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Visconti women love a pissing match at funerals.
“I slit a bastard’s throat last week. He made the exact same noise.”
Visconti men in particular don’t fall in love. Because falling suggests it was accidental, and everything this family does is cold and calculated.
It’s the most I’ve seen him speak in years.
The death of my father marks a new era for the Cosa Nostra, and it starts with me. The new capo of Devil’s Dip.
Light my fuse and I explode mere seconds later, with no thought to the irreparable damage I will cause. You’re vicious, son. A great trait for a capo to have. Not.
If Angelo jumped off the cliff, would you do it too? Mama used to ask my brothers that every time I’d lure them into some stupid shit when we were younger.
Their answer hasn’t changed. Yes.
He cocks a brow, eyes searching for a trace of amusement on my features, but, unlike him, I don’t joke.
I like to do that sometimes. Say it aloud when I’m alone just to see how the truth tastes. I’m not a criminal. I just do bad things. Morally questionable things. Spiteful, revengeful things. I didn’t used to be like this, but now there’s a stain on my soul so dark and stubborn that there’s nothing I can do to scrub it away. So, I don’t bother trying anymore. Instead, I confess.
“You hoping to fall, or fly?”
The last person I should be standing on an edge of a cliff with is a man who parks like that. Because if he has no respect for the dead, then he certainly doesn’t respect the living.
Not only does this man not respect the dead, he doesn’t respect death.
I let out a stale lungful of air, relieved that I feel relieved and not disappointed. It means my poisonous thoughts didn’t win this time.
“Suicide is a sin,” he rasps, his stubble grazing my cheek. “But Devil’s Dip has a way of making you want to throw yourself over the edge, doesn’t it?”
If these dining room walls could talk, I bet they’d beg Alberto Visconti to shut up.
At last Friday’s dinner, I figured out that if my wine ever dipped below the curve of the glass, a server would top it up in under thirty seconds. The conversation was so darn boring that I tested this theory a few too many times, and after dessert, I stood up, buckled on my stilettos, and pulled down the velvet curtain I’d grabbed onto to stop myself from falling.
The first—and last—time I sighed in front of Alberto, he yanked on my ponytail so hard my eyes watered. I learned quickly it’s better to vent my frustrations silently, usually by balling my fists until my fingernails carve half-moons into my palms. Oh, and spitting in his mouthwash.
How the hell did I end up here? Two-and-a-half months ago, I sank to my knees on the doorstep of Alberto’s white colonial mansion and begged for mercy. Now, I’m living a life I don’t recognize; playing a side character in a story I don’t understand.
“Aurora’s not a teenager, she’s twenty-one. Old enough to drink, just not old enough to handle it.”
“Big Al keeping you on a tight leash tonight, hmm?” Tor says, lips twitching.
I knew of Tor Visconti long before his father put a rock on my finger.
Cold-hearted, hot-blooded Sicilian-Americans who live and die by the Glocks tucked into the waistbands of their Armani suits.
“Signora Aurora Visconti. It’s got quite the ring to it, don’t you think?” The name curdles like milk in my stomach,
After one too many whiskeys, Alberto once told me he lets Amelia get away with having his son’s balls in a vice because she makes the family a bucket-load of money.
I guess I can’t even blame Alberto for my sins; I turned nasty years before I met him.
My blow is cleaner than a nun’s browser history.”
“You’re all the goddamn same. Tits bigger than your IQ and a smile just as fake. You know what I find funny? You’ve never broken a law in your life, but you’re happy to look the other way and spread your legs, as long as your Amex doesn’t have a limit, right?”
I’m too sober for this, and what’s worse, dinner hasn’t even started yet. It’s going to be a long night.
I’m not the dumb, gold-digging blond everyone in this family thinks I am, and I’m sick of playing that part. I’m sick of these stupid high heels and short dresses that Alberto forces me to wear. I’m sick of the sneers and eye rolls and the insults from people who wouldn’t pee on me if I was on fire. The escorts and itineraries and the sleepless nights staring at the gilded ceiling of Alberto’s bedroom, wondering if his fat belly will suffocate me when he finally clambers on top of me on our wedding night.
“You know I’m engaged to your boss, right?” “You know me,” he purrs, pressing his knee against mine under the table. “I like living life on the edge.” But the way his eyes dart feverishly to the head of the table suggests otherwise.
Max makes my blood boil. He has leering eyes and groping hands and he reminds me of the boys that made me like this.
Suicide is a sin. He pins me with a disinterested stare, and then his gaze darkens.
I bring the wineglass to my lips and sink every last drop of blood-red liquid, then hold it out for a top-up. I have an uneasy feeling I’m going to need it.
He’s barely said a word. Barely moved. When the appetizer arrived, he slipped off his suit jacket and folded it neatly over the back of his chair, revealing a cream-colored sweater that hugs his body like a second skin. Ever since, he’s sat there with a steel-like spine, fists clenched on either side of his untouched plate, while Alberto and Dante do all the talking.
I start to allow myself to believe that I imagined his dark glare when Alberto introduced him. It was fleeting, I was probably just in his line of sight. What are the chances he recognizes me, anyway? He only looked at me once on the cliff, just as he was turning to leave, and I had my hood up the whole time.
If I didn’t need him to visit my father twice a week, I’d cut his car brakes.
Suicide is a sin. But Devil’s Dip has a way of making you want to throw yourself off the edge, doesn’t it?
He thought I was going to jump, and yet…he did nothing except tell me it’s a long way to fall. He left me there, toeing the edge. He didn’t even glance back. If the last two months have taught me anything, it’s that the Viscontis are cruel. But this one? Holy Crow, there’s not a single ounce of humility in that sculpted body.
“You don’t strike me as the type of girl who owns fluffy pajamas. I bet you sleep in Chanel No.5 and go for your morning run in a Versace gown.”
“You know how pathetic you look standing there, bro? Like you’re in high school and your girl is in seven minutes in heaven with another dude.”
“He’s thirty-fucking-two,” Tor chuckles, counting the bills in his hand. “And he’s still bitter about it.” “About what?” I find myself asking. Tor glances down at me and smirks. “Angelo fucked his prom date.”
“Vicious?” “Yeah, he’s a nasty fucker,”
“Remember when he blew out his driver’s kneecap ‘cause he took the wrong turn?” Donatello nods. “Mmm. And when he locked all those port workers in a shipping container and blew it up, all because there was one boat log they couldn’t account for.” He shakes his head in disbelief. “Of all the made men to go straight, I never thought it’d be Vicious.”
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.
“This wife is special,” Alberto huffs, his arm clamping me to his lap like a safety belt. “She’s a virgin.” Oh my goose. Did he really just say that?
“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.
“Heavy enough to weigh you down.” My eyes lift to his. “Excuse me?”
“Your ring. It looks heavy enough to weigh you down if you choose to fall.”
And for the first time, I genuinely wish I’d jumped off it.
