Sinners Anonymous (Sinners Anonymous, #1)

by Somme Sketcher

There’s a figure standing on the beach. A man. Sharply dressed in a navy suit and a crisp white shirt. My blood runs colder than the water around me. No. It can’t be…

But Angelo’s silhouette is impossible to overlook, standing tall and wide against the backdrop of the house. He’s staring straight ahead, feet shoulder-width apart, and his hands are tucked into the pocket of his slac...

There’s about a hundred feet and an ocean between us, and yet, just the blurry outline of him makes hot, itchy, lust crawl through my veins, and the network of nerves between my legs beg for pressure.

His stare hardens into a glare, and slowly, he slips the cigarette back into the pack and tucks it into his pocket. He palms his jaw. Swallows.

“If you belonged to me and dressed like that around other men, I’d pull down those skimpy bottoms and spank your ass until it was raw.” His voice is thick and raspy. Each word is short and bitter, and yet, his expression remains emotionless.

“I don’t think you can handle something so big.” I blink. “Huh?” He jerks his head toward the dash, and that’s when I realize I’m sitting behind the steering wheel. “Oh, uh…”

“This is the third car I’ve seen you in. Why do you have so many cars?” “Same reason you can’t keep your sticky fingers off the family jewels, Magpie.” He slows to meet the iron gates, resuming the impatient tapping as he waits for them to open. “I like the thrill.”

There’s a sudden itch under my skin: a familiar one. It makes me want to do something spiteful and revengeful to him, like scrape the alloys of his fancy car, or, you know, lace his stupid cigarettes with cyanide.

Chester Carter. If you say that name to anyone from Devil’s Dip, their face will stretch into a fond smile. Everyone knows him as the forest ranger, but younger locals also know him as “Bird Man” because he used to go into schools up and down the coast and teach kids all about the birds that inhabit the area. Despite having retired both jobs a few years ago, he still wears his uniform every day. Under his quilted jacket, his gray shirt hangs a little looser than it used to, and I’ve had to punch a new hole in his belt to hold up his black slacks, but he still very much looks the part.

“You’re not getting in my car with those on.” I look down at my boots, caked in mud. “I’ll walk then.” As I turn on my heel in the direction of Devil’s Cove, his hand grips my wrist. “Not a chance,” he growls. Steeling his lips into a thin line, he presses a button on his car keys and the trunk door lifts up. “Sit.”

I’m too emotionally drained to argue, so I perch on the edge of the trunk. Angelo stands in front of me. Muttering darkly under his breath, he hitches his slacks and sinks to one knee. Then, without warning, he grips my thigh.

My head swims. Instead of letting my thoughts go there, I focus on his shoulder as he rips off my boot with his other hand. He pauses and sits back on his haunches. Amusement makes his lips twitch. “What?” I snap. But then I follow his eye line to my socks. They are gray, with little orange pumpkins on them. Immediately my cheeks start to burn.

“It’s nearly Halloween,” I mutter. “They’re festive.” “Festive,” he huffs, running the back of his hand over his mouth to hide his smile.“Cute.”

I bet the women he dates back in England look like supermodels. I bet they are super successful—lawyers, doctors, accountants—and they wear heels all the time and not just because they’re forced to. I bet they never wear fluffy stocks. Only garters and sexy stockings.

Without warning, he slips one arm around my waist, the other around the back of my knees, and lifts me up in the air. Oh, flamingo. Suddenly, I feel drunk, being this close to him. My cheek grazes against the stubble on his neck, and I fight the urge to nuzzle into it, to breathe in his warm scent of aftershave and danger.

“I want you to think about the kids in your class at school. The years above you and the years below you too. Know any man around here that has a scar on his cheek?” “What? Why?” “Shut up and answer my question.”

“And anyone who’s a complete cunt?” I recoil at the sound of that word. He glances sideways and smirks. “I mean, anyone who’s a complete…” He waves a hand around. “Canada goose?”

“No. But I know he works at his dad’s bike shop.” “Where?” I crane my neck and glance out the rear window. “We’ve just passed it, actually.” The speed with which he spins the car around throws me against the window. And then when I realize what he’s doing, my blood runs cold. “Angelo—” “Stay in the car.”

He puts his hand over mine and lifts it to his face. Grazes his lips over it. “Stay in the car, Aurora,” he murmurs into my knuckles, making every nerve ending in my body buzz.

Even as he takes the three steps toward Ryder, I still don’t know. They exchange a few words, then Ryder’s eyes shoot up. Before he can open his mouth again, Angelo grips his jaw, using it to slam him into the shop window.

I’ve never craved Angelo Visconti more than I do right now.

And that’s when I hear the crash. My lids pop open in time to see Ryder’s body flying through the window, glass exploding out onto the sidewalk. I lurch forward, then freeze with my hand hovering over the door handle. But then Angelo’s body blocks my view out of the window as he ducks into the car.

As cool as a cucumber, he clicks on his seat belt, starts the car, and peels out, hand resting on the gearshift. My jaw swings open. “What the hell was that about?” “Wrong person.” His eyes flick to the rear-view mirror. “Any other suggestions?”

Instead, I watch the ocean pass by in a blur of blue and gray and try to not to moan every time the side of Angelo’s hand brushes my thigh when he switches gear.

It makes sense to me now, why they call him Vicious Visconti. It’s not a singular act of ruthlessness from his previous life, like sleeping with Dante’s prom date, or shooting his driver in the knee because he took the wrong turn. No. It’s a personality trait. It’s how he can flick it on and off like a light switch. How he thought nothing of shooting Max dead over a presumption, or shoving Ryder through a shop window over little more than a loose description, then going back to normal like nothing happened. He’s a cold-blooded killer.

“Aurora.” I come to a reluctant stop and tilt my head to the sky. “I don’t care what Alberto says. Wear your hair curly.”

My uncle’s twenty-one-year-old fiancee emerging from the sea in a tiny black bikini is temptation personified. But her telling me she fingered herself while watching me on the shore? A death sentence.

Heheheh

Holy fuck. The way she just stood there. Dripping wet and next-to-naked. She was a contrast of extremes—a body like a damn porn star, soft brown eyes conveying innocence. Feigning innocence, actually. Little did I know that while all I could see was her blond hair and big eyes bobbing above the waves, underneath, she was finger fucking herself. I’m glad I hadn’t found it out then and there, because the sight of her alone had wound me up tighter than a drum. If she’d told me her pussy was still fresh from an orgasm, there’s not a chance I would have been able to resist picking her up and dragging her back into the fucking sea and giving her the real deal. Family etiquette be damned.

Sinners Anonymous is more than just a game to Rafe, it’s a fucking show.

I know we’re going to end up in the craziest places. The Colosseum in Rome. The Fjords in Iceland. He always wants to carry out the kill in the most dramatic of ways, against the most memorable backdrops. Me, on the other hand, I’m good with any old place, as long as I can use our sinner as a human punching bag. Each bone that cracks under my fist, each tortured scream that escapes their lips, relieves more and more tension built up throughout the month. Being good is stressful. Gabe’s different. He’s sadistic. If it were up to him, he wouldn’t kill the sinner, he’d find new and exciting ways to torture them for as long as possible.

Gabe emerges from the van and strolls toward us, like he has all the time in the world. “Good morning,” he drawls. He casts a stony eye over our suits. “You’re not dressed for a hunt.” Rafe glances at me. “A what?”

“Fuck. What have you done to it?” “Modified it, obviously. It’s just a Barrett M107A1, but I’ve removed the scope and bought high-power .50 cartridges.” “And in English?”

I turn to Rafe. “Removing the scope means there’s now no viewfinder to help with accuracy. And a .50 BMG is big enough to splatter someone all over the trees.” Shifting my gaze to Gabe, I add, “So, you want us to shoot blind and with a bullet the size of a fucking grenade.” My lips twitch. “You’re a psycho.”

“Just doing my job.” “Which is what, exactly?” Gabe pins Rafe with a hard stare. Neither of us has a concrete idea of what Gabe does these days. Not since he came back to the Coast for Christmas that year with a huge, mysterious scar running down his face. All we know is that now, he can speak better Italian than the both of us combined, and every time we see him, he has new battle wounds. ...

Birds circle overhead: little blue ones with an annoying chirp. I bet Aurora would know exactly what fucking bird it was. She probably uses its name as a curse word. “What are you smiling about?” Rafe snaps next to me. I rearrange my features back to my default expression: indifference.

Gabe slams his hand on the man’s shoulder and squints at us through the harsh sunlight. “All right, lads, welcome to the hunt.” The sinner squeals and tries to rip himself away from Gabe, but he only tightens his grip. “The rules are so simple that even you two idiots can follow them. Phillip here gets a thirty-second head start, and then it’s fair game.”

The air is thick, the gentle breeze carrying over the man’s muffled pleas. “Thirty,” Gabe’s voice suddenly booms without warning. “Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight. Twenty-seven…” The man freezes as Gabe counts down. Eyes darting between the three of us, he finally turns on his heels and runs.

“Nineteen. Eighteen. Seventeen…”

“Seven. Six. Five…” Showtime. A familiar bolt of adrenaline zaps through my spine, and I’m salivating with the knowledge that I’m about to experience a high I’ll be feasting off for days. Grinding my jaw in concentration, I ready my gun, my finger brushing over the trigger. “Three. Two—” At the last second, the man takes a sharp right, running toward the trees. In unison, Rafe and I swing around our rifles round to follow him, but Gabe drops his to the floor.

I whip around to face him. Confused. “Huh?” And then I’m deafened by a roaring explosion. Feel the heat of it scorching the side of my cheek. It’s instinctive to shield my eyes from the burning yellow light and the gravel raining down around us. Eventually, it settles down to a crackling fire, thick black smoke lazily drifting up to the cloudless sky. I pull my hand away from my face, and all three of us stand there, staring at the scene in silence. “Stupid bastard,” Gabe eventually spits.

Rafe blinks. “What?” “I bet neither of you would hit him at all.” I let out a hiss of air through my teeth. “You rigged the path with explosives and told him so. You thought it’d force him to run straight.”

turn to Gabe and pin him with an annoyed stare. “Your brain is fucked up.” “Played too many video games as a kid,” he says dryly, his eyes trained ahead.

His lips graze my ear. “Thinking about what would have happened if you’d stayed nine years ago and taken over as Capo like you were meant to.” Raking my tongue over my teeth, I close my eyes and brace myself. Because I know what he’s going to say. “She’d be begging you not to chop down the forest, not your uncle.” With a hard shove, I push him away from me.

“What did he do to you?” He pushes me away, his gaze hardening, morphing back to his signature stare. “When you realize you’re moving back, let me know.” His jaw ticks. “Because when you steal Uncle Alberto’s girl, I promise you, you’re going to need a fucking army.”

hurry after him, slamming my back against the driver’s door before he can reach it. “I’m coming with you.” “Like fuck you are. Not tonight, and not dressed like that. Move.” But when I don’t, his eyes thin. “You have a death wish?”

As he reaches to grab my arm, I catch his wrist. I stare at the colorful tattoos poking out from his sleeve, stopping just before his watch strap, and my heart thumps a little harder. “Tayce did these.” Irritation flickers through his irises. “Obviously. I don’t let anyone else ink me. What’s your point?” I can feel a grin spreading across my face. “Even you can’t skip the waiting list.”

“Tayce is my best friend. I can get you an appointment like that,” I snap my fingers for emphasis, and he looks down at them like he wants to bite them off. He’s still glaring at me, but he’s suddenly still. He’s weakening. “No waiting list?” “Uh-huh.” “Never again?”

His eyes narrow. Then he takes a step back. “Get in the fucking car.” Jabbing a finger in my direction, he adds, “No talking to men that don’t have the “Visconti” last name. In fact, don’t even look at them. No more than three drinks. And I’ll have Amelia take you home at midnight.” He slides into the driver’s seat, muttering under his breath. “Otherwise you’ll turn back into Cinderella.”

“Aurora, don’t push your luck. You’re not walking into my club dressed like that. It’s opening night, and it’s Halloween. I’ll be too busy mingling with sexy nurses and slutty Lara Crofts to be fighting men off you. What are you meant to be, anyways?”

I’ve accessorized with a pair of chunky velvet boots and a small pointed hat pinned onto my curls. “Isn’t it obvious?” He pins me with a blank stare. I sigh, pull out the wrinkly rubber nose from my purse and slip it onto my own. “What about now?” A beat passes. Then he bursts out laughing. “All right, fine. Keep that nose on all night, and I’ll let you forgo the shirt.”