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What is with this guy? 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 painting hanging on the wall, or a statue in the lobby.
“I am drunk,” Vittoria says, cutting me off. “Tor’s girlfriend isn’t as useless as she looks. She keeps slipping me vodka shots from her hip flask. At least, I think it’s vodka.”
Jesus, I’m drunk.
Each step through the sea of suits and stilettos is unsteady and reckless; it’ll take only one misstep to buckle on these stupid heels, and I don’t need to give Alberto another excuse to punish me.
He might not be much of a made man, but it feels like I’m face to face with a predator.
“It’s rude to stare.”
I know better than to speak to a Visconti like that, especially twice in one night.
How many times has Alberto hissed in my ear, don’t you dare embarrass me. I’m sure everybody finding out your fiancee would supposedly rather throw herself into the sea than marry you is the ultimate humiliation.
I should sink to my knees and beg him not to tell Alberto, and if it was Tor, or even Dante, that’s exactly what I’d do. But for some inexplicable reason, this man makes me want to be stubborn. I have the urge to go toe to toe with him, to prove I won’t be the one that backs away from the edge of the cliff before he does, no matter how many rocks crumble under my sneakers, or how strong the wind blows.
“If you looked more enthusiastic when sitting on your fiance’s lap, then perhaps he’d buy you a pearl necklace of your own.”
He clears his throat, and when he finally speaks, his voice has a rasp to it. “Stealing is a sin, Aurora.”
Just like on the cliff, he didn’t even glance back.
“I’ve found it.” “Found what?” Dante grunts. “The most depressing place on earth. I bet even the cockroaches have fucked off.” My lips curve at the sound of Tor’s cocky voice.
But I can’t deny it—hearing Tor call me that sends a zap of adrenaline down my spine. It felt good to be vicious.
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.
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.
“They get younger every year.” He huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, younger and hotter.
“Trust me, I’d have spotted that hot piece of ass a mile away,” he mutters.
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.
the only people in this family dumb enough to marry for love are Donatello and Amelia.
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.
A low whistle slips through my lips. Leaving the Don’s fiancee on the side of the road alone? In a shit hole like Devil’s Dip? That kid’s asking for a bullet in his head.
I’ve seen people kill themselves dozens of times. Hell, I forced some of them to write their suicide notes.
she’s not the type of woman to back down from a challenge. Women who wear tweed pencil skirts and half-moon spectacles, and scrape their hair back into the tightest bun possible, never are.
She’s worked for him so long that she speaks fondly of changing Dante’s diapers. It’s obvious that she’s been in love with him for just as long, too.
Bad things, petty bad things, are what keep me from going insane in my new, messed-up version of reality. Little acts of revenge keep me calm.
“Lurking in dark corners isn’t a sin, but it’s still weird as hell.”
My ears ring with his lie, and my mind races with all the reasons why he’d bother to lie for me at all.
I definitely wouldn’t want to bump into him in a dark alley.
My eyes shift to Angelo, just in time to see him throw his head back and laugh. My heart stills. Whoa. It’s deep, throaty, and genuine.
“No, I’m just sick of you. All of you.” “All of us?” “Men. Everything is a damn exchange to you. News flash—when a woman wants something from you, she shouldn’t always have to pay with her body. Whatever happened to a good old-fashioned favor?
As my attention falls back down to the table, I lock eyes with Angelo. He’s no longer laughing at his brother’s story, nor is he eating. Instead, he’s staring right at me, his hands clenched into fists on either side of his untouched plate.
“Perfect. Now, take three steps to the left.”
There’s a glint in his right hand. Then the bang is too loud. The smell of gunpowder too strong, and the taste of blood splatter on my lips too tangy. The bullet enters Max right between the eyes and exits out the back of his skull, taking half his brain with it. His head hits the table with a heavy thud, his blood turning the lace tablecloth crimson.
With my ears ringing, I look up at Angelo. As calm as a spring day, he sits down, sets the gun next to his napkin, and stuffs a forkful of ham in his mouth. He chews. Takes a sip of whiskey.
A bird chirps. Without looking, I know it’s a Black-capped Chickadee.
“If you want to be a part of this family you really can’t be so squeamish.”
Through the headache, a small, niggling voice in the back of my brain speaks to me. Did I do this? But I bat it away. It’s a stupid, self-centered thought. Angelo Visconti wouldn’t pee on me if I was on fire, just like he wouldn’t have grabbed me if I jumped off the cliff.
Sinners Anonymous was all his idea. A bigger, shinier version of the game that forced us to become men.
Life is all about balance, Angelo. The good always cancels out the bad.
My brother is a fucking shark. All pearly white teeth and charm, but nobody survives his bite.
Gabe’s heavy footsteps make the old stained-glass windows rattle. “Fuck me, brother,” Rafe barks down the aisle. “Do you own any footwear that aren’t steel-capped boots? You stomp around like the Big Bad Wolf from Little Red Riding Hood.” Gabe looms over us like a storm cloud and scowls down at Rafe. “All the better to kick your head in with, my dear,” he growls.
Gabe grunts something unintelligible, then shifts his gaze to me. “Nice stunt at lunch today.” “Thanks.” “Not gonna tell us why you pulled it?” “Nope.” He nods,
Truth is, I don’t know why the fuck I did it. And the reason I think I did it is utterly fucking insane. Her.
But that’d be bullshit, because I’d already picked up the gun from Alberto’s office and tucked it into the back of my waistband before that, when the only information I knew, or thought I knew, was that she was fucking him behind Alberto’s back.
I realized I was wrong. But I was going to kill him anyway. Like I said, utterly fucking insane.
I’ve got shit to do.” “Shit to do in Devil’s Dip?” Rafe quips back. “That’s how I know you’re bullshitting.”
Alberto is already trying to change the terms of our contract—yet another stress weighing me down.
What happens to Devil’s Dip if Alberto hands the reins back to Angelo? Would this stupid agreement have been all for nothing?
But it’s not just his likeness to his brother that makes me uncomfortable. Behind the charm and the smile, there’s something scarily stoic about him. He oozes power out of every perfect pore, filling the room with his presence.
