than Angelo—dresses younger too.

Smash

I force a polite smile and shift my attention to the other brother, Gabriel. Instantly, a chill runs down my spine. He has the same cold, unrelenting stare as Angelo, but there’s something darker behind it. More sinister. I don’t know…maybe it’s the thick beard, the angry scar carved into his face, or the tattoos crawling out from underneath his turtleneck sweater, but if I definitely wouldn’t want to bump into him in a dark alley. He doesn’t say a word.

Smash again

My heart stills. Whoa. It’s deep, throaty, and genuine. The type of laugh that carves a mark in your memory. There’s a sudden dull ache under my rib cage, and briefly, I allow myself to wonder what it’d feel like to be the recipient of it.